#outlanderfic

[statell]

New Chapter Posted by Outlanderfics

[treasurethelittlethings]

MAKE IT WORK - JAMIE X CLAIRE

Chapter 30 is now live: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31022585/chapters/87841183

Single Da Jamie Fraser and single mother Claire Beauchamp, are thrown together by the fate of the universe - meeting for the first time in the Headmaster’s office...

Will they be able to stay away from one another?

Or, alternatively - Your child punched mine in the face and now we’ve both been called to the Headmaster’s office. I wanted to be angry at ye, but ye’re bairns actually quite sweet and ye’re fit as fuck.

[aussieoutlanderao3]

New fic!

I Think He Knows

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32679298

An audible sigh escaped me as the light reflected his copper and auburn curls. And when he casually ran his hand through his hair, then rubbed his neck, twisting his head side to side, I almost began to drool.

————————————————————

Hi, Lovelies.

Welcome to my latest fic:

I Think He Knows.

Inspired by the amazing Taylor Swift song by the same title, it's part of The Love Story collection.

There will be 8 chapters, and I will try and release them weekly.

I hope you enjoy it, I love it.

Bel❤️

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LoveStory

[westerhos]

Outlander/The Conjuring Fic

Here’s a dumb thing I’ve been sitting on for far too long. But it’s ~spooky season~ and maybe I will actually finish it if I post it. Maybe. Maybe!

Plot: The (so-far-untitled) story of how Jamie and Claire met—Conjuring edition. I promise it’s not scary :)

You can also read it on Ao3.

~*~

November, 1971

Claire Beauchamp is barely eight years old when she starts to see the dead.

She is wandering around a Scottish cemetery, having abandoned her uncle’s pensive mourning in favor of something more productive. She is tired of grieving in the rain—is in fact tired of this country altogether, though she is as devoted to their purpose here as she is to cats, plants, and God. For somewhere in this wet and dreary place are her parents—the possibility of their discovery the very reason she and Lamb have moved here from England.

At this age, Claire is precocious, restless. She is a girl whose insatiable curiosity often carries her places she doesn’t belong. Claire has heard too much (an ominous knock at the door) and seen too much (a battered car, upholstered seats stained with river water), but there is still a part of her that burns with optimism; thinks miracles can happen.

She begins leaping from one grave to another, legs aching as she launches from stone to stone. Shiny with the day’s rain, the markers—a mismatched assortment of headstones, monuments, and granite slates—form no discernable pattern as they stretch in all directions. She clings to the base of an obelisk memorial, catching her breath.

The sight of Lamb off in the distance, stooped with the weight of his responsibility, sends her lunging toward a faraway tree line. She needs more distance between herself and the hallmarks of her uncle’s grief: his rumpled flap cap and moon-ringed eyes; the ever-deepening crease between his brows, which splits his face in half just as tragedy has cracked Claire’s life into two distinct parts. Before. After. 

The rhythm of Claire’s soles smacking the rock, of her own breathing as she prepares for another leap, soon frees her mind to think of happier things. These daydreams are not of princes and princesses, or of fire-breathing dragons, but of real-life resurrections. She has spent countless hours between the library stacks, seeking scientific evidence that such things do, sometimes, happen.

She thinks of a particularly stirring case she found last Wednesday: Jessie Flowers, age 36, from northern Indiana. Here was a man, in good health and a father of two, who came back to life hours after he was pronounced dead from a drowning in Lake Michigan. The photo-copied medical reports, eyewitness accounts, and images of a fully recovered Jessie now fuel Claire’s leaps and, eventually, her imagination:

She pictures going back to the old house on Chestnut Street and finding it filled with the familiar music of her parents’ existence. Her mother’s sewing needles click-clack while a sitcom laugh track plays in the background. There’s the swish-swosh of cloth against leather—her father cleaning his work shoes, a nightly ritual—and the hiss of his lit cigarette. Her mother tsks when she notices a sloppy stitch; her father laughs at the TV, having finally caught a joke delivered minutes earlier.

When Claire walks through the imagined front door, they rush towards her without a second’s thought. They are relieved to finally tell her there’s been a terrible misunderstanding—that they did not die in the crash that tossed their car into a deep ravine. That they have been injured, starved—so hopelessly lost in the corners of the Scottish wilderness, unable to share news of their survival with anyone.

Mama’s hands are all over her as she recalls how they swam out of the wreckage and made it safely to the riverbank. Can you imagine, darling? Your father and I, rubbing sticks together for fire? Claire must try to understand—Please don’t be angry with us, darling!—but they couldn’t wait for the police arrive, so desperate were they to return home to her. What else were we supposed to do? Twiddle our thumbs for the thirteen days it took them to find the car?

Papa grunts his approval at Mama’s defense of their logic. He bemoans the lack of trail markers, the ineptitude of Search and Rescue. He has already written a strongly worded letter that questions the ethics of declaring one dead before one’s body is found.

For a moment, Claire is at peace—cheered by her mother’s imaginary darlings and her father’s conviction—as she jumps her way through the maze of graves.

But when her legs buckle and she loses her footing, the fantasy comes tumbling down with her. Henry and Julia Beauchamp have been gone for eleven months—and there is nothing of them here. Their graves sit empty in this field of stones while their bodies lie at the bottom of some distant river, two secrets that Lamb claims (hopes) his hired team of human eyes, spotlight beams, and industrial claws will soon uncover. He has lost all faith in the police. The police lost all faith months ago.

The truth of this pricks at the back of Claire’s eyes and weighs her down. She so badly wants to be the brave girl everyone has commended her for being, but she cannot keep her sorrow from pouring out in great, heaving sobs. Hunched on the ground, cradling her twisted ankle, she thinks of how unfair the world is—and how she is surely the loneliest person in it.

Suddenly, there is a disturbance in the wind, and Claire knows in the very marrow of her bones: Someone is here. There is no shadow or sound to announce this new presence, but Claire is as sure of it as she is of her own bruising knees and, now, of the increasing impossibility of her parents’ discovery.

Through a veil of tears, she looks up to find two wrinkled feet standing on a grave just a few feet away. They are shoeless and purple and they smell of something foul. Claire drags her gaze upwards to find a pair of matching ankles and legs, then a bloodied waist, until she is staring directly into a woman’s eyes. Bulging from their sockets and clouded by death, these eyes reach into Claire’s soul and set down roots, as immovable as the gnarled hand now closing around her wrist.

Then Claire is falling.

She is soaring through a dark and nameless space where there is only a deafening buzz. The noise swallows her screams just as the darkness obscures her sight. The descent is endless, as if it cannot be measured by distance or by time, but only by the intensity of Claire’s fear—which grows and grows the more she falls. She is certain she will be torn in two by the sheer force of her own terror.

And then, just as suddenly, she crashes against something solid. The buzzing quiets, the darkness abates, and Claire opens her eyes to a blinding brightness. A uniformed man hovers over her with a flashlight, brows knitted together and fingers sleeved in red. His words are muffled and reach Claire slowly, like they are floating through a viscous film.

“Stay with me, lass. Stay wi’ me,” he says before shouting over his shoulder. When he wipes the sweat from his forehead, he leaves a streak of blood behind. “For fuck’s sake, can I get more help over here?!”

Claire feels a sudden pressure, then a searing pain. Another man is pressing into a stomach that she realizes is not her own, a vain attempt at staunching the blood that does not belong to her either. Her hand—now reaching feebly for a dark-haired girl—is the same hand that dragged her here, but no longer gnarled. The eyes through which Claire sees the girl’s stricken face are not yet clouded by death.

“Wh-where’s yer brother?” Claire croaks, and she is shocked to find a woman’s voice inside her mouth. Shocked further still by the knowledge of the girl’s name and of the gun shot that has ripped this alien body apart. “Jenny?”

“I dinna ken!” the girl sobs, beside herself. Jenny tries to break through the wall of paramedics but is forced back into a room of toppled furniture. A fireplace crackles cozily behind her, wildly at odds with the surrounding chaos but reminiscent of Henry Beauchamp’s lit Rothmans. But no—that memory is from a different place, from a different time. Claire is a wholly different person from the girl she was in the house on Chestnut Street, or just minutes ago in the cemetery.

“He ran, Ma! He just ran!”

Claire is now keenly aware of the front door, which stands open to the quiet night and the swathe of white beyond. The snow-covered land stretches beyond eyesight, marked here and there with trees, valleys, and rocky inclines—plenty of places where a frightened boy might conceal himself and be forgotten. She thinks of several neglected barns that she, Claire, has never actually seen—a collection of half-fallen structures that look like kneeling parishioners, bent in prayer for the repairs that Claire knows there is no money for.

“My son is out there,” Claire rasps in her foreign voice, but no one seems to hear her. Black spots creep into her vision and stretch, forming ribbons that wrap themselves around her limbs. She is weightless, almost buoyant, as they pull her along an invisible current, back towards the darkness of the nameless space.

“My son,” she tries again, weak but frantic. Every word on her tongue is like an etching in stone, decided long before it’s even spoken. “H-he’s all alone out there.”

“Yer husband is on his way, mum,” says one of the men above her. They seem farther away, trapped behind glass. “Dinna worry about him now. Ellen, I want you to focus on me. Stay wi’ me.”

“N-no,” she whispers, her lips so chapped they feel coated in salt. She tries to steady the flutter of her lids, the involuntary skyward roll of her eyeballs. “It’s my s-son. Please, you have to find my—my—” but the rest of her words are lost in a rush of liquid metal. Blood fills her throat and pools in her mouth, and Claire is drowning inside, alongside, this woman.

Then she is falling again.

This time, the journey is different. She slams against the ground, and back into herself, in only a matter of seconds. The rain has become a steady pour, and—there!—just in the distance stands her Uncle Lamb, wrestling with a half-broken umbrella. But the vice-like grip around her wrist, and the eyes that ripped through her soul, have disappeared. The woman who brought her through the darkness, whose body she just inhabited, is nowhere to be found.

Now, there is only the faintest whisper, carried on the wind from the land of the dead.

Find him.

[fierceweebadger]

Chapter 3: A Sky Full of Stars

Claire had been staring uselessly at her closet for what felt like an age. She knew what she needed to do: the thing she had been trying her best to avoid, for the intrusive questions it was sure to unleash. But the simple fact was that with Jamie due to arrive in just 24 minutes, she was in desperate need of help.

Picking up her mobile with a resigned sigh, she typed out a quick message.

You home? I need some fashion advice.

Two minutes later, Claire heard her front door open and close, followed by the click of fashionably high-heeled footsteps coming down the hall to her bedroom – where she stood surrounded by every article of clothing she owned, strewn across every flat surface available.

“Did a hurricane pass through Paris wi’out my noticin’?” Gillian asked from the doorway, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Yes, that’s obviously what’s happened,” Claire replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Come on, Gill. I’m short on time and you’re the fashion guru. Help a girl out.”

Gillian sidled across the room and – relocating one of the piles to make space – made herself comfortable on Claire’s bed, legs crossed and eyes narrowed.

“Alright, my snippy wee friend. Tell me what it is that you’ll be doing, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Claire ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “That’s the main problem. I don’t know!”

This bit of information was greeted with a quick twitch of perfectly sculpted eyebrows and an injunction to “Explain. Now.”

“All he said was that he’d pick me up at 7. Which is in….” Claire glanced nervously at the clock. “19 minutes.”

Gill’s face lit up in a mischievous grin. “Oh, so we’re no’ talking about a work function, then? Does this ‘he’ have a name? And why do you no’ just text him and ask what the plan is?”

Claire proceeded to give Gillian a quick rundown of the situation, knowing she’d receive zero helpful advice until she’d spilled the dirt. Yes, he had a name. No, she didn’t have his number. Yes, he’d exited her apartment somewhat...precipitously...the previous evening. No, she didn’t want to talk about it.

“And what might this mystery man look like, eh? Please, Claire, tell me he’s handsome and not another drab history professor.”

“First of all, let’s not bring up Frank right now. Or ever again, actually,” Claire huffed, glancing once more at the clock. “And secondly, you’ll see him for yourself in 15 minutes, and I’d rather not still be naked when he gets here!”

“Och, I dinna think he’d mind so much, but as you wish.”

Continue reading

[minorities]

CROSSWORDDREAMER JUST UPDATED I WILL FIND YOU

god these writers <3 <3 <3 

hyperventilates in Gaidhlig

[snowscharmings]

Take Me Home (Outlander Fic)

Just wrote my first Outlander story inspired by a rewatch! Thought I’d share it on here and see what everyone thinks! I’ve linked the story on AO3 (where i’ve originally posted it) below! 

A03 

****************************

Chapter One:

Jamie had remembered the various times Claire had mentioned about advances in her time. They would lay together, his hands brushing through the whips of her curls that didn’t fall easily behind her ears and listening to all of her wonderful stories... imaginative ideas and revelations of what amazing things were to come.

He didn’t scare easy, nor was he thrilled by the thought of his world disappearing as quickly as it would, but he knew it was for the best. Time had a way of changing and carrying on no matter what anyone wanted. Despite his own fears he couldn’t help but notice the glimmer of hope that appeared whenever she spoke of the future. 

They often laughed, as Jamie would defend the idea of horses being the perfectly reliable transport method, many a horse had gotten him through the years he reminded her. Claire immediately brought up cars in her defense explaining the speed and the mechanics the best she could. It wasn’t til now she even really thought about them as being a magnificent change of the future. Though she wouldn’t have gotten to explore the Scottish highlands without one. There��s no way she would have gone back to look at those flowers at Craigh na Dun if it hadn’t been for speedy transport option available to her. 

“That’s how I got to the stones... in a car” she explained. One of the many times they’d spoken of their first encounter. Her head was neatly resting in the crook of his neck, his embrace welcoming her like it always did so perfectly.

“A car?” He frowned causing his accent to exaggerate and prolong the “rrr” sound reminding her of a pirate.

She nodded. “It’s like an…umm…” she tried to think of the right description. So many things in her time existed, yet she understood for Jamie these may seem hard to comprehend yet alone explains rationally. “A horse but it’s a kind of machine that is quicker than a horse…” she stumbled on her own words, seeing his face show even more confusion than before, so she began to describe what material they can be made out of, the speeds they go, the colours, everything she could imagine in her mind to help paint a realistic image for him.

“Why not just use a horse, if it’s practically a horse?” James Fraser said as boldly as he dared.

Claire smiled, pushing her hand softly into his chest; the smile appearing on his face confirmed he was winding her up, as usual. She softened her hand and rubbed up and down his stomach, pulling her body closer to his.

“Horses aren’t really used that much as time goes on… thanks to the industrial revolution” she resisted adding in the last part but she’d promised after being framed and tried as a witch she’d always be honest and this was part of it. If she knew something she wanted him to know, to understand to grasp a better sense of the reality she was already immersed in.

“I see” was all he replied. Claire knew not to press the matter anymore. He must have understood enough as he nodded, unsurely, but he still nodded.

So when he saw one approaching with great speed he had an idea straight away he might know what it was. Well, at least he assumed. It was a similar shape and structure to what Claire had described, the best she could as lass and with little interest for the machines. It stopped almost suddenly, the tyres skidding on the gravel road and without a word a man appeared from inside, hovering shakingly besides the door.  

“I almost hit you!” the middle aged man declared, screaming his words into the road. It was a mix of shock and fear. There was no other cars around nor would their be for a while. These parts of the highlands were often secluded, with only haunted souls remaining. So bumping into a man and what appeared to be another person wasn’t what he had expected on his afternoon drive.

“Aye” Jamie replied. His strong accent appearing through more with each sound he made. He turned and picked up his fragile wife in his arms, her body lifeless and cold. He had used his arms to tightly secure her as much as he could against his chest, to shield her from the harsh cold air.

The man stepped back, slightly unprepared for what had been brought before him. He hadn’t been on the front and wasn’t use to the slight of body unlike many of his friends and neighbours. He looked at the man in front of him judging whether or not he was the reason this lady was in his arms or the one who saved her.

“I... I need ye help…” James Fraser begged. His voice breaking at the realisation his wife was in this position, that his own causes had been the catalyst for why his wife was in his arms not stood proudly besides him showing him her land… her time. God he needed her here right now, she’d be able calm his fears instantly.

The man gulped and nodded. Through his own judgment he knew the sad eyes like the scot in front of him. The pain was leaking out like waves of gas. He quickly returned to his automobile and opening the doors to the back of the machine. “Put her in here. We’ll take her to the hospital. It’s not too far” he declared, wasting no time and getting quickly into the front of the device and turning the rounded shape object he was holding on to so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

“Hospital” Jamie spoke quietly to himself, looking down at his Sassenach. He brushed the stray hairs from her face, holding his hand over cheek to cup her delicate chin. She had spoken of them regularly on the battlefield, explaining it was what she had been trying to set up and create to tend to the wounded. A hospital he thought to himself. If only she was awake to him talk so confidently of words he had not yet seen or experienced but had learnt through her wisdom and grace. Aye, she’d indeed probably be proud of him.

[luvofmylonglife]

As I Talk to My Own Soul

Dr. Claire Beauchamp finds purpose in her work, and is committed to her husband, Professor Frank Randall, even though their marriage has been dry for years. Resigned to her neglected marriage, she often turns to her favorite private porn collection which features a strapping young Scot. Then she meets EMT Jamie Fraser and realizes her fantasy lover makes everything missing in her relationship painfully obvious.

Chapter 2 - Mac Dubh

Claire held her coffee cup up to hide her mouth as she yawned. It had been a short night and she was back in the hospital, checking in on her patients and prepping for the surgery later that afternoon.

Feeling a buzz in her purse, she swiped open her phone to see a text from Frank. 

Love you.

Quickly, Claire responded with the same words and dropped her phone back into her purse. If she had scrolled back through the past few texts the same pattern would be apparent. Practical messages, like when will you be home or I’m going to stop for takeout, what do you want made up the majority of their communication. The occasional love you came during down times at work or on a trip. More an indication of boredom than feeling. 

Claire sighed at her own bitter thoughts and pushed them to the back of her mind. Of course Frank loved her. She was just being a hopeless romantic. Too many novels is what Frank told her last time she asked him to share his feelings. Apparently only fictional men waxed poetic about their wives.

It’s fine. Claire told herself firmly. I’m a practical woman. A surgeon. I don’t need fluff and smut.

As she walked down the hospital hall toward the elevator she heard a voice rise above the others mingling in the lobby behind her.

“Aye, it’s that good of ye to say so, lass. I appreciate it. Just verra happy to be able to help.”

The familiar deep Scots voice made her heart stutter and her steps slow. Of course, it was uncommon to hear that accent in Boston at all. She was being silly. But Claire glanced back over the shoulder and reluctantly made her way back down the hall to peer into the main hospital lobby.

He stood a head above the group he was standing with; the bright auburn head glimmering in the morning sunshine. Claire’s eyes traced his familiar jaw, the stubble that covered his cheeks. He was focused on a young woman in front of him who was wringing his hand and crying. It took Claire a moment to realize he was wearing an EMT jacket. This must be a grateful family member.

She watched as he received another hug from the woman and a handshake from the silent man Claire assumed was her husband. Then he turned and stepped away to join two other men in the EMT jackets and they started walking toward her.

Oh my god.

Claire spun and hurried back toward the elevators, pushing the UP button over and over. It wasn’t actually possible, right? What were the odds that this was the same man she had fantasized about, who had brought her to orgasm more than her own husband?

It wasn’t possible. She took a deep breath as she felt the group of EMTs stop behind her, waiting for the elevator. Turning slightly, she smiled and nodded in their general direction.

“Good morning, doctor.”

She glanced up before she realized what she was doing and found her eyes caught in a deep blue gaze. Claire felt a jolt of recognition followed by the stiffening of her spine. She would not be thrown off by a random stranger, even if he was her guilty pleasure of choice. He obviously didn’t know, and he wouldn’t if she had anything to do with it.

“Good morning,” Claire spoke firmly, extending her hand. “I’m Dr. Claire Beauchamp, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

A big warm hand closed over her own and electricity shot up her arm and through her bloodstream. Their eyes locked again, and Claire felt like he was reading her mind, her face an open book before him. It’s not possible. He doesn’t know.

“James Fraser. This is Ian Murray and John Grey.” He nodded towards his companions who each smiled and shook her hand in turn.

The elevator doors opened and all four of them stepped inside. 

“Where are ye headed then, ma’am?” The big fingers hovered over the elevator buttons, waiting for her to direct them. His eyes were trained on her again and she felt her stomach tighten. But she didn’t detect any forwardness or flirtation in his manner, only curiosity. She gave him the surgical floor and he smiled at her and punched in the number.

“We’re going up to the children’s wing to check up on our favorite little lady.” All three men exchanged a grin and they told her about “the wee lassie, Abigail” who they brought in the night before with a broken arm from an accident with her trampoline. 

Claire realized that Ian had been holding a small stuffed rabbit, obviously purchased from the hospital gift shop and almost hidden in his big hands.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you three.” she smiled warmly and stepped off of the elevator at her floor. The blue eyes held hers as the doors closed them off from each other. Claire stood for a few moments more, staring at the place where James Fraser had disappeared from her sight. Then she turned and hurried into the nearest restroom.

Locking the stall door, Claire fumbled to take out her phone and key in the password for her private folder. She clicked to enlarge an image and zoomed in till her screen was full of his face, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. Worked. Claire blinked and scoffed at her own thought. He was a porn star. Or had been at some point. She could tell even from the photo that this James was several years younger than the one she spoke with today.

Lowering herself to the edge of the toilet seat, Claire clicked into the photo’s source site and searched for more information. After a few minutes she had found that the actor had been listed only as Mac Dubh. She typed the words into Google Translate and stared at the result. 

Black son.

So many thoughts were spinning through her head that she clicked the phone off and dropped it back into her bag. Her fingers rubbed her temples as she thought through the events of the past hour. It was definitely the same man. Crazy and far fetched as it was, there was no doubt that James Fraser, EMT was Mac Dubh, the black son whose body was tuned into the same frequency as her own. Even now she could remember the feel of the current that flowed between them when they touched.

Stuff it, Beauchamp. Claire told herself firmly. Then she stepped out of the stall, washed her hands, and headed in to start her shift.

Read the entire work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997998

[statell]

New Chapter Posted by Outlanderfics

[treasurethelittlethings]

Morning!! Happy 1st of September!

Slightly shorter chapter, but hope you enjoy anyways!

Lemme know what you think 💚

[westerhos]

Thank you, @suhailauniverse, for tagging me in the 10-minute Single Syllable Fic Challenge. I debated about posting this, but then that ask came along, and I’m three mimosas deep, so: Here’s a dumb meta ramble referring to last week’s drama.

“What’s wrong?” 

His wife’s hands are fists, and her eyes are flames. So is her voice when Claire says, “Well, to be frank, I am mad as hell.”

He lifts a brow, and asks her why. She tells him.

“Huh,” he says. He, too, feels it does not make much sense but, hey, let what’s-her-name—that old broad—march to the beat of her own, sad drum?

“Pfft. No one wants to hear that drum,” Claire says.

“So what will ye do, then?”

“I—I will,” Claire spots the pen in front of her, and one hand slaps her leg with glee. The other, still a fist, shoots high in the air. “A note! That’s what I’ll do. I’ll set her straight with a nice note.”

Jamie grins. “While yer at it, say I want to know how…”

And so that’s what Claire does. When the house goes to sleep, she picks up the pen to tell the old broad how it is.

Dear Gabs, she writes:

Best,

Claire

P.S. The King of Men wants to know how you can grasp men who rape men, men who love men, men who rape girls, men who love girls, girls who rape men, girls who love men—but not!—girls who love girls? We would both like to see how your math adds up.

[annalamode]

Je Suis Prest by AtHeart150

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12172862/14/Je-Suis-Prest Is one the absolute best Outlander story with a time traveling twist out there. Only 50 some reviews but is an undiscovered jewel. Please go check it out. You will not regret it I promise you

[luvofmylonglife]

As I Talk to My Own Soul

Dr. Claire Beauchamp finds purpose in her work, and is committed to her husband, Professor Frank Randall, even though their marriage has been dry for years. Resigned to her neglected marriage, she often turns to her favorite private porn collection which features a strapping young Scot. Then she meets EMT Jamie Fraser and realizes her fantasy lover makes everything missing in her relationship painfully obvious.

Chapter 1 - Thank You, My Lad

“Damn.”

Dr. Claire Beauchamp looked up from her operating microscope with a scowl. The patient’s tumor had grown since their last scan, creeping further into the abdominal cavity than she had anticipated. It was going to be a long surgery. She rolled her shoulders and narrowed her eyes at the tumor once again.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” A nurse stuck her head in the operating room just before Claire started the redaction. “Your husband called to let you know he had to leave for London earlier than expected.”

“Okay, thank you.” Claire smiled politely behind her mask, then turned back on her patient. Frank’s upcoming research trip had been no surprise. His work as a history professor at Harvard University in Boston gave him opportunities to travel when he was researching for a new book, and this trip had been in the works for months. He hadn’t asked her if she wanted to tag along, which was just as well. Claire had been on many research trips, wandering around small European villages by herself while Frank worked. 

No. She’d much prefer to stay home with her work and her patients. She focused her attention back on the microscope and began the grueling process of removing the tumor from her patient’s liver.

—

By the time Claire pushed open the front door and dropped her bag on the entryway bench, it was past midnight. She toed off her sneakers and padded in sock feet down the hall into the kitchen. The marble counters shone in the reflection of a moonbeam seeping in from the skylight above. 

Claire opened the fridge and scrunched her nose as she considered her options. Frank had convinced her to try going vegan, and her eyes dispassionately examined the almond milk, the old whole wheat pasta salad, nutritional yeast, and assortment of vegetables he had purchased. There was a sticky note on a container of tofu stir fry they had for dinner the night before, with a cheerful “waste not want not!” in Frank’s bold black scrawl.

“If you didn’t want it wasted you should have eaten it yourself.” She grabbed the container and opened it, eyeing the cold food doubtfully. “This wasn’t that great the first time around. I can’t imagine reheating would improve it.” With a twinge of guilt, Claire upended the container into the trash and picked up her phone to order Chinese.

45 minutes later she sat in front of the tv watching old seasons of Grey’s Anatomy and slurped lo mien. She had showered and was cross-legged on the couch in a cotton tank and panties with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. 

Setting the takeout container down, she relaxed back into the sofa, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. The characters on screen gave in to the sexual tension and started making love, and Claire could feel her nipples tighten against the soft cotton of her tank top. 

It had been, what, months? Frank wasn’t very physically affectionate, so apart from brief chaste kisses goodbye their only intimacies were the rare nights he turned toward her in bed and stroked between her legs until her body was wet enough to accept him inside. He rarely spoke and immediately got up to clean himself afterward. In fact, the last time they had sex he came back in to lay down and fell asleep without speaking a word. Claire remembered laying next to him with cum sliding down her thighs and tears rolling down her cheeks to dampen the mattress below.

Shaking her head to dislodge that unhappy memory, Claire let a hand slide below the blanket to rest on her black cotton panties. She was so busy and kept her thoughts positive as much as possible, so it was normal for her to relieve her own sexual tension without dwelling on the fact that her husband hadn’t ever stopped to consider if his wife had climaxed or not.

Her fingers tapped gently over her clitoris through the soft cotton. She let her eyes caress the actors lost in their passionate embrace and felt her body grow warm and slick. 

Pausing the show, Claire moved quickly to the bedroom where she pulled her favorite dildo from the back of her bedside table drawer and opened her phone to the locked folder where she kept a small stash of erotic photos and videos.

She scrolled through until her eyes caught on a gif and she felt an electric jolt through her body. The image was a young man with arms like steel and bright copper curls. His arms were locked around the back and hips of the woman grinding up and down on his thick cock. The gif moved over the same few seconds as his face contracted in pleasure and he came inside the woman. Claire found herself mesmerized by the heavy balls tightening and pulsing as his seed shot inside her body. 

She shed her panties quickly and ran the dildo up and down over her labia. The folds were already swollen and slick with arousal, and she was able to push inside with ease. Claire sighed as her body stretched to accept the silicone. She kept her eyes on the gif and pumped it inside of her body in time with the couple on her phone. 

Feeling her climax building, Claire focused on the young man’s face as he came. His eyes were closed, but his lips never stopped moving. Almost as if he couldn’t help but speak to his partner, or maybe himself, or God in his moment of release. As the waves of pleasure sent tingles into the edges of her vision, Claire imagined the copper curls under her fingers and the strong arms anchoring her.

“God yes, please don’t stop.” She whispered. Tears crested her eyes and she tipped over the edge into oblivion. 

When she became aware of herself again, Claire lazily pumped the dildo into her pussy a few more times, enjoying the aftershocks of electricity in the over-sensitive delicate flesh. She finally pulled it free, laying it on the bed beside her. She glanced at her phone again and studied the man in the gif who had just given her such a beautiful climax.

“Thank you, my lad.” Claire smiled affectionately. “Always grateful for your help.”

She had several images of the same young man, and they were her go-to when she needed to release. Scrolling quickly down, she opened a video where he was wearing a kilt and nothing else, evidenced by the ease with which the woman with him was able to perform oral sex. Claire put the phone down but let the video play, listening to his voice murmur “Right there, lass. That’s it. Mo Dhia, thoir maitheanas dhomh.” 

The Scottish burr sent goosebumps down her flesh and Claire groped blindly for her dildo and slid it home once more. Her knees bent and pulled up to her chest, and she stroked her pebbled nipples as she listened.

“Dia cuidich mi tha mi a ’dol a thighinn.”

She climaxed again with his choked curse and smiled as she let exhaustion claim her.

Read the entire work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997998

[statell]

New Chapter Posted by Outlanderfics

[notyobeerwench]

Not Sure of a Title Yet

Here is the prologue to my first Outlander fan fic.  I hope you like it.  Thank you @lenny9987 for your support.  Any ideas for a title would be appreciated.

Dressed in his finest plaid and tam, he approached the large metal post with the flame burning atop it in some sort of glass dome.  The strange mist was surrounding him as it usually was in when he dreamed.  But tonight, the mist felt different, almost as if time itself was enveloping his very being.

His gaze was drawn to a window on the second story of the brick building in front of him.  A light much stronger than candlelight was pouring out, almost blinding him in the the dark with its intensity.  Suddenly, a figure appeared and his breath caught as he realized it was her, the woman who had been haunting his dreams since childhood…..his heart’s most fervent desire.

The woman was brushing her long, curly, brown locks. The ones he longed to run his fingers through, to feel them between his fingers and know if they were truly as silky as they appeared.  He wanted to caress her beautiful, ivory skin so he could communicate his adoration of her beauty and strength through his touch.  

Although he had been dreaming of her on and off for years, he only kenned the basics of her.  He did not know her name, yet knew she was true, strong, capable and brave.  She had been raised by her Uncle after losing her parents at a young age and had traveled the world.  She was a healer and learned from many through her travels and further during her time at University.  Then there was the war……it was during this time he dreamed of her more often.

He saw horrors of battle that he didna ken existed.  He’d been a mercenary in France for a time with his best friend, Ian, but the weapons they faced in battle were nothing like those that injured the men she tried to heal and the ones she offered comfort to when they were beyond her help.  Mostly, he seemed to sit beside her as she cried, watching out for her as best he could.  He could not touch her, she did not hear him as he spoke to her in the Gadling, but sometimes it felt like she knew she was not alone.  It was those secret smiles or hugs she gave herself when he talked to her or tried to hold her that made him feel like a king.  Made him feel like God gave him a glimpse of a rare woman and maybe, just maybe he was worthy of loving her.

Knowing she was not of his time and that in hers she belonged to another did not diminish his feelings.  Although he’d never seen the other man, there were things that he knew of her that the other did not and did not appreciate about her.  She needed someone to appreciate her talents and allow her to grow them, but that man didna truly understand her.  He didna know who she’d become, didna understand who she could be.  

But he did, he felt it deep in his bones……..

He stared up at her face again and called to her in his mind that he was there, and then he saw it.  One of her secret smiles, the ones just for him and it filled his heart with such joy that it was overwhelming.  He leaned against the metal pole and suddenly the torch at the top went out as did the lights all around him. No longer could he see her face in the window until her shadowy form lit a candle in the room and the light unveiled her form to him again.    

The mist started to swirl around him and he knew his time was limited.  He felt another presence on the street with him and ignored it.  He took one last look at his love and called out to her from the depths of his soul, “Mo nighean donn, come to me, find me, I am waiting for you, my own.”

[westerhos]

Thanks for the shout out, @thelallybrochlibrary!

Hello librarians! Aware of any fics in the archives where Claire is actually a real witch/white lady? Where she's aware of it and has powers, makes potions and whatnot?

Hi @but-little-she-is-fierce! There are many fics where people think, assume or believe that Claire is a witch but only one that we can think of where she actually is one. It’s called Three Witches Stories by @westerhos that features ‘little ficlets set in the Three Witches universe, where Claire, Jenny, and Geillis are modern day witch friends with hilarious love lives’. 

If anyone else knows of any other pieces of fan fiction featuring Claire as a witch - please let us know!