Three at the Table// J.F x reader
author's note at end.
Request: Hey, i read all that grows and love how you write Jamie!! I also saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you would potentially write a jamie x reader, just like super wholesome sweet domestic fluff. maybe its after everything and they just live their silly little lives at lallybroch. i would love you forever if you wrote this but of course no pressure :)
word count: 1.9k
It was the kind of morning you wanted to bottle and keep forever.
The air in the room was cool and still, touched with that faint Highland mist that always drifted in before the sun had properly risen. But beneath the heavy quilts of the bed, everything was warm, lazy, drowsy, golden. Like the world hadn’t quite woken yet, and neither had you.
Jamie was still half-asleep beside you, one arm flung around your waist, the other curled under the pillow he’d claimed somewhere in the middle of the night. His breath was slow and steady against your neck, the soft tickle of his curls brushing your shoulder. His body, all heat and muscle and tangled limbs, was wrapped around yours like ivy on stone.
You blinked slowly, taking in the peaceful weight of him.
It had taken years to get here, years of war and ache and absence.
But now?
Now there was a rare kind of stillness. A quiet that only came with safety. With being held.
You shifted slightly, and Jamie stirred with a faint, questioning noise.
“Mm… where d’ye think ye’re going, a nighean?” he mumbled into your skin, voice rough and heavy with sleep. “It’s no’ time yet.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you whispered, reaching up to run your fingers gently through his hair. “Just… thinking.”
“Mm. Dangerous thing, that.” He nuzzled in closer, tucking his face into the curve of your neck like a cat. “Best keep your thoughts for later. Stay.”
You smiled. “Are you going to let go of me?”
“No.”
That made you laugh softly. “Didn’t think so.”
He sighed, content and slow, and pulled you impossibly closer. The tips of his fingers brushed lazy circles over your hip beneath the quilt, feather-light and aimless. There was no heat in it, no rush, just comfort. Just you and him, and the quiet space in between filled only with heartbeats.
You stayed like that for a long while, no need for words, no pressure to move. Just the sound of the wind at the window, the creak of the old wood around you, and the steady warmth of Jamie’s body pressed to yours.
Eventually, you shifted again. “I should get up. Make breakfast.”
Jamie made a pitiful noise and clutched you tighter like a child with a favourite blanket. “Dinna leave me.”
“You’ll survive half an hour without me,” you teased, brushing your lips against his cheek.
“But I like ye best in the morning,” he murmured. “All soft and sweet and mine.”
That made your heart do a slow somersault, even after all this time.
“You’ll like me better with a full stomach.”
He made a thoughtful sound, eyes still closed. “Only if it comes with a kiss.”
You leaned in, grinning against his mouth as you whispered, “Greedy.”
Jamie only smiled sleepily and kissed you back—slow, unhurried, and utterly devastating in its tenderness.
“Only when it comes to you.”
You only meant to slip out for a moment.
Just long enough to start the fire, put on a pot, and make something warm before the rest of the house stirred. The plan was simple: porridge, maybe tea, and a few quiet minutes alone in the kitchen before the day properly began.
But plans, as you were learning, rarely accounted for Jamie Fraser.
It had barely been fifteen minutes since you'd left the warmth of your shared bed, but already you'd heard the slow creak of floorboards upstairs, the unmistakable sound of a very large Highlander trying not to be awake yet.
Then came the soft thud of bare feet, the rustle of linen, and finally, a familiar weight at your back.
“There’s a chill this morning, mo nighean donn,” Jamie mumbled, voice still thick with sleep as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, slow, lazy, and distracting. “Ye should have stayed in bed with me.”
You grinned, elbowing him lightly as you tried—and failed—to keep stirring. “If I’d stayed in bed, we’d both be starving.”
Jamie made a low noise of protest and tightened his arms around your waist, chest warm against your back. “Aye, but we’d be cozy. All tangled up. You in my arms… me pressed up behind ye… verra peaceful.”
“You’re already pressed up behind me,” you laughed, squirming as his hands slid under the hem of your slip to settle against your hips—rough palms, warm skin, and zero shame.
“And yet,” he murmured near your ear, “I could still be closer.”
“Jamie.” You tried to sound stern, but your smile betrayed you. “If you keep distracting me, the porridge’s going to burn, and then you’ll be making breakfast.”
He gave a long, dramatic sigh, like you’d just ruined all his dreams. “Let it burn. I’ve got something far sweeter in my arms already.”
You turned your head just enough to catch his eyes, still sleep-heavy and soft, but twinkling with mischief. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a man desperately in need of affection.”
“You were asleep twenty minutes ago.”
“Exactly. Twenty long, affectionless minutes.”
You laughed, reaching up to ruffle his curls. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned like he’d won something and kissed the tip of your nose. “And yet you married me.”
“Poor judgment, clearly.”
“Aye, but lucky for me.”
With a few more stolen kisses, a good bit of groaning about how “neglected” he felt, and a half-hearted attempt to sway you into abandoning the pot altogether, Jamie finally gave in and slouched into one of the kitchen chairs, though not without keeping a watchful eye on the porridge like a child waiting for cake.
…Of course, that didn’t stop him from leaning over and trying to sneak a spoonful straight from the pot.
“Jamie!” You smacked his hand lightly with the wooden spoon.
He yelped, scandalised. “Ye’ve grown cruel in your comfort, lass.”
“You’ll live,” you said sweetly, nudging him away with your hip.
Once it was finally done, you dished up two simple bowls, just oats with a drizzle of honey and a spoonful of preserved berries Jenny had jarred last summer. Nothing fancy. But warm. Familiar. Home.
Jamie watched you sit across from him with an almost embarrassingly soft look on his face. You felt it before you saw it, the way his foot slid against yours under the table, the way his fingers reached out to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear like he couldn’t not touch you.
“Let me,” he said quietly, already scooping a bite with his spoon and holding it out for you. “First bite’s always better when it’s shared.”
You leaned in with a smile, letting him feed you. He watched you chew like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, his eyes full of affection.
And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get more ridiculous, he said with full sincerity:
“Tastes better on your lips.”
You almost choked on your porridge.
Jamie was still watching you like you’d hung the bloody moon when the telltale creak of the stairs interrupted the quiet.
You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth.
Jamie tilted his head. “D’ye hear that?”
You opened your mouth to respond just as the door creaked open, slow and hesitant. Then, there was a thump and the soft pad of small feet across the floor.
There, in the doorway, stood your son.
Hair like firelight, curls mussed and wild from sleep. He was still in his nightshirt, one hand rubbing his eye, the other dragging a slightly tattered wool rabbit along behind him.
Jamie lit up like sunrise.
Brian.
In his too-big nightshirt, clutching a lopsided stuffed rabbit Jenny had stitched for him when he was born, your son blinked blearily at the two of you with his father’s eyes and your nose—cheeks flushed with sleep, lower lip poked out in that familiar early-morning pout.
“Mam?” he mumbled, rubbing his eye with one tiny fist. “Da?”
Jamie was on his feet in an instant, chair scraping back as he crossed the room in three long strides. “A charaid, what are ye doin’ up, eh? Still early yet.”
“I had a dream,” Brian said, voice barely above a whisper as he padded forward on bare feet, his rabbit dangling from one arm. “And then it got cold.”
You set your spoon down and opened your arms just as Jamie lifted him, small limbs clinging sleepily around his father’s neck as he made a soft sound of comfort and pressed a kiss to his son’s head.
“Well now,” Jamie murmured, rubbing Brian’s back with slow, reassuring circles, “we can’t have ye cold and dream-tossed, can we? Come sit wi’ Mam and me. We’ll fix that right up.”
Jamie sat back down, settling Brian carefully on his lap like they’d done it a hundred times before, which, of course, they had. You slid your chair closer and rested a hand on your son’s back, watching him blink sleepily between the two of you like the world had finally righted itself.
Without a word, Jamie picked up his spoon and held out another bite, this time to Brian.
“Want some porridge, wee man?”
Brian gave a solemn nod, opened his mouth, and took the bite with the seriousness of a king receiving an offering. He chewed, paused, then announced through a mouthful, “Too hot.”
You laughed softly and reached for his small bowl, which you’d already filled in case he woke up. “This one’s been cooling on the windowsill. Come here, love.”
Jamie passed him over, careful as ever, and Brian curled up in your lap like a kitten, limbs loose and warm and so very small. You held the bowl with one hand and spoon-fed him with the other, brushing his curls back from his face as he hummed and chewed and clutched his rabbit against his chest.
Jamie watched the two of you like he was trying to memorise the moment. He could hardly believe he got to sit at a table with this much love in front of him.
“Ye ken,” he said softly, reaching across to trail his fingers along Brian’s ankle where it stuck out from the hem of his nightshirt, “I never thought I’d get this. A quiet kitchen. A wife. A bairn.”
You looked up at him then, heart full, eyes warm. “It’s not always quiet.”
He smiled. “No. But it’s ours.”
There was a moment of soft stillness between you. Just the sound of the spoon against the bowl, the crackle of the fire, Brian’s slow chewing. Then, with his mouth still full, your son looked up and said:
“Da?”
“Aye, cub?”
“I think Mam’s better at makin’ porridge.”
Jamie let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded.
“Et tu, Brian?”
You and your son both burst out laughing, and Jamie leaned across the table to steal a kiss from your cheek before sitting back with a grin.
“I’ll win ye both over next time,” he said smugly, reaching for his bowl.
“We’ll see,” you said with a wink, adjusting Brian as he settled heavier in your lap, already blinking sleepily again.
The porridge cooled. The morning light spilled gold across the table. And for just a little longer, the three of you stayed there, wrapped in warmth and quiet joy, the world held at bay by nothing more than oat bowls, soft voices, and the feeling of being home.
Jamie’s hand moved gently over your thigh beneath the table, his other stroking slow circles on Brian’s back. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.
“I could live a hundred years,” he said softly, voice almost lost beneath the hush of the kitchen, “and never want more than this.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, heart full to the brim.
“Neither would I.”
a/n: Anon i love you forever for requesting this. jamie my shayla
