I cannot belive he only had like 5 mins of screen time and still managed to be the best looking man on the show!! look at that wig! it's perfect! no honestly like...who does his hair every morning lol
My apologies that this isn’t smut, I’m just really happy you’re writing for Jamie! May I please request a Jamie Fraser x shy clingy wife reader she is always anxious around others and always prefers to sit on his lap playing with his hands even his wedding ring because it always calms her down because she’s just focusing on him and he gently brushes his thumb or hand against hers silently telling her she’s safe🥹🥰 Thank you and I hope you have a lovely day!
oh sweetheart, there’s no need to apologize! i love alllll jamie thoughts… especially this one! <3
cw: s1 jamie (my baby forever,) not entirely historically accurate :)
jamie who always calls out for you in a room of strangers at castle leoch “where’s my wife? little lassie? where are yeh?”
smiles soooo big and dopey when you peek up from the crowd, a smile mirroring him as you literally magnetize yourself to him
wrapping your own arm around his big, strong one and using your other hand to hold his hand
and he’s always prideful of this, too. head held high, chin pointed with pride at his beautiful, sweet quiet lass
he simply cannot handle being away from you for too long, especially physically (which is quite typical for my beloved book!jamie)
he’s always touching you in some way— an elbow on the top of your head to make you squirm and laugh, callused fingertips flecking across your soft cheekbones, or even a guiding hand on the back of your neck through a crowd.
jamie loves having a clingy wife, because he loves to feel that he’s protecting you, giving you what you want, being what you need when he’s unsure of how love works.
one night, colum hosts this big, large dinner in the hall. it seems as if the entire village is there, truthfully.
and you’ve put in so much effort to have your hair tied into sweet, deep blue ribbons; a color to match the murky look that overtakes jamie’s eyes when he’s feeling particulary possessive
and he just MARVELS at you as he stands at your door, watching you with a soft smile
“look at yeh, my little bride. mo cridhe, such a sweet sight”
he drinks up the way you flush, his eyes never leave you for a second and he swallows, completely and utterly taken with you
and jamie’s not the type to leave you stranded at a big party or event… absolutely NOT!
have to use the bathroom? perfect! he’ll stand outside. want some more wine? great, you’ll go grab a glass together! want to sit and gossip with the ladies of leoch? wonderful! he loves gossip!
and if someone gets too touchy… too close… if jamie can sense that they can smell the sweet rose of your bathing oil behind your ears, he’s immediately on you
towering in front of your chaise chair, commanding you with a gritted jaw and a hint of mischief in his eyes “rise for your laird, lady broch tuarach”
and he just adores the way you immediately rise, gazing up with love and obedience - but NOT in the way he grew up thinking wives were meant to be
in the manner of equals— what you ask of me i will do, and i expect the same of you <3
and he tuts for you to move, where he then takes a seat on the chair; extending his long legs out, his kilt riding to his mid-calf, and torso relaxing as he leans backward
“upon my knee, mo luaidh” he tells you softly, his warm whiskey voice comforting you to sit
as your hands rest in your lap, perched on jamie’s knee, his hands find yours
gently he twirls your ring, grounding you as you shy away from speaking to the townsfolk
eventually, you’ll feel the heat of his whisper “so quiet, do yeh wish to leave now?”
and when you turn to him, cheeks flushed as his hand rubs the small of your back
AND AND AND HE DOES THAT™️ SMIRK
you nod, excited to be at home in the presence of your husband
SUMMARY: After spending his Easter your way, it’s only fair you bring him home for yours and into the chaos of family, tradition, and unexpectedly intense egg battles.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I’m so excited, only a few days until Easter 🤍 this fic is for everyone who celebrates Orthodox Easter (including me), I just wanted to capture a bit of that feeling
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He had spent "his Easter" with you and his family now it was your turn to bring him to your small Balkan hometown to spent "your Easter"
The moment you pulled up to the house, the smell of roasted lamb and fresh cozonac hit you both. Your grandma burst out of the kitchen, apron covered in smudges of red egg dye, cheeks flushed from the heat.
“Finally! My girl and her...boy!” she exclaimed in your language, pulling you into a crushing hug before turning to Oscar with the same enthusiasm. She immediately launched into rapid-fire questions while gesturing wildly with a wooden spoon still in her hand.
You became the official translator.
Grandma nodded, then asked the next classic: “What does he do for living?”
“He races cars. Formula 1.”
A pause. Grandma tilted her head. "And he gets paid for that?”
“Yes.”
Next question came without missing a beat: “When are you getting married?”
You nearly choked. “Grandma!”
Oscar raised an eyebrow at you, clearly enjoying your panic. He just laughed under his breath and said, “We’re working on it,”
Then came the killer: “Why is he so thin? Don’t they feed this boy in Australia?”
You sighed. “She says you look like you need more food.”
“I eat plenty,” Oscar defended, already sensing he was losing this battle.
Grandma patted his arm like he was a underfed stray and disappeared back into the kitchen, muttering about making him a second portion of everything.
Later that evening, you sat Oscar down at the table with a basket of shiny red hard-boiled eggs.
“Okay, listen carefully because tomorrow my dad is going to destroy you if you’re not ready.”
Oscar picked up an egg, turning it in his hands. “It’s just... tapping eggs together?”
“You choose your fighter egg very carefully. Usually the pointiest one. You tap tip-to-tip first. Whoever’s egg doesn’t crack gets to keep going. The last unbroken egg wins good luck for the whole year. And people get very competitive.”
You demonstrated the motion, showing him how to hold it, where to tap, how much force to use without looking like you were trying too hard.
Oscar stared at the egg “This is a cultural thing, right? I can’t just... wing it?”
“You cannot wing it. My dad has been undefeated in this house for twenty years. He treats it like a championship.”
Oscar nodded slowly, already looking mildly concerned. “Noted.”
You spent a solid twenty minutes drilling him, best egg selection strategy, angle of attack, the sacred phrase exchange (“Christ is risen!” — “Truly He is risen!”).
Then, right as he was starting to get the hang of it, you gasped.
“Oh my God, Oscar, I almost forgot, dress quickly! It’s almost midnight. We need to go get the Holy Light.”
He blinked. “The... holy what now?”
“I’ll explain in the car. Hurry!”
He grabbed the keys, still confused. On the way to the church he asked, “Is it like a lamp or something?”
“Not really. It’s the light that miraculously appears in Christ’s tomb on Holy Saturday. We bring it home as a blessing. The flame can’t go out until we get inside the house.”
Oscar gave you the most bewildered look you’d ever seen on him. “People actually do this in the middle of the night?”
“Yes. It’s tradition. What is Easter without the Holy Light?”
“I’m more confused than I was about the eggs,” he muttered. “I’ll just... pretend I understand.”
The church was packed. Candles everywhere, the scent of incense, the low murmur of prayers. You managed to light your candle from the priest and carefully shielded the flame on the way back to the car.
The ride home was tense.
“Oscar, slower.”
“I’m doing 50 on a 70 road.”
“If the light goes out we have to go back. Please.”
He sighed deeply but eased off the accelerator even more. “This is the strangest drive of my life.”
When you finally made it home without the flame dying, a small group of old ladies from the neighborhood was already waiting outside, tipped off by your grandma (of course).
“Parashiva said you went for the holy light!” one exclaimed.
They all peered at Oscar like he was an exotic exhibit.
“Pretty boy, no?” one whispered loudly to the other.
“Foreign. Where’s he from?”
“Australia,” you answered.
“Ahhh, kangaroos!”
Then, inevitably: “A little pale and thin. Do you feed this boy, Y/N?”
“I think he can feed himself,” you replied, exasperated but fond.
Oscar leaned closer to you as you escaped inside. “What did they say?”
“Standard questions. Where you’re from. If I feed you enough. They also think you’re pretty.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And the feeding thing again?”
You pulled his jacket off him, admiring the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders and back. “They clearly haven’t seen this. Your back and arms are massive. They’d change their tune.”
Oscar looked genuinely baffled. “What?”
“Never mind. Just remember tomorrow, if grandma puts an enormous amount of food on your plate, you eat it. Otherwise she’ll think you’re disrespecting her.”
The next morning started exactly as expected.
Your dad was already at the breakfast table, basket of red eggs in front of him, competitive glint in his eye.
“Come on, son,” he said through you as translator. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
You whispered to Oscar, “Remember what I taught you.”
The first few rounds did not go Oscar’s way. He picked the wrong egg. His taps were too gentle. Your dad won easily, looking smug.
But Oscar Piastri was nothing if not a quick learner with a competitive streak once something mattered. He started winning some back. Then more.
When he finally cracked your dad’s egg cleanly on both ends, Oscar’s face lit up with pure, unfiltered joy, the kind of genuine grin you rarely saw even when he won actual races.
Your dad laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder, declaring something that needed no translation: respect.
You watched Oscar celebrate his small victory like he’d just won the championship and felt your heart swell.
Later, as the table filled with food and laughter and more egg battles, Oscar leaned over to you.
“This is loud, chaotic, and I still don’t fully understand all,” he said quietly, “but I like it. A lot.”
You smiled, stealing a quick kiss on his cheek while no one was looking (or at least pretending not to).
“Welcome to my Easter, Oscar.”
He picked up another red egg, eyes sparkling with new determination.
Love the details of grandmas talking about Oscar being underfed and pale it's so real 😭 also the red eggs and the egg knocking (?) idk what it's called in English. And the 'Christ is Risen' it's beautiful!
I love that this came on my timeline. We absolutely need more Balkan and Orthodox representation, esp in the English speaking side of the internet we're never mentioned lol
I feel like (this is my impression) that a lot of fics in the F1 space make the reader American? Or heavily imply the reader is American and it just kills my mood ngl cause like.. no I'm not celebrating Thanksgiving and I don't live in New York lol.
I understand most people who write these are probably American themselves and maybe don't do it intentionally but it still irks me a little bit.
Either way the concept of the F1 boys being introduced to Balkan/Orthodox traditions is so interesting to me and as someone from the Balkans I feel like it would be so fun to see their reactions seeing as (I assume) most were raised with Catholic/Protestant traditions so I wonder how they would react to an Orthodox church. (Also imagining them drinking Rakija is hilarious I feel most of them would choke lol)
Anyways this was amazing sorry for the rant! 💕🌸🐣🌷💞
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