Archives for the Date July 7th, 2019

Our Son, Arc II, Oh Scotland, Chapter 18.


Thanks to @balfeheughlywed for her support and patience for this story and reading it. Also to @notevenjokingfic and @ladyviolethummingbird I value their feedback and appreciate the time they take to read.

When he pushed away from my body less than half an hour ago, albeit grumbling “that is the second time this morning, Sassenach – I am no as young as I used to be.”

His voice was full of innuendo and fun. He smiled broadly and a little proudly as he pulled back on his underwear while dropping a quick kiss to my stomach.

Keep reading

Whatever happened to missclairebelle’s Queen Claire in HRH?? Will she be updating soon? 🤞🏻🤞🏻🤞🏻

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle |Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part XIX: Visitor

Between Friday night and Saturday afternoon, James Fraser missed seventeen phone calls from his sister (frantic, desperate attempts at communication in which she shouted at the unanswered line and hissed when the operator explained there had not been an answer).

During the first missed call, he was splitting a pot of yogurt in bed with Claire. They talked about this and that (anything other than a plan for going public, or what would happen if they were caught). Honey-sticky and berry-sweet, the pair shared their tastes in television (he had a soft spot for The Ed Sullivan Show; the Queen was apparently also a fan), books (her latest read was Rebecca, each page using sneakily embezzled time that formally belonged to the Queen’s official tour obligations; she had begrudgingly admitted that Frank had picked it for her; Jamie’s had been The Lord of the Rings, a choice to encourage the insatiable literary conquests of his young nephew), and food (her favorite meal was Sunday roast with ice-cold milk, which he found no small pleasure in teasing her over; his a smoky Cullen skink made by his sister using a method – “no’ a recipe, thank ye kindly” – that had been passed down through his paternal great-grandmother and the mere mention of which made his eyes go foggy).

Against the incessant trill of ringing in her ear, Jenny Murray attempted to breathe while sinking her fingernails into the soft mound of her palm.

During the second missed call, each of James Fraser’s five senses were engaged in a slow, methodical torture of the woman he loved.

Touch – fingers grazing the blushed flesh of Claire’s milk-and-honey thighs (the unrestrained electric sensation of being touched by her own small hands making him question his understanding of the concept of physical connection).

Sight -– a gateway to a memorization exercise that he had long ago completed (the uninterrupted line of her navel and sternum and throat and the underside of her chin as it tipped up up up towards the ceiling).

Hearing the muffled, keening noise from deep in her belly, her lungs, her throat a white noise trapped in the jail of her thighs (a maestro’s score written to the ebbs and flows of the love they shared).

Scent – his nose filled with the tang of her, the sweat that gathered along her hipbone, rolled towards her thigh and coated his upper lip (her perfume had long faded, going a subdued floral along the bridge of her clavicles).

Taste – his tongue… well that was occupied (sweet cream, summer rain, and a hint of clover’s bright spring musk maybe).

Slamming the phone down with a crack that made her lift and inspect the receiver, Jenny Murray swallowed hard and dialed her husband. “Come home,” she implored him. “Straightaway. Jamie… he’s in trouble… brathair Jamie. No’ Young Jamie.”

Then, during the third missed call to his empty Edinburgh flat, Claire was tangled in the web of returning a lover’s favor. The arse that had enchanted him that first night rose over his torso as her tongue wove tales against his flesh slow, measured circles. His fingers died a slow death as he fought not to sink into her hips or thighs. (The index finger on his left hand picked up a shallow puncture from right incisor as he gnawed into his own flesh. His right hand gripped the nightstand in a way that he might have worried would crack the wood had he been capable of even mildly coherent thought.)

A short distance away, his sister and closest friend were cloistered behind a closed door. Their eldest children were on knobby, grass-stained knees outside, each with one ear pressed to the wood and with eyes as big as saucers. Their youngest was asleep on a mat in the dining room, clutching an icy teething ring.

“I canna understand where she got it,” their father said lamely.

Maggie gathered her brother’s accusatory look (the look generally reserved for tattling to mam that she’d filched the last ice lolly from the deep freezer or had run her toothbrush under the faucet without brushing her teeth). She shrugged and closed one eye in an attempt to make sense of the shapes moving across the thin beam of light under the door. The children could not see it, but their father was watching his wife frantically turn the dial on the phone.

“They think he stole it,” their mam hissed, her voice just loud enough for Maggie to hear. She covered her mouth, knowing that something about bringing that ring to show and tell had caused trouble for her Uncle Jamie. (‘What have you done?’ she thought, wishing she could pinch herself, take it all back. All of it – even the moment she had taken it into her hand, breathed ‘wow,’ and slipped it into the pocket of her summer Sunday dress.) “And I canna think of any other way it’d ‘ave come into his possession either, can ye think of one? No. Ye canna.”

Jamie’s phone rang and rang.

Jenny knew it was pointless, but she kept the receiver to her ear waiting waiting waiting.



“Pick up the fuckin’ phone,” she muttered. And when it became clear that her plea would remain unanswered, she slammed the receiver down and hissed, “Ifrinn.”

Young Jamie’s eyes were as wide as saucers having heard what he knew to be a curse word from his mother (F-U-C-K – the first time he had heard her use one of the words that the older boys who smoked cigarettes after school behind the swings used like it made them more mature). Young Jamie put his hand on his younger sister’s shoulder (a gesture of his father’s, an observation from now and then when his mam was upset about something or another). Mumbling, Young Jamie urged his sister back from the door with a soft, “C’mon, Maggie. Let’s go.”

And when Jamie Fraser and his Queen were sated, they slept.

Draped against each other while the phone miles and miles away rang uselessly a fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time.

Spent herself, Jenny Murray went to bed in silence that night.

And only when the lights were off did she find that her instinct was to curl close to her husband’s chest (a helpless, small shape in her night clothes and bare face) and cry quietly, helplessly sleepless.

When Jamie woke the next morning, Claire was gone.

Her scent lingered beneath the sun-warmed folds of the duvet, and his robe was missing from its hook on the back of the bedroom door. Tantalized by the tingling acid aroma of too-strong coffee, he took only a moment to inspect the curved indentation in the pillow next to him from where she had slept. With a smile that felt like the promise of a good day, he rose.

Standing before the mirror, his hand uselessly raking at disheveled curls, he realized something for the first time.

And it was simple: though being with her (loving her) still felt new, their relationship no longer felt like a dream.

Waking in the night with his hand splayed across the dangerous dip in her waist was something that just happened.

Feeling her lips just above his heart as she woke before silently throwing a knee on either side of him was surprising only in that she seemed insatiable (a fact she had conveyed to him with her lips close to his ear like a schoolyard secret as he fell asleep).

He realized that he could get used to a life where he woke and did not wonder if it had all been a dream.

The sun-spotted revelation of it made him lighter somehow, encouraged his smile to widen.

In the kitchen, he poured coffee from the electric pot on the counter as his fingers traced the neat script on the note tucked beneath the mug.

In your garden,

most certainly to be choked by unruly weeds should you not wake soon.

Join me (only if you dare, and bring clippers if you have them).

xx, C.

He gathered a pair of gardening shears and wandered out the front door. True to her word, she was in the garden, her form almost entirely swallowed by his robe. Barefoot and crouched low to the ground with a not insubstantial mound of weeds piled next to her, she looked like some sort of remarkably steady woodland nymph. Her fingers sank into damp black dirt and bridged the unseen barrier between human and Mother Earth again and again, as if it were her lot in life to be like this.

Elemental. Tangled. Undone.

She looked like she smelled like nature itself – dirt and herbs, sweat and sunshine.

When her fingers reemerged from the ground, wrapped around bits of unidentified and unwanted plant matter, she was a triumphant archaeologist (the career she said that the King would have chosen if given the choice, though she was unsure herself of what Just Claire would be).

Leaning against a mildly decayed post on his porch, he watched her repeatedly shove the stubbornly falling cuffs of his robe up to her elbows. He knew her well enough to know that just then (in morning sunshine, fingers coaxing life from soil), she was unencumbered by worry of any origin (save perhaps how to keep her fingers free of recalcitrant terry cloth to do some digging).

It was that moment, before Jamie called out to the woman he loved or before Claire looked over her shoulder at her Fraser, that he missed telephone calls eight, nine, and ten.

“Ye look bonny squatting in my wee garden.”

“You can hardly call this a garden, Fraser.” Claire ran a sleeve over her forehead, wiping away the light sheen of sweat and humidity that had gathered there. “It is a patch of dirt overrun by nettles and chickweed and Christ knows what else. I need gloves.”

He held up the shears, and announced, “I can arrange gloves.”

“Thank the Lord,” she breathed.

He took a long sip of coffee, watching her return her attention to the garden. She went to her knees in the dirt without even a moment’s care for said body part or his robe. “Ye’re going to get awfully dirty.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. A smile. A wink. “I figure you can clean me up, and I want to see this garden do something this summer.”

(‘This summer,’ she said.

His heart stopped and then hammered at the promise inherent in those three syllables, her quiet understatement.

A summer in the cabin. Secluded. Growing flowers and vegetables. Falling further in love. He found a sentimental streak in himself that he had until then not realized was there.)

Claire unearthed a small gathering of dandelions and inspected them at arm’s length before creating a separate pile. “We can make these into some sort of salad.”

“The nettles’d make a good soup,” he added, taking another sip before walking out towards the garden.

“Do you know how to make nettle soup?” she asked, a marked note of incredulity creeping into her voice.

“No,” he responded, going to his knees beside her and carefully nestling his coffee mug into a small furrow in the ground. He pulled up another clump of dandelions. He did not attempt to mask the note of humor in his voice as he said, “I figured ye’d ken how to make a nettle soup. Sounds like something a royal’d ken how to do.”

She gave him a sideways glance. The kind of look that is borne of comfort with another person. She hummed, a sound that he was sure could be brutal in its dismissiveness to someone whose bed she did not share. With the back of his hand, he brushed her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck, relished her reaction (a shiver, a trail of goosebumps, a quick taste of her own lips).

She turned just enough to meet his mouth, and their lips met (chaste, gentle, only for a moment).

“Dock leaves,” she said softly, though a bit triumphantly. She reached out and lifted a great leaf with the back of her hand. “It is pure coincidence that the nettle’s sting and the dock leaves’ antidote grow so close together in your garden, Fraser.”

Her robe (his robe) gaped.

The phone inside the cabin rang.

He craned his neck, allowing his exploring mouth to find the underside of her jaw. He sucked gently there until her cheeks flushed and her mouth fell open.

The phone rang again and her fingers sank into his hair, curved along his scalp, drew him closer.

He could not stop his smile then.

Another ring and then another.

His thumb found the soft, unaroused peak of her plush, pink-brown nipple, and he set about driving her mad. She looked down and watched his other hand work its way into the tie on her robe.

“You would not in the garden,” she stated a bit matter of factly.

He kissed her chin and flattened a palm against the lowest expanse of her belly. He was mimicking her accent when he echoed her: “Would I not?”

The sound of the phone was merely background noise then.

Claire’s hands scrabbled for his waistband, watched the heavy weight of him rise from the confinement of his pants. Her breath hitched at the Gaelic that flowed from him, the tenderness with which he swept her hair behind her ear and pressed a thumb along her temple. He reached between them, slipped into her with a practiced easiness born of their hours of lovemaking. When she cried out into his mouth, he let his feet find purchase in the dirt and began to move. She grabbed for him – his buttocks, the collar of his shirt, his hips – and her fists demanded skin and contact and more.

After a morning of unanswered calls, Jenny Murray dressed for a Saturday, prepared breakfast alongside her husband (soft scramble with hunks of musty white cheese and toast), and let it cool on her plate. Appetite was a foreign concept as she pushed the bits of it into mounds, pressed the tines of her fork down into the mess.

“The cabin?” Ian suggested, helping her clear and pressing a kiss along the clean curve of her neck where a tendril of pin-straight hair rested. “He didna answer when ye called, but he was there last weekend, at least.”

“Maybe,” she began, hands slowly going paralyzed in the gray dishwater.

She had never given much thought to the Beauchamp family jewels – onyx and diamond, twisted out of their setting from one generation to the next and fabricated into various bits of royal jewelry. The jewels’ latest iteration had somehow made its way into Maggie’s knapsack, onto a school bus, and in front of a class of mostly disinterested children.

“He may have needed a break, Jen. Swing by.”

In the yard, Young Jamie and Maggie were mercilessly teasing the old tabby barn cat. Maggie yowled in a hair splitting, almost-painful tone, and Jenny closed her eyes. “He’s no’ ever gone to the cabin two weekends in a row, but… maybe.”

“And Maggie said that she just found it in the cabin?” Jenny nodded, turning to look at him, searching for reassurance. Ian obliged, resolutely adding, “He wouldna steal something like the Queen’s ring, Janet. He wouldna steal anything unless it was to save someone, someone he loves. And that ring’s no’ part of that category.”

“I dinna ken when would he have the opportunity to steal it,” she sighed, wiping her hands on the damp towel that Ian was holding and leaning against the counter.

Ian shook his head, reiterating, “If he had the opportunity, he’d no’ take it.”

Jenny wished she could muster her husband’s resolve to believe in her brother. He had an admirable, singular focus on identifying some alternative explanation for how the ring had ended up in the cabin and then in a piece of brown paper at Maggie’s school.

“You can tend to the bairns while I take a keek about the cabin then?” She dried her hands again, and reached for the keys as her husband nodded.

Jamie and Claire hatched the plan at a moment’s notice (the live wire thrill of impulse a new, intoxicating, addictive feeling for her). It was born from a wistful look (Jamie’s eyes drifting like a dinghy lost at sea) as he mentioned sleeping under the stars, splashing his cheeks with water from a spring, tucky into a sleeping bag for warmth.

“So, we should go,” she announced, cross legged on the bed (‘our bed,’ her mind added haughtily, as her fingers smoothed the sheets). The world was to be seen now. With him. His world was defined not solely by places, but by his memories. It seemed to her that anything less than giving into the urge to go would mean the walls of the palace that had confined her those past few years would be replaced by the walls of a cabin.

He paused, his hands wringing out his hair. “Go?”

She rolled her eyes, got to her knees, crawled to the edge of the bed. “Go.” She gestured broadly, as though she were talking about some great international voyage, not a short drive and a hike. “There. To that stream. Pack up some things. Rough it.”

You…” he clarified, stepping towards her and putting careful, conciliatory hands on her bare shoulders. “Camping.”

“Are you suddenly questioning my spirit for adventure?” She turned her dainty, queenly nose up at him, and narrowed her eyes.

“I’d never dare to do such a thing.”

She hummed, kissing the narrow slit in his cheek where he’d nicked himself shaving. “Good. We should go, spend a night with the stars, and–”

“–and each other,” he interrupted. It made her face go soft.

“Oh, Fraser, never lose your sentiment.”

By the time Jenny Murray arrived at the cabin, they were gone.

Left, though, were traces.

Two coffee mugs in the kitchen, waiting to be rinsed and washed.

A blushing pink half-moon imprint of lipstick on the edge of one of her da’s best whisky glasses.

The lavender bunched in a carefully-tied bouquet in a water glass next to the bathroom sink.

The distinctly unmistakable smell of sex as she opened the door to the bedroom.

And then the exquisitely-made jacket carefully folded and draped over the ornately carved footboard of the bed.

Ye idjit,” Jenny breathed, her fingers tracing the lapel of the jacket. Her mind worked over time, attempted to talk herself out of it. Out of what she knew to be true.

Her brother was engaged in some sort of affair with his boss.

She swallowed, rolled her eyes and pinched her forearms as she stared up at the ceiling of the bedroom.

Blinking hard, Jenny said it aloud, in an attempt to convince herself: “My little brother is fucking the Queen of England.”


Many thanks to @desperationandgin​ for reading through this one for me.

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