Archives for the Date January 15th, 2019

Loss Ficlet: Retelling 1.0 (Three Times Jamie Fraser Did Not Get Claire Beauchamp’s Number, And The One Time He Did) (Jamie POV)

missclairebelle:

A long, long time ago, I promised @balfeheughlywed a Jamie POV on Jamie and Claire’s first meetings (that ficlet is here) in exchange for a wedding moodboard. Here I am.  Delivering like eight months later. I’m sorry! Here it is to celebrate my one year blog-a-versary. I hope it was worth the wait. <3 


Loss (Modern AU)
Retelling 1.0 (Three Times…)
April 2016

This is the creation of a love story.  It is a narrator’s attempt (mine) to breathe life into a series of moments that led to a conclusion that seems improbable absent some guiding force.

Fate.  Karma.  Divine intervention.  Dumb luck.  

These chance encounters –– some moments in time –– became the starting point for an infinity.

A distillery and a lesson on the pronunciation of a name.  An accident and emergency department in a hospital with a busted hand.  A pub so loud it made every conversation for the following forty-eight hours sound as thought it was filtered through cotton.  A charity benefit for a pediatric oncology ward at the hospital where she worked.  A flat in a second floor walkup where we would bind these moments together.

I have never been a believer in love at first sight.

The suddenness of a curtain parting on a moment that is over before it begins.  

First sight.  An instant.  A realization that made me feel stupid that she would be very important to me somehow.  This random customer.  A feeling (not one identifiable as love, but the flaky seed of it from a paper packet in the palm of a hand). The cracking apart of a chest, the larceny of air from the ruby linings of my lungs by amber eyes and a razor tongue.

This woman.  

Well, I had surely known her in another lifetime.  

Keep reading

scullyskeptic:That’s why I say you should never date a shrink,…

scullyskeptic:

That’s why I say you should never date a shrink, huh?
Sex and relationship therapist, thank you very much.

jodiecomersource:

jodiecomersource:

dailyrachelweisz: Rachel Weisz as Angela Dodson in Constantine…

dailyrachelweisz:

Rachel Weisz as Angela Dodson in Constantine (2005) dir. Francis Lawrence

badcode: Almost impossible. Herculean effort. There are dents…

badcode:

Almost impossible. Herculean effort. There are dents made, for sure, in the very soft part of your soul and psyche that makes it hard to continue to, you know– it’s hard. It’s hard, it’s not for the faint of heart. Being a person.

Sarah Paulson on self worth

Fanfiction – Cordis

kalendraashtar:

Previously – Part I

Cordis

Part II – Wallflower in Blue

The
human forearm is a magnificent piece of engineering (author unknown, circa a few million years ago).
With two bones forming a practical joint, they achieve what one alone could not
– flexibility, strength, range of motion, length to touch what goes beyond the
space that constitutes us. The
ulna and radius are one of those couples you could truly call “meant to be, together for always”.

People
have a strange fascination for the things that can break them. My fractured arm
– a distal fracture of the radius, like a broken car antenna – was the subject
of much speculation and curiosity, as if every acquaintance of mine felt there
was a tale of caution awaiting them in the story of my predicament. When asked,
I used to shrug with a smile as yellow and spicy as Dijon mustard, and tell
them “It’s a small price to pay for winning the Hunger Games
(it’s hard to be truly funny, when you have an itch somewhere you cannot reach
– be it the tingling of the fluttering heart or a rash of the skin underneath a
closed cast).

When
the bone heals the loss of connection becomes almost invisible – no thicker
than a hair, really – but a frailty remains that serves as weathercast and
constant reminder that you are breakableFinite.

Jamie’s palm would cover my wrist, just above that secret place on
the marrow that once was a precipice, as he pressed me again the wall of his
office. “I want to kiss ye”, he would whisper hoarsely next to my ear, the
vibration of his body more real than his words. I’d tilt my chin to offer him
my parted mouth in silent challenge and he would laugh softly, in that way that
came from the belly – dark, sultry, copious, flying over the parachute of his
diaphragm. “It’s not yer mouth I want, Claire.”

The story of how I ended up in the X-ray machine to assess my
swollen and bruised wrist – braless, while wearing a silky backless blue gown
-, started about six months after our transfer to Aberdeen.

“There’s
a formal invitation in your mail tray, Claire.” Mary peeked from the door,
while I bit the tip of my finger in the process of trying to decipher a diagram
made by Rachel, one of the best of my engineering team but a terror in the
writing department. “It has the Aberdeen
Council
 stamp on it.”

I turned my neck so quickly to look at her, that my cervical
muscles spasmed painfully.  I cursed between teeth, massaging the offended
tissues with my knuckles, while I nonchalantly hopped towards the unattended
correspondence.

I had
glimpsed James Fraser heading to the City’s
Office
 that same morning, while I took my rollerblades for a spin
in the park, and almost got ejected into the fountain while I stared at him. He
was wearing a full grey suit with an anthracite tie, with a knot that wouldn’t
pose a real challenge to my eager fingers, keen on solving puzzles of the human
nature. The hollow of his neck, that small cranny between the swell of his
Adam’s apple – named after the first man to be choked with desire –
and the cartilage of his clavicles, was a conundrum that occupied my restless
mind at night. I didn’t know how to fix that
ache he imposed on me
.

The
invitation was sophisticated and elegant, with a tasteful font, the paper
creamy and soft on my hands. I read it avidly, while reminding myself it wasn’t
a summon for a date with him.

Councillor James A.M.M. Fraser, Lord Provost of Aberdeen

Cordially invites Ms. Claire E. Beauchamp, CEO of CordisTech, to
the Heart of Scotland Awards. We’ll enjoy an evening of dinning, dancing and a
special silent auction, benefiting the neonatology ward of the Aberdeen
Maternity Hospital.

Friday, September 20th, 7pm. RSVP by September 1st.

It was signed by the hand of the man himself, his calligraphy
bold but with a remarkable economy of twirls and loops. It was the handwriting
of a reserved man, who didn’t want to show too much of the mechanisms of his
mind to foreigners.

“You
need to get a dress.” Mary raised her brows, smiling widely. I opened my mouth
to complain, to tell her we were still on cost contention after the move, but
she didn’t offer me a chance. “Pamper yourself for once, aye? The company won’t go to immediate bankruptcy over a salon
visit and a new pair of stilettos. You deserve
it
, Boss.”

“Fine.” I raised my hands in mocked surrender, rolling my eyes.
“I might just get a brazilian wax with your bonus payment.”

The
dress had been an absurd impulse. It
called to me from the window display in a way that clothing usually didn’t, as
if part of my skin was on that hanger, waiting for me to seek it. It was conspicuous, to say the least – modest in the
cleavage but with a fully open back, that finished just above my dimples of
Venus. The bold cut meant I’d be wearing nothing but my own skin underneath it;
it made me feel powerful and somewhat reckless. And stupid, since deep down I knew I wasn’t dressing for myself, going
against a set of mental womanly rules I tried to keep strictly in place.

What the fuck was I doing?

A question that would turn into mantra during the gala, making
me gnaw on my cuticles like a woman possessed.

A
myriad of businessmen, sports figures, distant relations to ancient Scottish
nobility and mild celebrities filled the generous hall, the champagne on their
glasses as sparkly as their enthused eyes. The high walls were decorated with
old clan mottos, family crests and pieces of exquisite tartan; an explosion of legacy of epic proportions.

The Lord Provost looked absolutely dashing in his
black-tie number, towering above most men, his flaming hair like a banner
announcing the army of his blue eyes. By the second hour of the affair, it
became blatantly clear that James Fraser had made it his mission to greet,
influence and charm every person on the venue.

Except me.  

I
felt like a wallflower, standing mainly alone at a corner of the place, as I
was still mostly an outsider to the community. InvisibleEmbarrassed.

By
the end of the night, after the silent auction, everybody would come to know my name.

***

The
door opened and he strode in, graceful and silent like a wild beast on the
prowl, and I pretended to take a moment to raise my eyes from a report to
finally indulge on acknowledging him. He looked disturbed.

Good.

“Councillor.” I greeted him flatly, as Jamie
decidedly marched in the direction of my desk and sat on the armchair in front
of me. “Please, do sit down.” I
said ironically since he had already taken the liberty, slightly biting the
inside of my cheek.

“Are
you holding Ian’s prosthetic as hostage to punish me?” Even though his tone was
dead serious, the ridicule of the tirade almost made me giggle. Instead, I
adjusted my position on the chair as if I was carefully contemplating the idea
of ransoming a custom-made prosthetic. Adding pirate of limbs to my curriculum.

“Ian’s
leg is ready.” I assured him, when I thought he was about to snap, his hands
coiling on top of my desk. Jamie’s slightly wavy hair was curling just above
his ears – I knew how it felt in my
fingers, in the tender and ticklish skin between the digits 
– and
I struggled not to let it distract me. “Calm down, Mister Fraser. Such stress
isn’t good for your health.”

“You’re enjoying this.” He accused me, squinting in my
direction. “Ye truly think I deserve to be punished, aye?”

Once,
Jamie had told me – his voice deep and brutal -, “I like to see ye mad. Impassioned. To see ye undone, ferocious,
because of something I said. Because I shifted yer axis and ye’re struggling to
hold on. I like when I come close. I like to see ye so.”

Maybe I liked to see him so, too.

“Let’s go to the atelier.” I ignored his words and raised from
the chair, not waiting for him to follow me. “I’ll show you my creation.”

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