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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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Love this story ❤️

Omg HRH. Is it too soon to beg for another chapter? I mean I can get on my hands and knees. I need to know what Jamie does after that speech almost more than I need the next episode of outlander. Amazing writing as always.

I owe everyone who has kept up with this story a huge thank you for staying with me. The messages and comments about the last few parts have been absolutely incredible. Your love has been overwhelming and I can’t say enough how much I appreciate you.

Many thanks to @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed for all of their help with getting this world in order for Part XI. They helped me figure out what needed to happen for me to fall in love with this part. I hope you love it as much as I do. 💜 xx. K

Previously:

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XI: Watched

Jamie Fraser was sure that he was breaking at least a dozen laws and workplace protocols by slipping out of the banquet hall, past a series of closed doors, and into the wing of the palace that contained the Queen’s private living quarters. But in that moment, buzzing from the exhilaration of her speech and that faint tip of her head, he would have happily spent a night or two (or a hundred) in some damp, drafty Scottish jail. If only to say that he had tried.

With a furtive look over his shoulder, he slowed his walk and began to test doorknobs. He searched for the slivers of light that indicated the existence of life behind closed doors.

He had collected the moments in which she was stripped bare (her admission that she wanted to touch him), felt the vibration filling his chest brought about by the mere nearness of her (the unique markers of their time together), and catalogued one of her breathy admissions (that she wanted his kiss, but only if he did it properly).

He needed more. Still. Even more so now having heard her address a room full of people about finding something rare.

He muttered to himself, his palms beginning to sweat as the end of the hallway came into sight.

Curses (ifrinn). Prayers (the ones he only said when he was in a bind, recalled from childhood).

But still more locked doors, more silence, unrelenting darkness.

In the end, Claire was tucked away at the end of the hall. Hidden in a room with the door partly ajar. He stood, grasping the doorframe and watching her, the relief of having found her making him woozy.

The notion occurred to him that it felt as though at least a year had passed since the lost moment they shared in the stables.

An opportunity that misfired. A faltering separation that felt like an untimely goodbye.

He had not really seen her since then.

Of course, he had just seen her at the dinner. He had played witness to her dressing down of Frank Randall and the finale of the part of her life that contained her engagement. Her speech, delivered to a room full of people, had been layered. Despite the presence of an audience, her confessions had been deeply personal (as if she unzipped her own skin at the centerline and crawled out of herself, glowing). It had been raw in a way that he was not sure anyone else there had grasped. But it had also been a message. An entreaty to him (James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser) to have hope. That all was not lost in the stable hay. That what it was between them had not dissolved into daylight at their parting. The message had dispatched with the slight tilt of her chin. In acknowledgment of its receipt, he tilted his head back.

And the change in her face (the firmness in the set of her lips slipping, the relief of exhaling a long-held breath) had been remarkable. That softness in her expression, as fleeting as it had been, had rekindled in him a dream that he had placed on a shelf in the back of his mind.

Her. Him. Them.

And then there she was in that dark room at the end of the hall.

And Christ was she ever beautiful –– her dark head bowed just slightly, arms spread wide to brace herself against the window sill, shoes abandoned and one bare foot peeking out from beneath her dress. Her back arched as she inhaled. The sound she made was deep, from her belly.

Relief tempered by exhaustion.

He was made a voyeur by the mere fact that he was frozen –– yearning to keep this moment for himself forever.

She rose to full height, eyes affixed on some unidentified point outside the window and beyond the horizon. She removed her rings, the frothy blushed champagne layers of her dress whispering over one another as she moved.

Every meaningless platitude (love will overcome) and canned speech (an expression of love) that he had written in his head fell away.

Claire. Just Claire.

One ring and then the other.

She turned from the window just slightly as she grimaced, twisting the ring on her left ring finger.

The newspapers had a field day when the Queen (the People’s Accidental Queen) deigned to wear a ring upon her engagement to Frank Randall. Royals did not belong to someone, the papers cried, with photographs of the ring peppering printing after printing. Now those some newspapers would undoubtedly have a tantrum in equal measure over the fact that she no longer wore that ring. They would smear her –– the end of an engagement, the flippant and foolish Queen.

Something told him that she no longer cared.

Her profile was illuminated with a halo of bluish silver –– her lower lip tucked between her teeth and her brow furrowed.

If there were words to describe her, he could not call them to mind in any language he knew.

English. Gaelic. French. Russian.

All of the pre-packaged sentiments with their practiced syllables were inadequate for her.

“Fuck,” she muttered. Something about her muttered profanity made him smile. She was unguarded, unaware. She was just being.

The ring finally slipping over her knuckle and off her finger, landing on the windowsill with a sharp clang. She sighed, turning back to face out of the window, her narrow shoulders folding in as she bowed her head again.

“Claire?” he started.

He had expected her to to startle (a small jump, a profane expression) at his unannounced appearance. Instead, she turned with wide eyes and whispered, “Fraser.”

A moment and then another.

He did not wait for an invitation before stepping into the room and drawing the door closed behind him.

“Jamie,” she said quietly, taking a single step towards him, pausing, and then taking another step. “I…” Her voice faded away, her lips melting into the slightest of smiles. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

They each took another step closer, closing the space between them. He was close enough to see the lift of the tiny hairs on her forearms, the goosebumps, the rise of the delicate lines of her collarbones as she attempted to control her breathing, the layers of transparent fabric that laid one over another just just so that her dress was not sheer.

“I wanted you to come,” she confessed.

“I kent ye did.”

“I was worried that it was too late. That I had spoiled everything. That I––”

(he interrupted her –– Claire, not the Queen) ––

“and it’s no’ too late.”

It was a balm on her worry, but it did nothing to slow her pounding heart or even her breathing. Even if she had wanted to, she no longer had any capacity to choose to control herself around him. She had given that up with her confession, with her decision to rededicate (or to dedicate anew) herself to a life beyond the gilt cage in which her days had been structured by someone else on her behalf.

Suddenly, she needed him to know. To lay herself bare to him –– the messy parts and all. “The nights we have spent together have changed me. Fundamentally.”

“Aye. As they have me,” he responded quietly, fingers drumming a loose rhythm against his thigh.

To touch her, not to touch her. A wispy tendril that had loosened itself from her perfectly coiffed updo, hovering just over her temple. It curled around her face. The deep v of her dress ending between her breasts. A touch to interrupt the soft, pale skin of her mostly bared back. Testing the fluttering, diaphanous fabric covering her shoulders and arms. To find that her skin was his addiction, a habit to take up and let consume hime.

“You have changed me. Or perhaps you gave me the push I needed to find and prioritize certain parts of me.”

‘Touch her, you fool,’ his mind directed him.

He reached for the curl. Claire’s breath hitched, her breasts rising just slightly as she inhaled. One. Two. She held the breath in her lungs until it burned. Three. Four. His fingers moved down her jaw and she put her tiny fists to his waist, balling into the fabric of his kilt and drawing him closer. He resisted the urge to tell her that she was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen.

Claire drew another breath and another, quivering as she fought the urge to turn into James Fraser’s hand, to let her eyes close and kiss his palm. “I did what I did, said what I said, not for you, but for us.”

A pause, her eyes on his. A breath and another. The vibration. It was not even close to last in the litany of admissions she had stored for this moment. She was stripping herself bare for him.

“I need to know what it is between us, Jamie. I have never…” Her fingers moved up his hip and she laid her palms flat against his stomach. “I have never felt this way before. And waiting here. Wondering if you would want me…”

“Would I want ye?” It came from his lips in a near bark, his surprise palpable. Her eyes widened, earnest and searching.

“Yes.”

“Claire, I dinna want ye. I need ye. I’ve never needed anyone before.”

She licked her lips and he saw her tears swell along her lower lash line. “It is not too late, then?”

In her adult life, her voice had never been as small as it was then. The question placed her dreams in the palm of his hand. (Those did not belong anywhere else, to anybody else; they were home now.)

He drew a breath at her question. He smiled with his answer. “No, it isna too late, and I’d still verra much like to kiss ye.”

Her reactions to his admission filled pages in a book (a memoir with chapters yet to be written) –– the tremble of her lips, the hitch in her breath, the way her eyes took on a glassy, aroused sheen. Light swirled like a whirlpool in her mind.

“Do it properly,” she mumbled, a slight smile touching her lips at the recreation of the moment in the stables. The words had run through her head a million times –– her response in the stables. They had run through his head at least as many.

His tongue was slow, sweeping his lower lip as his eyes focused on the top of her head. At his touch (an unexpected brush of fingertips over the backs of the hands that she had knotted into the front of his shirt), she let loose a quiet sigh and tilted her head to the side. Anticipating his mouth. A ghosted touch traveled over her narrow wrists, bare arms, the sloped curve of her shoulders, her throat, and jaw.

“This, though, willna do.” Her head pitched to the right as he removed the first pin from the careful assemblage of her chignon. The pin fell to the floor with a hollow ping. Her eyes fluttered closed, the moment blurring and becoming dreamlike. When he at least drew the lynchpin of the chignon, her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. “Mo nighean donn.”

“What?” she slurred, her eyes becoming slits just to look at him.

He captured a single loose curl and pushed it over her shoulder. “Basically it means ‘my brown-haired lass.’”

His gaze, blue and intent, made her skin feel too small to contain the feeling in her belly. He had peeled clean away the outermost protective layer of herself.

Armor, discarded to nothing. He would be her protection now, covering the parts of her that were vulnerable.

Disconcerted, she whispered, “I have always thought it was a dull color brown. My mom, my sister, my uncle… they were so blonde.”

“Not dull at all. Like the water in a burn.” Warm, his touch expanded across the bare skin of her upper back, drawing goosebumps to the surface everywhere. His head tilted ever so slightly to the side, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of her neck. “Where it ruffles over the stones. Dark in the wavy spots, but with bits of auburn where the moonlight catches it.”

Her chin dipped ever so slightly, but he captured it between his thumb and forefinger.

Guiding her gaze back, he softly said, “Look at me.”

And she did.

For the first time, they were both entirely unguarded and unburdened. He could see her then. Her eyes were sweet, fragrant honeycomb cutting through biting, perfectly aged, oaky whisky. An amber pool in which he would gladly drown.

Unsayable things came to him. Things that he worried would frighten her off. (Now, forever, us, a dhia. Mo chridhe, my lass, my love, my life.)

Instead of speaking the endearments into existence, he allowed his lips to curve up. A smile. “In about a moment’s time, ye ken that we’ll no’ be able to go back to the way things were, Claire.”

The tremble in her lip. The little twitch at the corner of her mouth. The dart of pink tongue as she drew an anticipatory breath. The gentle arch of her body towards him.

“Yes, Jamie. I know.”

His name. It was as though he had never heard it before he heard it in that moment. The sweet cadence of her voice massaged it until it became neither a name nor a word, but a calling.

She continued, “I know, and I need never to go back there.”

It was as though the very crust of the earth vibrated beneath their feet then.

His fingers moved to the intricate lines of her delicate tiara as she readjusted just enough to hold onto his hips. Diamonds and sapphires caught light as he brought his fingers beneath the circlet in her hair. In the low light, prismatic shapes skipped and fell over wallpaper, danced down the front of her dress, and juddered over the narrow sliver of carpet between their feet.

She stepped forward just enough, her sigh was quiet and the catch in her breath signaling their joint tumble over the precipice. In his guts, he wondered if he was about to stop breathing altogether at the sight of her. Like she needed air, she needed his acknowledgment that things were going to be different. A huskiness overtook her voice as she recognized again the solemnity of the moment with a mumbled, “Of course you know that this will change everything, too, Jamie.”

“Aye, I ken, but I need it, too. Just as ye said. I canna go back to the way things were.”

And with that, he lifted the tiara fully from the tangle of her curls. His removal of the weight of it allowed her to take her first fully-formed breath of the evening. Eyes raked down her body as she took the tiara from him, discarding it to the floor.

“I’ve heard every word ye said tonight, Claire…” His voice trailed off, though he willed himself to speak again. “And when I kiss kiss ye, ken that I’m kissing you. Not the Queen.”

“Good.”

Neither would ever be able to identify who finally closed the gap. It was as it was meant to be. Neither made the choice. The universe did.

Bodies connected, his belly was warm against hers. The seam of them (the soft curve of her against the hard line of him) drew them closer than they had been before. The slight press of his arousal against her pinked her cheeks a glorious, springtime blossom of a color. He was unabashed, prepared for her to know everything of him. Everything that she made him feel –– in his heart, his head, his body. He tested the color with his fingers, basking in her reaction to him.

“I’m in love wi’ ye, Claire. Madly.”

He inhabited her space entirely, his hand on the fabric over her hip and his thumb inadvertently finding the soft swell of flesh there. The tip of his nose ran along her cheekbone and she felt everything but the mingling heat of their bodies dematerialize. On the tail end of a sharp breath, she confided, “I am in love with you, too. Irrevocably so.”

His left hand found her cheek, his wide palm along her jawline, angling her and urging her towards him.

Skin like pearl.

Her eyes closed, though she wanted to watch him. He was drinking her in, a storm darkening his eyes. She wanted to memorize every moment.

After only a shared breath more, her lips parted and his mouth was on hers. At first, the touch of his lips was a mere nuzzle. (Enough that she recognized that the wine on his lips and his tongue was the same that lingered on her own palate. Enough that her entire body responded to him.)

Rising onto tiptoes, her fingers curled into fabric and her body pressed into the hard curve of his chest.

Up, up, up.

Her calves ached as she arched herself higher as his hand found its way to her lower back, drawing her closer and closer. His mouth moved with certainty, as though it had been constructed from his flesh solely to kiss her.

She needed more of him.

His taste. His breath. His touch. His reactions.

She was alive and under a spell.

Needy, desperate. Dwelling in the conflagration. Burning, piercing need. Eternal.

She became liquid against him at the first swipe of his tongue –– sure, firm. Her heart went mad in her chest and she only faintly recognized the roar of thunder somewhere far in the distance. The sound that came from him met the thunder, magnified it, and made her belly clench. He tasted like rain that had not yet fallen and an entire future of doors to open. Together.

Her fingers found the soft skin beneath his jaw, holding his face gently as he eased back only slightly.

When she inhaled she felt at once young and ancient.

Carefree but knowing. Senseless and conscious of everything (all of his breaths and the guttural sound as he slows the kiss, the hammering of their pulses like the flicker of hummingbird wings just beneath the surface).

A moan rose in her, vibrating into the recesses of his mouth. He smiled again, mouth slowing as it curved against hers. Flat and unyielding, his tongue traveled one final time over hers. When their lips separated with a soft, wet smack, she kept her eyes closed. She could not force them to open. Frozen in place, she was woozy and painfully aching with the need for more.

To kiss him again. To have his hands explore with her dress and his kilt puddled at their feet.

“Ye look like ye’ve been stung by a bee,” he whispered before drawing her lower lip into his mouth. She would take more and more still.

And when they parted for the night with a promise to meet the next evening at the stables, she realized that the universe had been made for their eyes alone.

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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❤️❤️❤️

It was the most powerful thing that I’ve ever felt in my life. 𝗷𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗲 + 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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As I head off to the beach, I can’t help but wonder if we’ll get our beach dose of Claire and Jamie in #LIADT and #TheScottishManny soon 🤞🏻🤞🏻🤞🏻 @ladyviolethummingbird @sassenachthroughtime (I really don’t mean to be rude or pressure with this post. I just really love both these stories)

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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how it started vs. how it’s going

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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🌊💙

The Scottish Manny

Chapter 13: Swimming

Ever since he was a child, whenever Jamie stayed at the Fraser beach house he’d enjoyed a deep and peaceful night’s sleep. The sound of the waves would lull him into slumber and he’d awake the next day rested and refreshed. Unfortunately all that had gone out the window with the arrival of a certain golden-eyed doctor. Despite being bone-tired, the Manny had tossed and turned well into the early hours; the knowledge that Claire was mere feet away making sleep all but impossible. He had no idea what she’d worn to bed, but as he lay alone in the darkness he pictured her naked, silky hair splayed on the pillow and long limbs stretched languidly across the white linen sheets. Arousal coursed through his veins at the image and he grew hard recalling the softness of her breasts pressing against him when they’d kissed that afternoon. The way she’d moaned into his mouth while her hands greedily pulled him closer. Without conscious thought Jamie wrapped a hand around his cock; eyes screwing closed as he imagined it was Claire touching him, claiming him. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d sought release when thoughts of her became too much, but somehow it felt wrong with her sleeping in the next room. With a frustrated sigh he climbed out of bed and threw open the window. Staring into the black night he took big gulps of the salty air, willing it to calm his restless mind and body. It was no use, his Sassenach was near and the need to be with her felt more acute than ever.

Keep Reading

———

New chapter ready at last! Thanks to @ladyk23 for her advice, especially on wetsuits and to @scapegrace74-blog for the gorgeous image! (Photo credit: IG @james_aiken). Thanks so much for reading, I hope this story can be a little distraction for everything else we all have to deal with atm. Take care xx

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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Hey :) I just discovered your site and enjoyed Shielded a lot. Do you have a masterpost where all your (best) work is linked? Thanks!

Hi @lilyaspenhood - and welcome!

Below are each Mod’s personal masterlists, including over at AO3. Enjoy!

Love,

Da Modz

—

@bonnie-wee-swordsman [AO3]

@dingbatland [AO3]

@gotham-ruaidh [Modern Glasgow AU] [AO3]

@lenny9987 [Personal Master List] [ImagineClaireandJamie Master List] [AO3]

@missclairebelle [Master List] [AO3]

@mybeautifuldecay [AO3]

@westerhos [AO3]

@writtenthroughtime [Master List] [AO3]

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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Saving for later

Idyllwild Master Post

The Premise: FLUFF. Just fluff. Each “chapter” is stand alone, without an over arching plot to the fic other than 1. Jamie and Claire meet, 2. Jamie and Claire marry, and 3. Jamie and Claire have an abundance of children and live happily ever after together in the modern world. No one’s dead or dies. (both sets of parents are alive, Faith lives, HAPPILY EVER AFTER PEOPLE) You can read the chapters in any order you’d like, but if you’d like to read them in chronological order HERE YOU GO:

The One With Claire’s First Gathering (07/03/2008) > Pt2 The One With S’mores > Pt3 The One With Their First Time > Pt4 The One With Whisky & Popcorn

The One With Jamie’s Appendix (6/25/2009)

The One With A Promised Bloom (04/04/2010)

The One With The Broon Coo (June 2010)

The One Where Faith Is A Pumpkin (10/31/2010)

The One Where Its Official (04/08/2011)

The One With A Throw Pillow (11/7/2012)

The One With Goliath And Betsy (12/7/2012)

The One With Chocolate Chips (2/14/14)

The One That Comes With Directions (Spring 2014)

The One With Faith’s First Concert (12/15/15)

The One As Certain As The Sun (Early September, 2016)

The One With A Blizzard And A Birth (01/12/16)

The One With Faith’s Story (May 2016)

The One That’s Brave (10/23/2016)

The One With Ralphie the Elephant (Sept. 2024)

The One With A Picture Frame (Christmas 2026)

The One With A Skillful Eye (November 2036)

The One With Claire’s Obituary. (Nov 22, 2082)

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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One of my favorite fics comes to an end... and what an ending it was ❤️❤️❤️ will definitely be re-reading this one soon.

Chapter 50 – Finish Line

A/N: I knew I was going to be emotional when posting this chapter. But I wasn’t quite as ready as I thought I was.

I’ve said what I needed to say in my chapter notes over on Ao3, so please excuse me for the lack of eloquence here.

As always, my gratitude.

@elizabeth-beauchamp, for indulging all my paranoias about the tiniest details and sending the funniest voicemails.

@Sassysassenach for her artistry and her stickers when I need it most.

for everyone who reads this, for everyone who ever sent me a kind word, for everyone who loves this family as much as I do.

Thank you.

[Masterlist for Downhill on tumblr]

Never before had Claire felt as utterly devoid of warmth as this moment. The cold hadn’t hit her all at once, striking instead with all the slyness and cunning of an evil stepmother. Crowning her with white crystals and coating her lashes with diamond dust, its treacherous beauty beguiled her into childlike wonder and compliant immobility. She only realised the danger when it was already too late; when the ribbons of satin silver had eaten their way through her clothes, seeping through her skin and gnawing at her bones.

Left raw and vulnerable to the rising winds, nose and toes were the first to turn into useless blocks of ice. With her core temperature dropping from one low to the next, she was soon too stiff even to shiver, muscles no longer obeying her command as glacial gusts pulled at her hair and lashed at her face. Frozen to the marrow, even the blood in her veins moved thick and sluggish, recalcitrant to perform its essential duty. All she could do was sit and wait; watching with a mixture of abject impotence and morbid curiosity as the walls of her glittering tomb climbed higher and higher.

[keep reading…]

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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Happy Birthday Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser (October 20th, 1918)

“A small circle, standing stones on the crest of a steep green hill. The name of the hill is Craigh na Dun; the fairies’ hill. Some say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed. Both are right. But no one knows the function or the purpose of the stones. Except me.”

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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One of my favorite fics 💙

𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 – 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭/𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

[𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐨𝟑]

Oɴᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ. Sᴏᴍᴇ, ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs.

Aғᴛᴇʀ sʜᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅsᴏᴍᴇ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴏɴ Mᴀᴅᴇɪʀᴀ, Cʟᴀɪʀᴇ Bᴇᴀᴜᴄʜᴀᴍᴘ, ɴᴇᴡʟʏ ��ᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ Eᴅɪɴʙᴜʀɢʜ Mᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ Sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ, ғɪɴᴅs ʜᴇʀsᴇʟғ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ.

Sᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴏʏs ᴇɴsᴜᴇ ᴀs sʜᴇ ᴀɴᴅ Jᴀᴍɪᴇ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴀʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 - 𝐁𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 - “𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞?”

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐮𝐠

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒 - 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓 - 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔 - 𝐕𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕 - 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖 - 𝐅𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟗 - 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎 - 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐚

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐 - 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐨𝐮

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓 - 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔 - 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕 - 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖 - 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗 - 𝐈𝐑𝐍 𝐁𝐑𝐔

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎 - 𝐎𝐟 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟏 - 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟐 - 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑 - 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐓𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟒 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓 - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟔 - 𝐏𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈: 𝐈’𝐦 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕 - 𝐏𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈: 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖 - 𝐏𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗 - 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟎 - 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟏 - 𝐀 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟐 - “𝐖𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤”

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟑 - 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟒 - 𝐏𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟓 - 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟔 - 𝐃𝐚

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟕 - 𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟖 - 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟗 - 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟎 - 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟏 - 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞�� 𝟒𝟐 - 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞

Chapter 43 - Announcements

Chapter 44 - Gratitude

Chapter 45 - Communication

Chapter 46 - Past, Present, and Future

Chapter 47 - Language of Love

Chapter 48 - Swimmingly

Chapter 49 - It’s Only Love

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @𝐒𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐲𝐒𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐡

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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🧡🧡🧡

Outlander + Autumn 🍁🍂

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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The Scottish Manny

Chapter 8 - The Date

On paper, Dr Nigel Blakeney should have been a good match for Claire. Mid-forties and educated at Cambridge, he started his career as an emergency room surgeon before specialising and becoming an anaesthetist. With light brown hair and glacial blue eyes, he was meticulous about his appearance and outside of his surgical scrubs was always impeccably dressed; usually in bespoke suits from Saville Row.

Over the years they’d worked together, he’d asked Claire out several times, but suspecting the attraction was more about what she represented than who she was as a person, she always declined. Nevertheless, unrequited feelings are a powerful motivator and believing that the adoration she felt for Jamie would never be returned, the doctor had at last accepted Nigel’s invitation for dinner.

With much less excitement that she ought to feel, Claire made her way to the front door to greet her date. Smoothing her dress, she took a fortifying breath and opened the door.

“Hi Nigel”

Keep Reading

Thank you so much for bearing with me while I had a break. This chapter took aaaages to write, the last little section in particular. Love to hear what you think and hope you’re having a lovely weekend xx

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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jamie x claire + moving away claire’s hair

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ejjavdo · 4 years ago

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I so love this story

Chapter 48 – Swimmingly

A/N: weeeeell…things are different now. :D in a good way. This is the first chapter that was finished, beta-d, and posted from Scotland (as will be the ones to follow until DH has crossed the finish line)

thank you so much for your patience, getting back into a writing routine is hard at the moment, but I did get it done. :)

A chapter I personally adore, as will, I believe, everyone who already loves my wee William. What’s best about this chapter to me is that I was able to include a heartwarming scene that had been sitting unused in my notes document for ages, because it just didn’t fit—until now. And in hindsight I’m glad I didn’t force it into another chapter, because this is the place where it belongs.

Anyhow, without further ado, here goes chapter 48. buckle up, it’s a meaty one!

here’s also to the people who help me make Downhill what it is:

@elizabeth-beauchamp and @SassySassenach (the creator of this wonderful moodboard) and @isitgintimeyet, and@vespertine-bloom.

[Masterlist for Downhill on tumblr]

Saturday dawned hot and salty on her tongue. Outside, the indigo skies were streaked with salmon and butter, but Claire only had eyes for the ocean blue rapture praising her from under hooded lids.

“Christ,” Jamie’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. “What a way tae start the day.”

“Mmhh.” She licked her lips as she crawled up from her perch between his thighs.

His palm moved to cradle her face, a calloused thumb grazing over the soft ridge of her cheekbone. “Ye look like the cat that got the cream, Sassenach.”

“A bit too briny to put in coffee,” she countered with a glint in her eye. “But I like it fine just as it is.”

“Ye do, aye?”

“I do.” Pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder, Claire melted into his side, one arm and leg draped over his muscled front. “Or did you have the impression I wasn’t enjoying myself?”

“Weel, no,” the mattress dipped slightly as he angled his body towards hers, “but, it’s hard tae keep a straight thought when ye’re doing that wicked thing wi’ yer tongue.”

“I’d be doing it wrong if it wasn’t hard,” she smiled against his throat, delighting in the prickle of short, bristly hairs against her swollen lips.

Jamie chuckled, his large hands traversing the length of smooth skin down to her backside, kneading with gusto. “Who would’ve guessed ye’ve such a dirty mouth on ye?”

“That a complaint, Fraser?” Claire nuzzled the curve of his ear, inhaling the intoxicating perfume of silky hair and hot skin.

“Nah, jus’ an observation.”

“Good,” she said, softly nibbling at his earlobe. “Because you’re not really in a position to talk.”

“Mmphm?”

“You’re rather vocal yourself, you know?”

“Am I then?” His wide mouth curved into that lopsided smile that always sent a tingle down her spine, blue eyes bright and mischievous. “Weel, I should think that a wee bit o’ moaning and panting comes wi’ the territory, no?”

“It does,” Claire agreed, her eyes following the trail of her fingertip as it traced the bow of his lips. “But I didn’t mean that.”

Catching her finger with his teeth, Jamie nipped gently, teasingly. “No? What then?”

“Aside from all those very enticing caveman noises you make, Fraser,” she raised her eyes to his, smiling, “you’re quite talkative during sex.”

He released the captured digit with a soft pop, the deep rumble of his bass tinged with genuine surprise. “I am? What am I saying then?”

“Well, I don’t really know—most of it is in Gaelic.” She’d noticed his tendency to fall into the language of his ancestors whenever he was deeply moved early on. “But given the circumstances, I’d guess you’re not exactly reciting the Holy Mass.”

The tremor of his laughter echoed in her own belly. “Probably no’.”

Humour lingered in the corners of their mouths as they lay in silence for a bit. Breathing each other in, they caressed skin and soul with loving hands and devotion radiating between them.

“You also say that you love me.”

His hand, large and tanned, and so, so gentle, covered the pale fingers splayed out above his heart. “Aye, weel…I do.”

“I love you too, Jamie,” Claire whispered, her lips seeking his. “More than I can say.”

“Ye dinnae need tae say it, mo ghràidh.” He kissed her and rolled them until she lay on her back, legs falling open in invitation, in anticipation. “As long as I ha’ yer heart, mine will ken the truth o’ yers.”

[keep reading…]

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