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sgiandubh · 9 months

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Jottings: Season 7, episode 8. Just fucking try me

By TPTB's Sovereign Decree, this season is - as we all know - split in two, which proved to be at the same time abysmally disrespectful to ***'s subscribers, frustrating - to say the least- to Netflixers, but involuntarily prescient, given the current SAG-AFTRA stalemate. The protracted strike scenario (still a possibility) would have truly flunked OL, drowning it in a sea of irrelevance and effectively making all promo impossible. So, let us count our blessings and bide our time: it ain't over till the fat lady sings. For the time being, we are still haunted by Sinéad's moving huskiness. For the sake of speculation only, I wonder if they are going to stick with this option until the official end of Season 7, as an homage of sorts. Or promote somebody else, while time and space are still available to do so.

You are definitely going to need tissues for this one. And any random type of your favorite comfort food. It is intense. It is almost impeccable. SS & RR sketches are tolerably short. S is supercalifragilistic. C is giving it her all and she is just perfect. And all the rest are flawless. So, pardon the sarcasm deficit and perhaps also my less fluid quill: you surely know, by now, my struggle with encomium is real.

The bonnie wee swordsman moment immediately brought to this book outsider's mind the exceptional fanfic author on AO3. So, if you still missed Flood My Mornings, by some obscure glitch in the Matrix, do give it a try. It is one of my top 3 , with #1 being @zeya-zg's TRS (it packs a punch, takes great risks and does so with grace). And yes - blasphemy ensues - the swordsman's fic is simply better than Herself in so, so many ways. A good starting point for a Droughtlander of undetermined amplitude (what in the name of hoo-ha is 'the story continues next year' supposed to mean?), for example. But I digress.

With Saratoga 2.0 in plain, inevitable sight, I incorrectly presumed we would see the blue light mojo - is it in Bees...? more plausibly so - and I am glad C saved JAMMF's finger. My sick mind did try to imagine a mutilated limb at some point in time, failed to do so and had to reboot entirely. I am grateful to the writer for having spared me a potential ordeal, in this respect. I am, however, less grateful to the same writer for butchering up to the point of no return the very delicate scene between Rachel Hunter and Young Ian, who initially fail to get their (impossibly to reach) bearings. It feels contrived at first, reads as injudicious as trying to become proficient in Thai after spending three hours on Duolinguo and jumps on the storyline's windshield out of virtually nowhere. The main weak point of this season (spare SS/RR's endless death row sojourn) has to be the blatant injustice done by the writers to characters I wanted to see and hear more of: the Hunter siblings, Buck Mackenzie and yes, William himself.

Speaking of William, there is an epic but fleeting moment outside Simon Fraser's tent, just after Jamie gives him his tricorn hat, that made me wonder out loud. Who are you, first and foremost, Ellesmere: a courtier? a soldier? a son? All three avatars briefly cross his face and if that is not prowess, I don't know what is. Enthusiastic kudos, again.

Cynical, lunatic, despicable me ugly cried three times in a row. Laudanum. Simon Fraser. The Scottish shores. That is a lot for one single intake.

Spoiler: I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. For such an inconsistent character, Simon Fraser saved his soul with this intense, dignified and subdued moment. There is something akin to a Roman deathbed scene one could perhaps find in Tacitus' Histories, essentially thanks to S's perfectly mastered gravitas. So yes, you can cry for the sudden demise of a secondary character you had no sympathy for and on top of that be surprised by your own tears.

A death that proves instrumental for their return to Scotland. And maybe it is time we acknowledge the simple fact that Scotland never really was just a trope of all this intricate narrative scaffolding, but a character in its own right. It is alive and it prompts the kind of raw, irrational emotions able to make your tears well up all the same in Bilbao, in Vancouver, in Seattle, in Athens or in Cairo. And it doesn't matter if you could not place Inverness on a map before finding out that well, people do disappear all the time, or if you were haunted since forever by majestic visions of glens & lochs. You will fall and you will fall hard, despite all the misgivings and the shortcomings, of which there are many.

We leave them teary-eyed on a boat sailing near the Scottish shores. It is a carefully chosen and very effective parting moment. Overall, this was an excellent half-season, if you chose to ignore Mordor's endless, reckless and soulless bitching. I sometimes wish for all these people to suddenly develop an interest for origami or find another obsessable rookie duo or simply try to be happy on their own. Nothing more, but nothing less.

This Droughtlander will be a massive pain in the rear. Mark me. And I am finally allowed to hope for better sleep patterns. But hey, no regrets: it was worth it, always is. They are worth it. A lot.

Gif choice could only involve a ship. Credit given to @avasetocallmyown. Very elegant :)

#jottings

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sergeifyodorov · 3 months

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hmm i was scrolling through Twitter earlier and as the designated leafs blog in my mind, what are your thoughts on fraser minten? like he’s so interesting to me because in the narrative i’ve created of him he was tavares’ fifth child but then was our balanced by knies being better, but then wjc happened and he still couldn’t crack it. now he’s on the blades (one of the best whl teams i think??) very interesting

NARRATIVELY he's definitely The Tavares Child -- okayyyy so. Sew. this New Generation of leafs (imho starting at Knies and including Easton Cowan as well as minten) kind of... each parallel a member of the Core: Knies is Auston's child (Arizona boy, big strong forward), Cowan is Mitch's child (London Knight, small winger with endless energy) and Minten is JT's child (Captain anywhere he goes, known for maturity and intelligence)... william child + morgan child ->

anyHWAY the real life scouting report under the cut (not too long i don't think)

Minten's a high second-rounder, which is the type of player that's generally designated as an "upper maybe" NHLer -- by which I mean odds-on he'll get NHL games (as Mints has) but it's less likely he'll become a serious full-time player (although many a second-rounder can and does do so!) The most interesting thing about his draft position was that the Leafs, under Kyle Dubas, traded DOWN to get him -- we had a low first-rounder, then traded it to Chicago to get rid of the Mrazek contract and got the pick that would become Mints in return. Many a source says that Kyle wanted Mints anyway and would have taken him with the first-round pick.

The general consensus is that Mints tops out as a middle-six centre, a 3C on a good team or a 2C on a worse one (or a 1C on the Boston Bruins.) His ceiling is probably about 40 or 50 points, maybe more depending on how much power-play usage he gets.

However, it's also noted (and was pretty obvious to me, even watching him at the WJC -- which I'll get to in a second!) that his real value is not and will likely never be in point production. He's a natural centre, good-to-great at faceoffs (a skill that he learned in part from JT!!) and very good defensively. Because he's still a kid, plays a bit physically and tends to be involved in the play at both ends, he probably takes a few too many undisciplined stick infractions, but these things of course can be straightened out with time and wisdom. Also, he's a touch of a personality hire: he was the youngest A on the all-timer Kamloops Blazers last year and was pretty much immediately named C after the Leafs sent him home this year; he was named captain of the CANADIAN WORLD JUNIORS team with zero other experience playing for Canada on the national level. He plays the piano! He's smart, polite, doesn't cause a fuss, wise beyond his years. Takes a guy far.

Anyway, the WJC: just an absolute hackjob by the coach and one of those years that really demonstrates that Hockey Canada still thinks it can get ahead by being Canada (the ol' throw bodies at the wall shtick) and not, like, because of its actual quality of development. I think bowing out when they did was a bit unlucky, but they absolutely were NOT primed to win it all -- especially because the coach basically seemed to have no concept of... line construction? or anything of the sort? Like he just tossed players together from a hat once (1) and decided they were just going to play out the tourney like that -- no real concept of "x is the playmaker, y is the shooter, z is the forechecker" or "these three are the transition line that take d-zone draws and use their speed to create rush chances/o-zone draws" or even something so simple as "this defensively-minded, slower centre is perhaps not the best match for the winger notorious for being opportunistic and shooty." Also, not to put too fine a point on it but a player can have a bad WJC and it doesn't mean anything, or a good WJC and it also doesn't mean anything -- Jesse Puljujarvi rose his draft stock by a good chunk in 2016 by having a FANTASTIC WJC, and he's currently on an AHL tryout. It's a small sample size, mostly played with teammates they barely know and against competition about a half-step up from what they're used to. Weird statlines happen.

Back to MINTS because we're still talking about him. Yess currently he's on the Blades -- traded from the Blazers because the Blazers are garbage and they want to Do Right By The Player and put him on a competitive team (done for two reasons: one, because it can be demoralizing to be the best player on a bad team, and two, because being on a good team in juniors often means you get actually good-for-your-development linemates and usage). He was generally not expected to make the Leafs at ALL this season (I mean, 20-year-old second-rounder, right?) and cracking the roster out of camp, even though he only got three games and has a rather blank statline is SUPER impressive. I'm pretty sure this is his last year of CHL eligibility, after which he'll probably either get put on the Marlies for a year to keep cooking or he'll make the Leafs again and stick around. Either way, he's slid twice I think so we burn a year of his ELC.

and my opinion of the boy? I love him. Let's go baby leafs baby leafs forevar

#asks #fraser minten

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fraserstanclub · 13 days

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endless gifs of the frasers - 39/∞

#**endless frasers #outlander #jamieclaire #perioddramasource #cinemapix #usersteen #userelizabeth #usersource #userthing #userhayf #userteresa #useremsi #userkayjay #mediagifs #fyeahtv #been in my auld!frasers era and I AM LIVING #sutures vibes #love me some grandparents!frasers

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flownwrong · 6 months

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Shipping bingo: rayk/fraser let's see if we can get bingo baby

okay I admit I cheated a little just to get a bingo but LET ME EXPLAIN

- comfort ship: self-explanatory

- criminally underrated: as of 2023, haha. I'm on a mission to convince more people to get into due south regardless of shipping anyway

- I could write essays: but I would prefer to write fic. and here's to me getting more confident about it

- fanon gets them so wrong: I don't know the current fanon, and what I can intuit from heaps of good fic left from The Times is a lot of varying but good fanon. however, in my imaginary discussions with an active fandom I am pretty sure I would find things to be ornery about because they're really easy to distort into stereotypes

- from what I know about Freud, he'd have a field day with just about anything. so I think I can safely include this one (also, I do have ray asking thatcher about not knowing who you are without another person playing on loop in my head)

- no one gets them like I get them: see above. there are many glorious and precise takes immortalised in fic but I can always find something I would tweak just a little to make it that much closer to my vision (which, oh well, I need to git gud at writing to keep my dignity while nitpicking the superior writing of others)

- facebook status: they would absolutely both think it's complicated. which it is, wonderfully so, canon timeline especially, but on fundamental level they're always just careening towards fitting together like puzzle pieces, so THEY'D THINK SO, BUT WE KNOW BETTER. also, watching ray, a shitty facebook user, make fraser a facebook account would be hysterical (because let's face it, fraser would never otherwise)

- it would never work in canon: here's my ultimate bingo cheat. because boy, does it ever work in canon. I can only explain it like so: in my perfect imaginary timeline they would never actually form a stable romantic bond without some serious soul-searching post-cotw. which is catnip to me because they really DO the puzzle pieces thing, but man, are they a ways away from communicating that to each other or even themselves, canonically (ffs ray's still waiting for the other shoe to drop AND not exactly serene re:Stella and fraser is so much reeling from the avalanche of finale happenings he can't see that and still hasn't fully learned the lesson about not being an island and I bet you my left hand they would be extremely unequipped for deciding where to go from there, so they'll definitely need the shiny quest liminality and then some to get it)

- I have so many questions: but mostly why are you both so blind arghh (and thank god for that, it's the driving force of my adoration and an endless exploration ground)

- they should go to therapy together: you know what, I really wouldn't mind. it'd be hilarious. but also didn't someone (speranza??) write a whole fic that takes it seriously that you recced and I keep putting off because I know it'll destroy me in ways both good and bad? because I can roll with that too

- I don't think THEY know what they have going on: again, thank god for that. they really don't. it's heartbreaking and adorable in equal measure.

- literally perfect, no notes: I say, after writing many notes. but now's the moment when I publicly admit they have a stronger grip on my mind than sam and dean do—at least currently, we'll see about the long run. because I'm mushy af even with my angst and miscommunication enjoyment and they're a dream come true for my sappy sappy heart.

- also, they could never do friends with benefits. they'd think they can, but no, they can't. it's a rock fact.

here, come, look at my embarrassing admissions!!! thanks for asking, I'm fucking dying to talk about them at all hours of the day.

#due south #fraser/rayk #tag games #fandom

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solgasart · 2 years

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“Jamie Fraser was an honorable man, he was deeply uxorious—and he had been in the depths of despair and exhaustion during Claire’s illness. Roger had feared for him nearly as much as for Claire; he’d gone hollow-eyed and grim-jawed through the hot, endless days of reeking death, not eating, not sleeping, held together by nothing more than will.

Roger had tried to speak to him then, of God and eternity, reconcile him with what seemed the inevitable, only to be repulsed with a hot-eyed fury at the mere idea that God might think to take his wife—this followed by complete despair as Claire lapsed into a stupor near death.”

“A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES” Diana Gabaldon

#outlander #jamiefraser #clairefraser #outlander art #outlander fanart #outlander fans #outlander illustration #illustrations #illustrations for book #book illustration #outlander starz #outlander lovers #solgasart outlander #outlander show #outlander serie #outlander season 6

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pizza-is-my-buziness · 7 months

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Fictober Prompt Day Five! Prompt: "You're the smartest person I know."

Pairing: Sam/Deena (Fear Street)

Read below!

Samantha Fraser is a lot of things.

Compassionate and clever. Thoughtful and studious. Terrible at singing but never one to let the laundry linger in the dryer. A seemingly endless encyclopedia on how Deena likes her coffee, her takeout order, all her favorite songs. Someone with arguably terrible taste in music but pretty decent taste in women -if Deena’s opinion on such matters count for anything. Beautiful, though that’s almost beside the point. Stubborn more often than not, though Deena is never one to mind that perfect moment when Sam’s finally melts, a smile sliding across her face.

And horribly, terribly, hopelessly wrong.

So, so wrong.

Deena sighs, shaking her head as she leans against the back of the second hand couch in their cramped, perfect apartment. “Sam. You cannot be serious.”

Sam, for her part, seems entirely unbothered by Deena’s words, guilelessly twirling lo mein around her fork. “What?”

Deena almost wants to snatch the takeout counter from Sam’s hands because hello this is a very serious matter and how can she even be thinking about dinner right now? “Sam, you’re the smartest person I know-”

Sam looks up, smiling at her. “Aww, Deena, I-”

“So how in the hell can you actually think Riley is the perfect person for Buffy!” Deena groans, just barely resisting the urge to slide off the couch and into a puddle of disappointment. “Seriously? Riley?”

Now, at least, Deena has her attention. Sam sets the container on the coffee table, turning so that she’s fully facing Deena, narrowing her eyes. “Because…Riley is sweet? And normal? And he cares about Buffy?”

“Oh my god,” Deena mumbles, scrubbing a hand across her face. “Seriously. You think you know someone. You think you love someone and then they just…ruin everything.”

Sam takes one of the pillows and swats Deena in the side of the head. “Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh. “Please tell me this is not still about Angel.”

“Yes,” Deena says seriously, holding up a hand to catch the pillow as it comes in for a second round. “He’s definitely better than Riley.”

“Because she needs some brooding, hundred year old, killer vampire?” Sam scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“He’s not exactly a killer,” Deena mumbles. “Not all the time.”

This does not seem to impress Sam, who offers her another eye roll. “You know, you kinda remind me of Riley.”

Deena narrows her eyes slightly, trying to figure out if she should prepare herself to be offended or not.

“He’s loyal, dependable, caring,” Sam points out, ticking these qualities off on her fingers. “Handsome. Sweet.”

Deena arches an eyebrow, smirking. “Okay, I like the handsome part.”

Sam shrugs, tossing the pillow aside once more to retrieve the takeout container. “I just think Buffy deserves someone sweet, who has her back and cares about her.” She glances toward Deena. “It’s a pretty great feeling.”

Deena’s heart stutters in her chest, the way it always seems to do whenever Sam says something like that, so open and frank and utterly romantic that it makes Deena’s head spin. Or when Sam smiles at her. Or looks at her. Or just exists in the same room that Deena is lucky enough to be occupying at any given moment.

“You know,” Deena says, because she can’t be swayed too easily, “you can’t just sweet talk me to distract me from my very valid point.”

Sam feigns an innocent expression, batting her eyelashes just a little bit. “Why not? You always make it so easy.”

#sameena #Sam/Deena #fictober23 #lots and lots of Buffy talk and references #okay but also we know Buffy and Faith is the way to go just saying #Sam Fraser #Deena Johnson #I love them so much give them all the domestic fluffy moments

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scapegrace74-blog · 2 years

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Don’t Let Me Fall, Chapter 4

A/N This chapter sorta poured out of me last night, so here’s a mid-week update. Don’t get too used to them! Also, there are a lotta muscles in that moodboard. You’re welcome.

Previous chapters can be read here.

If the circus performer gig ever fell through, Jamie Fraser had a bright future in prognosticating. No sooner had the one-month anniversary of my arrival in Montreal passed that I found myself settling into the routine he had promised. My shoulders widened considerably from all the strength training. My forearms grew ropey with newly formed muscle. Callouses now graced the base of each ring finger from countless hours hefting free-weights. And while I was still no carnivore, I heeded his advice and ordered a burger anytime I felt my energy levels plummet. I gained five pounds on the scale but put on fifteen pounds of muscle.

For all their differences, the ballet and the circus had enough in common for the latter to feel familiar. There was the endless repetition of movement, until my muscles recognized their job without any active thought on my part. The artistic sensibilities and intricate social pecking order of the performers. The long days that left precious little time for any extra-curricular pursuits. And mostly, there was the quietly fierce commitment to entertain, to excel, to shine when the spotlight turned your way.

Navigating this new world absorbed the majority of my attention, such that I spent very little time getting to know my troupe mates beyond a casual nod or greeting. Seemingly recognizing this, Jamie went out of his way to introduce me to other members of the Tropico cast. There was Yi Tien Cho, a Chinese juggler with a poetic bent and a penchant for off-colour jokes. We bonded over a shared passion for oolong tea. Then there was Mary Hawkins, a self-effacing slip of a girl who could quite literally contort her body into knots. We had a standing date in the common room on Monday evenings to watch The Bachelorette. A hopeless romantic, Mary’s grey eyes would go misty during each rose ceremony, no matter how often I pointed out that the show was scripted.

Most significant of all was my budding friendship with Jamie. Since that second encounter in the cafeteria, he took my indoctrination into the circus life on as a pet project. I couldn’t have asked for a better benefactor. In a profession rife with egos and ambition, Jamie was an effortless alpha. While doing nothing to assert his influence, all the other performers respected him. I attributed some of this to his sheer size and athletic talents, but the fact remained that he was a natural leader. By virtue of people seeing us together, a certain amount of that deference rubbed off on me, making my life on campus considerably easier.

It wasn’t that we spent all that much time in each other’s company, really. A quick hello in the hallway when I was on my way to physical therapy, and he coming back from a run, all sweat and shimmer. An occasional chat in the cafeteria over a prepared meal, just enough information being exchanged for me to know he grew up in a tiny Highland village where everyone knew their neighbour’s business, and for him to hear about my itinerant youth, following my guardian around the globe. Once, in the weight room, he’d shown me the proper technique for using the cable row machine, his hands precise and impersonal as they adjusted my posture. He even joined my favourite evening yoga class now and again, his long limbs and bulky muscles surprisingly limber as his curls reflected the dim candlelight.

It came as no great surprise to realize I’d developed a slight crush on him, but it was abundantly clear my attraction wasn’t returned. Unfailingly polite, Jamie never once made any kind of romantic overture or even a lascivious glance. I’d heard about his break-up with his previous aerials partner from Mary, so it clearly wasn’t a question of not dating a fellow performer. The lifestyle of a circus artist was so intense and unusual that relationships between co-workers were the norm; so much so that the dormitories had been dubbed the Rabbit Warren for the frenzy of fornication that took place within.

If I had any doubts that Jamie’s interest in me was purely platonic, they were laid to rest when he finally made good on his promise to share some high protein recipes. I showed up at his door freshly showered and wearing mascara for the first time since leaving London. Each bachelor suite was the same in terms of layout, with a small kitchen, breakfast bar, living area and separate bedroom and ensuite bath. Jamie’s was more austere than most. A small stack of books (a Quebecois novel in French, some true crime thrillers, and Catallus’ love poetry in Latin, of all things), a framed picture of a dark-haired woman, her partner, and two small children, and a few boxes shoved into the corner were the only adornments.

“Have a seat at the bar while I prep these veggies,” Jamie invited once he’d offered me a glass of water.

Keeping up a running commentary on the correct balance of micro and macro nutrients for a high-performance athlete, Jamie proceeded to do exactly what he said he would. He showed me how to prepare a pork and cashew stir fry (“verra high in iron, Tourist”) then moved straight on to preparing a meatless shepherd’s pie.

While the second dish was in the oven, Jamie excused himself to take a phone call in his bedroom. Tired of perching on the high stool that no doubt fit the giant Scot perfectly, I slid to my feet and wandered into the living area. From my new perspective on his sofa, I could make out a brown leather portfolio like an architect might carry, balanced on the shelf of his coffee table. I glanced guiltily to where Jamie’s deep voice thrummed from the other room, then carefully slid the mysterious object to where I could take a better look.

Inside was a sheaf of heavy bond paper, each sheet covered in a whirlwind of drawings, some made with charcoal pencil and others in oil pastels with hues of moss and graphite and fiery ochre. The images were primitive, but at the same time incredibly evocative, like cave paintings or figure studies by Matisse. There was no doubt in my mind that Jamie was the artist. As best as I could fathom, the drawings were the blueprints for a truly unique Cirque show centered upon figures from Gaelic mythology. I recognized faeries and waterhorses, druids and warriors, all represented by circus artists performing a variety of extreme feats. The throughline was a faceless woman with Medusa-like hair who rose like an angel from a ring of standing stones. Written below her image in a blocky masculine hand was The Lady of Balnain. I was completely and utterly captivated.

“Those are only the rough drafts.” Jamie’s voice, immediately behind me, made me jump and drop the page that I had been holding. It floated to the ground and landed, accusingly, at my feet.

“I’m so sorry for snooping,” I apologized, heat creeping up the back of my neck and I hastened to pick up the stray paper.

“Dinna fash, Tourist. I shoudna have left ye out here along for sae long. My sister can be a tad long-winded when the spirit moves her.”

Eager to latch onto a subject that wasn’t my violation of his privacy, I gestured at the nearby picture frame.

“Is that her?”

“Aye, Jenny, with her husband Ian and my niece and nephew. They live back home in Broch Mordha, sae I dinna get to see them verra often.”

“Is she artistic as well?” I could not help asking.

Jamie chuckled. “Jenny’s idea of art is making shortbread cookies in different shapes instead o’ just round. Nay, she takes after our Da. Pragmatic to the core. I get my artist side from our Mam. She was a wonderful painter, though she hadna much time to indulge, what with the farm to help run and two rambunctious children to raise.”

“How did you get into circus performing, then?”

“Och, well, there wasna much for a strapping lad such as myself to do back home that didna involve hitting or being hit, and I never did care fer violence. A nearby town had a gymnastics school and my Da would drive me over every weekend. A teacher there recommended I try out for the National Circus School in London when I was but fourteen. I kent it was something I was good at that would earn me a decent living while getting to see the world. So off I went.”

I was sure there was more to the story than that, but I didn’t want to solidify my reputation for unchecked nosiness.

“I dunno, Fraser,” I teased instead. “Picking a circus career because you’re a big strong Scot who doesn’t like punching things? Seems pretty pragmatic to me.”

To my relief, Jamie laughed.

“I really am sorry for looking at your portfolio without your permission, Jamie. It’s no excuse, but once I saw the story you were telling with your drawings, I couldn’t put it down. The Lady of Balnain. Is that a Scottish legend of some kind?”

“Aye, a less well-known one, to be sure. It’s an idea I’ve been working on for a couple years, no’ that I have much to show for it.”

“Well, what you’ve got looks amazing. If there’s anything I can ever do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask,” I said.

“Thank ye kindly, Tourist.”

There was a pause, an endless moment when we simply looked at each other. I wanted to ask him to join me on the sofa, but that seemed presumptuous considering it was his home.

“Well,” Jamie declared a bit too loudly. “I canna eat all this food myself. Let me pack some up for ye, sae you dinna have to cook much this week.”

Which is how I found myself walking back to my suite with two large Tupperware containers and the certainty that Jamie Fraser was unequivocally not interested in me romantically.

***

Jamie didn’t know what had crawled up Geneva’s arse, but she was even more erratic and prone to outbursts these days. One minute he was a lazy oaf whose breathing was too loud to bear. The next she was a teary mess, clinging to his chest and leaving snot all over his athletic gear. The conclusion he drew was that she was dealing with a particularly bad case of PMS, so he held back his sharp retorts and tried to make himself as inoffensive as possible until it passed.

It didn’t help that the routine they were learning for Tropico was more complex and technically challenging than anything either of them had attempted before. They rehearsed with safety harnesses, so it wasn’t a matter of life or death, but Jamie still prided himself on earning his partner’s trust by never letting his grip falter. Geneva’s mood wasn’t improved by repeatedly dangling from the security line like a puppet on a spring, either.

While the choreographer droned on about primeval gestures and tapping into their bestial natures, Jamie let his attention wander to the neighbouring platform, where Claire was practicing some beginner aerial moves. The former ballerina had improved in leaps and bounds since arrived at Cirque des Etoiles, a testament to her incredible work ethic and the fact that she was already a world class athlete, albeit in a peripheral discipline. He watched with pride as she executed a textbook upside-down split, her newly developed muscles holding the loops with nary a tremor.

John joined Claire on the platform, and they began working on paired maneuvers. Jamie’s wistful smile withered away. He didn’t begrudge his long-time friend working with a partner. All the principle leads had permanent or semi-permanent pairings whom they toured with and practiced with between shows. Being matched with Claire was John’s ticket to move out of the corps.

As he watched on, Jamie concluded they were all wrong for one another. Like most aerialists, himself notwithstanding, John was on the short side and compact. Claire, on the other hand, was tall for a woman and a regular giantess compared to most of the other female aerialists. Her lithe limbs were mismatched with John’s boxy form. And while John’s work on the straps was straight out of a textbook, there was something a bit soulless and robotic about his presence in the air. Jamie hadn’t noticed it before, but it stood out when compared to Claire’s fluid grace.

“Are you here to practice, Jamie, or stare like a lovesick puppy at our competition?”

Geneva’s high-pitched whine snapped him back to the matter at hand. Both his partner and the choreographer were looking at him in contempt and Jamie’s felt his ears burn with shame. No matter his opinion of John and Claire, he had a routine to learn and precious little time to perfect it before the tour began.

“I’m sorry, I was distracted. It willna happen again.”

When she neither tore a strip off his hide nor burst into tears, Jamie graced Geneva with a rare smile.

“From the top, then, aye? Let’s nail this damn sequence, Gen.”

The block of moves they were learning combined a strength move known as a coffee table, morphing into a one-arm hang, and then finally a rapid corkscrew where Geneva spun like a top while being suspended from Jamie’s right hand. It was the transition to this last move that had caused them so many problems, but this time Jamie ground his molars together and powered through the pain. Soon, Geneva’s black ponytail was twirling below him like a propeller as the straps released their centripetal force.

When he first began circus school, Jamie had lost his lunch on a nearly daily basis. His wame objected to the abuse his chosen sport unleashed on his inner ear. It was only through desensitization that he eventually mastered his motion sickness. He still recognized its telltale signs, however, so when Geneva’s skin went ashen and beads of sweat amassed on her upper lip, he had the presence of mind to call for an immediate descent to the mat.

Not a moment too soon. Geneva ran to the edge of the platform, safety harness clanking between her thighs, and hurled into a nearby waste bin.

As he made his way back to the dormitories for an unplanned and leisurely lunch, Jamie pondered what could have caused Geneva, a former figure skater, to have suddenly suffered a bout of motion sickness. He only hoped that whatever it was didn’t get in the way of their training schedule.

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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