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[jonesmle]

Jamie & Claire

[jonesmle]

It's amazing how she merges Jamie and Sam into one person. He asks about Jamie and she answers about Sam! No problem, Cait, for us, Jamie and Claire and Sam and Cait are the same thing too.

[jonesmle]

Them: Caritriona has been with T since 2014

Meanwile Caitriona all those years...

[jonesmle]

I’m feeling it over Lauren’s last days post. I don’t think we’re ready for sam and caits 😭

[jonesmle]

... no rest for the weary ...

[jonesmle]

outlander_starz Instagram :

My Friday plans? Trying to decide which of these BTS photos to make my new phone wallpaper.

[jonesmle]

Post #3 from my Fb memories of September 17, 2024 - The event - NYC Fundraiser with Sam and Caitriona, September 30, 2017. I guess Wifey said: "Time to go, Babe!" Mega thanks to @astorytoldby on IG for sharing.

[jonesmle]

Savannah you are still a rude bitch. O and if you are going to make allegations, back ot up with documents, evidence. You know like marriage licenses, posts by friends, cast members, mentioning the father and husband's name in congratulations. If he's such a con, bad business person, prove it. You are the one who is making the statement, you need to provide the documents. Tell others to go look it up doesn't cut it.

Dear Savannah Anon,

I have a surprise for you, darling:

If you don't understand anything, this is normal. It was my wicked pleasure to record this in my first native language - Romanian. But since I don't suspect you do speak or understand it, I will first transcript it as is and then translate.

Sinceră să fiu, nu știu cum unii oameni nu se rușinează de propria prostie. Savannah! Nici mai mult, nici mai puțin - serios? Însă asta este, puișor și regrete eterne: după cum poți constata, ai scris din nou tâmpenii, fără să verifici. Pentru că, hai să fim măcar o dată cinstite - sunteți speriate de nu mai știți de voi de apariția mea pe ecranele ordinatoarelor voastre.

Ani de zile și cam de când cu jocul absolut murdar al unui bătrân fără minte care a jucat într-un serial SF de succes, cam pe când Mama Shipper era la liceu, v-ați permis cam orice, fericite și numaidecât consolate de liniștea consensuală și lașă a echipei de producție, a presei, a actorilor principali: am mai scris chestia asta și am să o tot scriu de câte ori am chef, până vă intră în cap. V-ați crezut apoi protejate de șmecheria la fel de fără minte a cuiva care s-a lăudat că vă denunță și apoi, din câte înțeleg, a fugit cu banii trimiși de către o mână de oameni naivi și disperați „să afle adevărul”. Și ați continuat, pentru că știți foarte bine că foarte puțină lume ar fi, în fond, dispusă să vă dea în judecată, peste mări și țări, pentru un motiv atât de pueril, expunându-și familia, viața personală și cheltuind aiurea pe avocați, expertize și așa mai departe. Asta nu înseamnă că lucrurile pe care le faceți nu se constituie într-o infracțiune, și încă una în formă continuată, cu pedepse substanțiale în mai toate sistemele de drept în care trăim: și eu, și voi. Ceea ce faceți voi se numește hărțuire, zi de zi de zi: puțină lume rezistă și, din punctul ăsta de vedere, mă tem că ați încurcat-o, fetele. Cu mine, v-ați găsit nașul, în sensul în care voi răspunde absolut de fiecare dată la porcăriile pe care le trimiteți, cu riscul de a trece drept nemernica de serviciu.

Este dreptul vostru cel mai strict să rămâneți la fel de tâmpite, chiar și în momentul în care veți vedea foarte clar că ați speculat în gol. Este dreptul meu să nu cred o silabă din câte scrieți, iar motivul pentru care nu am să dau niciodată un ban găurit pe ce spuneți, este unul foarte simplu și evident. Cum să cred ce spuneți despre doi oameni complet străini, când am văzut din prima secundă a mea în această comunitate ce tâmpenii spuneți despre mine? Pe care apropo, nu mă cheamă Savannah, dacă nu ați priceput încă chestia asta (știu vag despre cine ar fi vorba și nu, nu sunt eu, slavă Domnului!). Așa că va trebui să vă hotărâți dracului odată: ori trăiesc la Boston, ori la Sydney, ori naiba mai știe pe unde. Ori habar nu am ce spun, ori sunt o cățea brutală, ori sunt nebuna de serviciu, ori inventez. Înțelegeți măcar că prostiile astea nu fac decât să mă informeze că aveți în mod clar o problemă personală cu mine și ați fi nemaipomenit de fericite dacă aș dispărea, intimidată și dezgustată de atâta răutate fără nume. Ar fi, poate, mai înțelept, să nu judecați pe toată lumea după prostiile pe care le faceți și minciunile pe care le spuneți. Cât despre mine, a fost și încă este o mare plăcere să vă fac de râs, total și iremediabil.

And here is the translation, just to make sure the above was in no wat a friendly message: but really, darling, what were you expecting from a rude bitch, anyways?

'I honestly don’t know how some people manage to not feel ashamed by their own stupidity. Savannah! Nothing less than that - seriously? But it is what it is, pumpkin and I am sorry to say one more time: as you can see by yourself, you wrote again some mighty bullshit without even checking. Because, let’s be honest, at least for once: my apparition on your screens seems to have scared the shite out of you.

For years in a row, just about the same time a mindless old man (who starred in a successful sci-fi series when Shipper Mom was in high school) was playing a very dirty game with this fandom, you thought you were allowed pretty much anything. Happily comforted by the consensual, cowardly silence of both OL’s production team (and main cast) and the press: I wrote that before and I will write it again, every single time I feel like it, until you get it. Likewise, you felt somehow protected by the mindless trickery of a person who bragged about denouncing you and then, if I understood correctly, ran away with the money she collected from a handful of naive people, desperate to ‘find out the truth’. And on and on you went, because you know very well that few people would eventually be able to sue faraway you, for such a puerile reason, exposing their family and private life, and spending foolishly on lawyers’ and expertise fees. That does not mean, however, that what you do is not a continuous offence, punished as such by pretty much all our countries’ legal systems. What you guys do, on an almost daily basis, is called harassment: few people can stand it, but unluckily for you, I am afraid you’re screwed, girls. You’ve just met your match, in the sense I shall always answer to all the garbage you send and I really don’t give a damn if I am just the bitch you love to actively hate, or something.

It is your strictest right to remain idiots, even when it will be very clear that all you did was just empty speculation. It is my own right not to believe anything you write, and the reason for it is very easy to understand. How could I ever believe what you are saying about two perfect strangers, when I could see from my very first moment in this fandom all the idiocies you wrote about me? And by the way, in case it wasn’t already crystal clear for you, doll: my name is not Savannah (I vaguely think I know who that is and thanks God it’s not me!). So you’d better decide: I either live in Boston, Sydney or God knows where else. I am either clueless, or a rude bitch, or insane, or making things up. It is high time you understood that all these idiocies tell me you and I clearly have a personal problem, and that you’d be over the moon if I disappeared, intimidated and disgusted by all this nameless malice. Well, it would be wiser not to judge everyone by your own drivel and lies. And I was and still is one of my greatest pleasures to make a complete fool of all of you, over and over again.'

[jonesmle]

[jonesmle]

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[jonesmle]

Sam and Cait, Season 1 & Season 7 🤍

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[jonesmle]

[jonesmle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 05 || UNTIMELY RESURRECTION ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

He was turning to go through the door when I sprang up from the bed and caught him by the sleeve. “Jamie! For God’s sake, Jamie, listen to me! You can’t kill Jack Randall because I won’t let you!” He stared down at me in utter astonishment. “Because of Frank,” I said. I let go of his sleeve and stepped back. “Frank,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly as though to clear a buzzing in his ears. “Frank.” “Yes,” I said. “If you kill Jack Randall now, then Frank … he won’t exist. He won’t be born. Jamie, you can’t kill an innocent man!” His face, normally a pale, ruddy bronze, had faded to a blotchy white as I spoke. Now the red began to rise again, burning the tips of his ears and flaming in his cheeks. “An innocent man?” “Frank is an innocent man! I don’t care about Jack Randall—” “Well, I do!” He snatched up the bag and strode toward the door, cloak streaming over one arm. “Jesus God, Claire! You’d try to stop me taking my vengeance on the man who made me play whore to him? Who forced me to my knees and made me suck his c*ck, smeared with my own blood? Christ, Claire!” He flung the door open with a crash and was in the hallway by the time I could reach him. It had grown dark by now, but the servants had lit the candles, and the hallway was aglow with soft light. I grasped him by the arm and yanked at him. “Jamie! Please!” He jerked his arm impatiently out of my grasp. I was almost crying, but held back the tears. I caught the bag and pulled it out of his hand. “Please, Jamie! Wait, just for a year! The child—Randall’s—it will be conceived next December. After that, it won’t matter. But please—for my sake, Jamie—wait that long!” The candelabra on the gilt-edged table threw his shadow huge and wavering against the far wall. He stared up at it, hands clenched, as though facing a giant, blank-faced and menacing, that towered above him. “Aye,” he whispered, as though to himself, “I’m a big chap. Big and strong. I can stand a lot. Yes, I can stand it.” He whirled on me, shouting. “I can stand a lot! But just because I can, does that mean I must? Do I have to bear everyone’s weakness? Can I not have my own?” He began to pace up and down the hall, the shadow following in silent frenzy. “You cannot ask it of me! You, you of all people! You, who know what … what …” He choked, speechless with rage.

He hit the stone wall of the passage repeatedly as he walked, smashing the side of his fist viciously into the limestone wall. The stone swallowed each blow in soundless violence. He turned back and came to a halt facing me, breathing heavily. I stood stock-still, afraid to move or speak. He nodded once or twice, rapidly, as though making up his mind about something, then drew the dirk from his belt with a hiss and held it in front of my nose. With a visible effort, he spoke calmly.

“You may have your choice, Claire. Him, or me.” The candle flames danced in the polished metal as he turned the knife slowly. “I cannot live while he lives. If ye wilna have me kill him, then kill me now, yourself!”

He grabbed my hand and forced my fingers around the handle of the dirk. Ripping the lacy jabot open, he bared his throat and yanked my hand upward, fingers hard around my own. I pulled back with all my strength, but he forced the tip of the blade against the soft hollow above the collarbone, just below the livid cicatrice that Randall’s own knife had left there years before. “Jamie! Stop it! Stop it right now!” I brought my other hand down on his wrist as hard as I could, jarring his grip enough to jerk my fingers free. The knife clattered to the floor, bouncing from the stones to a quiet landing on a corner of the leafy Aubusson carpet. With that clarity of vision for small details that afflicts life’s most awful moments, I saw that the blade lay stark across the curling stem of a bunch of fat green grapes, as though about to sever it and cut them free of the weft to roll at our feet. He stood frozen before me, face white as bone, eyes burning. I gripped his arm, hard as wood beneath my fingers. “Please believe me, please. I wouldn’t do this if there were any other way.” I took a deep, quivering breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath my ribs.

“You owe me your life, Jamie. Not once, twice over. I saved you from hanging at Wentworth, and when you had fever at the Abbey. You owe me a life, Jamie!”

He stared down at me for a long moment before answering. When he did, his voice was quiet again, with an edge of bitterness. “I see. And ye’ll claim your debt now?” His eyes burned with the clear, deep blue that burns in the heart of a flame. “I have to! I can’t make you see reason any other way!” “Reason. Ah, reason. No, I canna say that reason is anything I see just now.” He folded his arms behind his back, gripping the stiff fingers of his right hand with the curled ones of his left. He walked slowly away from me, down the endless hall, head bowed. The passage was lined with paintings, some lighted from below by torchere or candelabra, some from above by the gilded sconces; a few less favored, skulked in the darkness between. Jamie walked slowly between them, glancing up now and again as though in converse with the wigged and painted gallery. The hall ran the length of the second floor, carpeted and tapestried, with enormous stained-glass windows set into the walls at either end of the corridor. He walked all the way to the far end, then, wheeling with the precision of a soldier on parade, all the way back, still at a slow and formal pace. Down and back, down and back, again and again. My legs trembling, I subsided into a fauteuil near the end of the passage. Once one of the omnipresent servants approached obsequiously to ask if Madame required wine, or perhaps a biscuit? I waved him away with what politeness I could muster, and waited. At last he came to a halt before me, feet planted wide apart in silver-buckled shoes, hands still clasped behind his back. He waited for me to look up at him before he spoke. His face was set, with no twitch of agitation to betray him, though the lines near his eyes were deep with strain.

“A year, then” was all he said. He turned at once and was several feet away by the time I struggled out of the deep green-velvet chair. I had barely gained my feet when he suddenly whirled back past me, reached the huge stained-glass window in three strides, and smashed his right hand through it. The window was made up of thousands of tiny colored panes, held in place by strips of melted lead. Though the entire window, a mythological scene of the Judgment of Paris, shuddered in its frame, the leading held most of the panes intact; in spite of the crash and tinkle, only a jagged hole at the feet of Aphrodite let in the soft spring air. Jamie stood a moment, pressing both hands tight into his midriff. A dark red stain grew on the frilled cuff, lacy as a bridal shirt. He brushed past me once again as I moved toward him, and stalked away unspeaking. I collapsed once more into the armchair, hard enough to make a small puff of dust rise from the plush. I lay there limp, eyes closed, feeling the cool night breeze wash over me. The hair was damp at my temples, and I could feel my pulse, quick as a bird’s, racing at the base of my throat. Would he ever forgive me? My heart clenched like a fist at the memory of the knowledge of betrayal in his eyes. “How could you ask it?” he had said. “You, you who know …” Yes, I knew, and I thought the knowing might tear me from Jamie as I had been torn from Frank. But whether Jamie could forgive me or not, I could never forgive myself, if I condemned an innocent man—and one I had once loved

“The sins of the fathers,” I murmured to myself. “The sins of the fathers shall not be visited upon the children.”

[jonesmle]