bread isn't going to be the only thing in the oven
Jamie Fraser x F!Reader
Summary: You are working in the kitchen when your husband comes home with something particular on his mind. You are more than happy to oblige.
Content Warning: 18+. MDNI. Smut. Explicit sexual content. Cowgirl. Mating press. Alluding to trying to get the reader pregnant. Oral sex (m receiving). Vaginal fingering.
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: It is one of my goodest friend's birthday and she loves loves loves Outlander and Jamie Fraser and Sam Heughan. This is my birthday present to her.
I know next to nothing about Outlander, so read at your own risk. The word count got out of hand.
AO3 Link
He walks into the house, looking around for you, curls sticking to his forehead from the heat outside as he spent the day fixing the fences surrounding your home. When he finally finds you in the kitchen, kneading some dough on the counter, he leans against the doorframe, watching you work. His eyes over your form, curves hidden beneath the layers of fabric of your dress. But it doesn’t matter. He knows every inch of you inside and out.
Silently sneaking up behind you, his arms wrap around your waist as he murmurs in your ear, “Seems like you have been working hard today, sassenach.”
You just smile, “No different than any other day, Jamie.”
He buries his face into your neck, the stubble on his face scratching softly as he says against your skin, “Aye. Maybe not, lass. But you need a break.”
You press back against him, feeling the hard outline of his arousal through the layers separating the two of you, and he groans hips jerking against yours. Your hands continue kneading the dough, grabbing more flour to keep it from sticking. “What kind of break did you have in mind, love?”
“Seems like you know exactly what I had in mind.” He murmurs, his hands wandering up your stomach to the underside of your breasts, squeezing tentatively like he is waiting to see your response before moving forward.
“I have to get the bread into the oven, Jamie.” You try to reprimand him, but your voice comes out breathless. Sometimes it was annoying just how much he could get under your skin with a few words and touches. You could feel your body starting to react, your thighs clenching together.
His lips trail down the back of your neck, kissing along the sensitive flesh, causing gooseflesh to arise. Your hands go slack as your eyes close, head tilting to give him better access. You gasp when he sucks down where your neck meets your shoulder, leaving a deep red spot in his wake, his tongue darting out to soothe the area before moving on. His hands start massaging your breasts through your dress before one hand comes up to grab your chin, angling your head to the side enough that he can finally capture your lips in a desperate kiss. You melt against him, putty in his strong arms, mouth yielding to his, as his tongue plunges in tasting you.
When he pulls back, just a breath away, he holds your gaze as he murmurs, “Finish with your bread. Then you are mine.”
You kiss him quickly again. “I’ve been yours for a while now, Jamie Fraser, or did you forget?”
He raises his eyebrows at your quick words, a small smirk crossing his lips. “I didn’t forget. But I thought you could do with a reminder.” With a quick smack to your ass he walks away, tossing over his shoulder. “Come find me when you are done.”
You flick some flour at him as his laugh disappears down towards your shared bedroom.
Once you finally finish making the bread and have it baking, you wipe the counters down, wash your hands, making your way to find your husband. You stop in the doorway, as it is your turn to ogle his shirtless back, muscle rippling with every move.
“What exactly are you doing?” You ask.
He turns holding up his shirt. “Found a hole.”
“I’ll fix it tomorrow.” You say, crossing the room to stand in front of him, taking a closer look at the tear.
He tosses the shirt onto a nearby chair, hands grabbing your waist to pull you flush against his body. “What would I do without you?”
“You would definitely have a lot more tears in your clothing.” You say, bringing your gaze up his chest to his face.
“You are quite sassy today, wife.” He starts walking you backwards towards the bed. “Might need to do something about that.”
“You knew who I was when you wed me, Jamie.” You say, pressing a finger into his chest.
He chuckles in response. “But you seem to have only gotten worse the longer we are married.”
His hands start pulling at your dress, wanting to get the clothing off you as quickly as possible. Your legs hit the edge of the bed and you help him remove the offending clothing before sitting down on the bed and scooting back to the middle in just your white chemise. You beckon him closer with your finger. A wicked grin crosses his face as he follows you, crawling over your body as you lay back.
“I'm going to have to do something about your mouth, wife.” He purrs in your ear, causing a shiver to run down your spine, your hands already exploring the planes of his body. “I’m sure I can find a better use for it.”
He kisses you, lips pressing against yours desperately like he needs you more than breathing itself. And when you moan against him, he uses the advantage to press his tongue inside, tasting you thoroughly. His hands wander down your body, the thin fabric of your chemise doing nothing to hide the heat of his hands and body or how much you are craving him. He bunches the fabric up, revealing more of your body to the cool air of the room. His lips part from yours only to pull the fabric separating your body from him over your head.
You try to catch your breath as you lay back, letting his eyes wander your form underneath him. He knows every curve like the back of his hand. Exactly what drives you crazy. Bracing himself beside your head with his arm, the fingertip of his other hand traces over your collarbone and down your chest, between the valley of your breasts, trailing down your abdomen to swirl around your belly button and down again.
Your chest heaves, his eyes never leaving yours as he stops right above where you need him most. “Jamie,” you whimper, hips bucking in protest.
He leans down to kiss the soft skin right in the middle of your chest, his nose barely sliding against your skin as his lips press against the side of your breast. “Patience is a virtue, you know, love.”
“I possess little patience when it comes to you, Jamie.” You whine as his finger finally slides down, caressing your slit with a barely there touch. He chuckles, the vibrations running through you straight to your core.
When his fingers finally part your folds, you sigh in relief before a gasp leaves your lips as his fingers glide over your bundle of nerves with a teasing touch. He kisses over the mound of your breast before his tongue darts out to circle your peaked nipple.
One hand clenches in the sheets, while the other tangles in his hair. Not to pull him closer, but just to hold onto him, and let the touch ground you. His teeth gently scrape against your bud before his mouth covers your nipple, sucking at your soft flesh. You back arches off the bed, closer to him, right as his fingers start applying a steady pressure against your clit, gently rubbing the bud just the way you love.
“Oh my god, Jamie.” You cry out, and he smiles continuing to suckle at your breast before pulling off with a soft pop.
“I’m not god, love. Just yours.” He murmurs before giving the same attention to your other breast, making sure it wasn’t neglected. The sensation was electrifying, sending pleasure straight through your veins.
When two of his fingers enter you, you moan his name, fingers twisting in his curls, sending a delicious slight pain through him. “You are soaking for me, love.”
Your hips buck, trying to get his fingers deeper inside you when he hooks his finger right against the spongy spot against your walls causing stars to nearly burst behind your eyelids. Your hands run down his body, needing to feel him against you. His lips come up to brush against yours as your fingers pull at the laces of his breeches, your hand reaching inside to grip his hard length.
“So greedy,” He groans against your lips before kissing you, inhaling your moan as his fingers continue to slide in and out of your pussy, the wet squelch filling the room.
Your thumb glides over the tip of his cock, spreading the moisture around as you stroke him, as you pant. You aren’t going to last if the tension tight your abdomen is any indication, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. Your hips roll, chasing the friction you desperately need to fall over the edge.
“Are you going to come for me, love?” He whispers in your ear. You nod, cheeks flushed, body warm with the heat between the two of you. “Give it to me, I’ve got you. Always.”
You cry out, falling over the edge as your vision blurs, narrowing down to just you and him and his deliciously torturous fingers between your legs. You clench around his digits and he groans. “That’s it, sweetheart. Feel it.”
He continues working you through your release until you are boneless against the bed. His fingers slide out of you and he licks them clean. You can only whimper at the sheer eroticism of the sight of your husband tasting you on his fingers.
You take a few moments, trying to catch your breath, your heart rate slowly returning to normal as he sits there, watching you with the largest self-satisfied smirk on his face. As soon as you glance at him, seeing that twinkle in his eyes, you reach for him and he crawls over you, settling between your legs.
He leans down like he is going to kiss you, but pulls back at the last minute, smirking. “Need something, love?” He whispers.
“Jamie,” you whine, pulling him closer. Just when you think he is going to kiss you again, he turns peppering kisses along your jaw. You tangle your legs with his, turning over in the bed so you are on top of him.
“Such a tease, Jamie.”
“You knew who I was when you married me,” He says, parroting your words back at you as you settle atop him. His hands come to your waist, pulling your chemise up. You raise your arms obediently and he tosses the material to the floor. His eyes run over every inch of you as you lean down, a mischievous grin on your face as you start to kiss down his chest.
Your hands make quick work to finish unlacing his breeches before he is helping you pull them off, revealing his cock standing at attention, thick and hard, the tip reddened and leaking with his arousal. Without wasting time, your lips circle him, tongue laving at the tip. You moan at the salty musky taste of your husband. One of his hands tangles in your hair, just holding you steady against him as he lets you have control for now.
You suck down on him, feeling him heavy on your tongue as it swirls around the tip, trying to drive him to the edge of madness. One hand grips him at the base of helping you as you bob your head, letting him invade more and more of the warm wet cavern of your mouth.
There is not a more intoxicating feeling than bringing this man to his knees with your mouth. The way he tries to hold onto control while you slowly strip away each and every bit with a swirl of your tongue. When you gag on his girth at the back of your tongue, he curses out loud, his hand tightening in your hair.
He can’t help but to watch you, tears leaking from the sides of your eyes, pleasuring him like this is the only thing you were put on this earth for. He groans your name, gently tugging on your hair, which just causes you to double down, moving faster over his length.
“Stop. Enough, lass.” He grunts out, not wanting you to stop. “There is only one place I’m coming tonight. And that is inside you.”
You pull off him with a soft pop, a line of saliva connecting your lips to him before you lean back in getting one more lick against him.
“Are you that close already, Jamie?” You tease, moving up to straddle him. You roll your hips, feeling him sliding through your folds and his eyes flash.
“Don’t tease me, woman. I need to feel you.” He says, lifting you by your hips and helping you sink onto him.
You gasp as he spears you inch by glorious inch, splitting you apart as you work yourself down until he is fully seated inside you. Your nails dig into his chest as you adjust to his size before you start moving on top of him. All you can feel is pleasure as his cock drags in and out of your channel, you roll your hips down each time you sink back down, your clit grinding against his pelvis. You can see stars bursting behind your eyes as your head falls back. His hands hold onto your hips, helping guide you in a steady rhythm.
Before long, he is unable to resist thrusting up into you, causing you to gasp with the force of him slamming his hips against yours, his cock kissing your cervix. The sound of your combined pleasure is all that can be heard in your room.
You can feel yourself drawing closer to release, and judging by how he is holding onto you, he is close as well. He flips you both over, still buried to the hilt when he grabs your legs, pushing them up against your chest. The change in the angle is severe, allowing him to get even deeper inside your cunt.
“Going to fill you so full you will be leaking for days, wife.” He pants, his thrusts turning more erratic. You reach down between the two of you, rubbing at your clit.
“Oh god, Jamie. Right there. Right there.” You whine.
A couple more thrusts and you are crying out as your orgasm washes over you like a hurricane, fierce and all encompassing. Your world narrows down to just this moment you wish could last forever, pleasure running through your veins as you clench around his cock, your pussy practically begging for his release.
Which he grants you a moment later, stilling inside you as he releases his seed inside you, grunting your name. His warm breath washes over your face as you slowly come back to, looking up at his flushed face, eyes dazed with pleasure.
You take a deep breath before you are pulling his lips to yours, kissing him with every ounce of love and affection you hold for him. When he finally pulls back, he kisses your forehead, releasing your legs, allowing them to drop around his waist. He slowly pulls out of you, watching his spend mixed with yours leaking out of you. He gathers everything he can with his fingers, pushing it back inside, like he can’t stand to see a single drop wasted.
He kisses your belly before lying down beside you and pulling you close murmuring. “Well, we will find out soon if it takes this time.”
You sigh, contentedly, “If not, we will just try again.”
“And even if it does, we will try again and again and again.” He purrs in your ear, promising you a lifetime of love and pleasure all in his arms.
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
sinners x outlander | remmick x black! fem! reader
a mysterious necklace you find suddenly transports you back to catholic-occupied ireland, where you stumble across a rather charming farm-hand and his father. together, you all work to try and send you back to your time, all while avoiding the dangerous powers that be. but even once you make it home safe, you're quick to realize that an ancient flame had been patiently awaiting your return. as well as your countless others.
𝑶𝑹…
no matter what time period he finds you, fate has a twisted way of keeping him from your embrace. but he never stops trying, loving and losing and loving again countless times just to remain in your presence. a man who could never die, and a woman who could do nothing but.
cw - period typical racism, violence, gore, death, vampirism, mature themes, 18+, language barriers, gaeilge (i'll do my best), profanity, love throughout the ages, outlander inspiration, will still tie back to the sinners movie.
I. Mississippi - 1932
"Hoo Lord! Been 'bout ten years if it's been ten minutes, aye, (n/n)?" Miss Henrietta huffed, using her hips for purchase as she straightened up, correcting the hunch in her back.
Eyes screwed tight, she held still while the pain ebbed and flowed throughout her spine, a certain area at her side throbbing with its own sharpened ache.
She winced, sucking in some air through her teeth.
"An' this heat ain't much better."
By noon, Mississippi had stopped pretending being part of the world and instead turned into a furnace, hellbent on roasting the poor souls toiling away down below.
Every breath felt like swallowing steam.
Every step like one atop a bed of coal, cracked and dry like the tongue in your mouth.
"I'll say," you nodded, glancing up at the poor woman as you shoved another handful of cotton in your sack. "How ya feelin' today, Miss Henrietta?"
"Oh, same ol', same ol'," she waved off, letting out a faint huff to help herself talk through the pain. "Y'know my Gerald's still down wit' that nasty fever. Gotta keep at this 'til he's good on his feet again."
Unbeknownst to you, the pain Henrietta had attributed to a bad back was actually due to a herniated disc, an injury she garnered while lugging around a heavy hamper of clothes about a week ago.
Of course, that diagnosis had never been heard of anywhere south of West Virginia, and was a budding discovery at that.
"I can always help finish your quota if it's troublin' ya so much," you offered, honest, taking a step to the side to move down the row. "S'no skin off my back."
"Nonsense, girl. You been out here pickin' since the sun came up... wouldn't be right."
With the ache slowly lulling to a dull throb, her touch lightened, spine creeping forward to hunch over the winding crop, allowing her to return to work.
Cotton stretched in all directions, white and endless, soft to the eye, yet sharp to the touch.
The smell hung in the air—neither sweet nor clean but raw—earthy like dried leaves, sun-baked burlap, and sweat that had nowhere to go.
"'Sides, m'just an old woman. Wit' old bones," she sighed, a faint smile gracing her lips, though not exactly meeting her tired eyes. "Ain't nothin' new about that."
You caved, pointedly. "Fine... but if you won't let me do that, then at least get yourself somethin' to drink."
"Oh, (y/n), y'know I can't—"
"Don't give me that. The devil's damn near a stone's throw away out here and the last thing Gerald needs is you fallin' out with the heat."
Lifting your head, you leveled her with a soft—but sincere—look, swiping a few sweat soaked hairs out your face.
"'Sides, m'almost done.. and I wouldn't feel right leavin' you out here by yourself like this."
Henrietta arched a brow, lips pursing in a less-than-believing look.
But you pressed on.
"Jus' a small drink of water, and then you can go right back to workin'... honest."
For a moment, she paused to think, weighing her options for a quick second before finally caving in, shrugging the sackstrap off her shoulders.
"You yo daddy's daughter, alright," she scoffed, amused. "Sweet-talker."
You giggled, proud of your successful convincing as she stood up straight, turning to start down the row.
"Thank you kindly, Miss Henrietta," your tone was teasing, faintly muffled by a few snickers—her sour expression was quite hilarious.
"Yeah, yeah, keep to your work now, girl," she waved you off with a huff, walk tainted by a small limp.
With another laugh, you moved to step further down the row, only for your foot to land on something cool.
Your noise cut short in an instant, body freezing and brows furrowing in confusion as you paused your picking.
What in the world...?
How anything could remain cold in the heat was a mystery to you, your mind coming to the conclusion that you must've stepped on some hard pill-bug or something.
Slowly, you lifted your foot, shifting it to the side to reveal something not nearly as enlightening as you thought it would be.
It was a rock.
Or rather, a crystal.
It was flat like a coin, cold to the touch and rounded so well it was damn near a perfect circle, completely smooth save for the face that sat pointed to the sky.
There engraved was a certain array of symbols you had never seen before, their look alien to your eyes as you carefully picked it up, gliding your swollen, burr-prickled fingers over the characters.
In your hand was where you realized that it was attached to a line of thin, dark brown twine, the string fed through and tied at a hole made through the top.
But the real marvel was the color.
The crystal itself was a perfect pale green, accented by thin ropes of white and flecks of rusted gold.
It was utterly otherworldly, the feeling of its weight in your palm sending a familiar shiver down your spine, as if you'd seen it a thousand times.
Lifting your head, you glanced at the surrounding area, making sure there were no passerby drawing near before shoving the necklace in your skirt-pocket.
It seemed you would have to take a little detour on your trek home.
.
.
.
"If ya had any good sense, you'd put it back," Annie hummed, shooting you a sharp, sidelong look before turning back to her cupboard.
You scoffed, "How you gon' tell me to put it back an' you don't even know what it is?"
"Thas' exactly why."
Wafting from the stove, the smell of something sweetly stewing flowed gently into your nostrils, easing the tension clawing at your shoulders and allowing your body to practically melt into the wooden wall it was leaning on.
The scent wrapped around you like a shawl, familiar and old.
With the drooping autumn sun, the windows remained cracked just wide enough to let in the cicadas' buzz and setting gold-stain light, which gave the room a hazy, nostalgic glow.
Annie's house had a way of feeling like home to whoever walked through her doors—even time seeming to move differently.
Slower.
Gentler.
"I ain't never seen them symbols or that stone before," she continued, grabbing two large mason jars before placing them on the table. "Never."
"Well, it has to be from somewhere," you sighed, looking down at the crystal in your palm with a fascinated air, "Belong to someone."
"Then I suggest ya put it back so that somebody can find it," she chimed, adamant.
Annoyed, you let out a faint huff, eyes rolling as you peeled yourself off the wall to roam about.
Give it back, she says...
"I found it in the fields. What's to say someone else don't stumble on it and take it themselves?"
"Then, that'll be a problem for them."
"Annie..."
"Donchu Annie me," she scoffed, brow arching as she lifted her gaze. "I don't know what that stone says... but I know when somethin' shouldn't be touched."
You opened your mouth, but she was quick to give you a flippant wave.
"Nah, but chu know better than me. You grown now."
Amused, you shrugged, fighting your smirk with little success.
"Think twenty's grown enough..." you muttered under your breath, slick.
"Whachu say girl?" she chuckled, dipping her fingers in a bit of water before flicking some at your chest.
"Annie!" you squealed, laughing all the while as you scrambled out of her range.
Although the two of you joked and carried yourself as close friends, your iron-clad bond with the woman ran far deeper, originating from distant familial relations—your grandmother was her grandmother's cousin.
Relations rekindled after your mother moved your family back into her childhood home.
"Annie nothin'. An' none of this stone nonsense either," she sighed, turning back to her work. "You get yourself home now, y'hear. Startin' to get dark out."
"Why you changin' the subject?" you grinned, rushing forward and shoving your whole hand in the water before splashing some on her skirt. "I ain't gonna let go that easy!"
"You crazy girl!" Annie laughed, shooing you away with a heavy hand, just narrowly missing as you ducked to her other side. "Get on out my house!"
"I'll be back t'morrow!" you called over your shoulder as you ran out the door, giggling the whole way.
"I'll be hidin' t'morrow..." she sighed, resting her hands on her hips.
Crazy girl...
.
.
.
The night spread out like a velvet quilt, soft and deep and breathing slow.
While Autumn had already come, the warmth still clung to the earth like a memory—heavy and sweet, stirred only by the breeze, which seemed to flow through the air and toy with your hair like a mischievous whisper.
Past the strands, the moon hung high and full, so bright and bone-white it looked near enough to touch, casting silver across the fields and lighting your path like a lantern from heaven.
Every leaf on the trees shivered with its light—trembling emerald—and the crickets sang low, like they knew their song wasn't theirs alone tonight.
Glancing down at the small weight in your palm, you couldn't help but become transfixed by the necklace once again, the stone seeming to have a whole other allure in the moon's glow.
In fact, the moment your hand opened to reveal it to the night, the air seemed to come alive, charged and curious as it curled at your ankles and toyed with the hem of your skirt.
In that very moment, the world was quiet... but not empty.
No, something seemed to be flowing around you.
Not threatening.
Not cruel.
Just present.
Watching... listening.
A strange, mellow stillness wrapped the night in something sacred, something old.
You could feel it in your bones—something was different.
But before you could even pause to think, you suddenly found yourself tying the necklace around your neck, the cool stone pressing softly against the main column of your throat as you fiddled with the string.
If Annie saw you doing this, she'd have you drawn and quartered.
You knew this—that you had no business to be possessing the stone in the first place—but something deep in your gut seemed to be telling your head that you simply didn't care.
It was as if something had taken hold of you, moving your limbs as if they were all their own.
You were bewitched.
Enthralled.
Completely unaware as to what you were doing until the knot was tight, and the stone was laid gently at the junction at your neck and chest.
And in that breath, that hush between your heartbeats... it happened.
One moment, you feet were planted firmly in familiar soil, and the next, the world snapped loose from its spine.
The air in your lungs folded in on itself with a soundless gasp, and the earth tilted, spun, and vanished.
Life as you knew it unraveled beneath your feet, your stomach lurching as the ground gave way and the wind screamed past your ears.
Your hair whipped around your face, your limbs flailing against nothing, and light seeming to shine and disappear behind your eyes; fields, shadows, stars—gone.
There was no color, no sky, just motion—raw and relentless.
Then suddenly, sound returned all at once, and the roar of wind became the crash of water.
You hit the pond with a slap, sharp as a hand across the face.
The cold stole your air before you could scream, water closing over your head and swallowing you whole.
You twisted, kicked, rose, and gasped.
The surface broke like glass around you, and the world came back in painful pieces—too dark, too quiet.
Your ears rang.
Your eyes burned.
Your chest ached as you dragged in heavy, coughing breaths.
The pondwater clung to your tongue—green and bitter—as you floundered toward the shore, heart rattling within your ribs.
When you reached the muddy bank and crawled onto it, palm sinking into the wet earth, the ground felt solid but unfamiliar.
Everything spun.
The trees were wrong.
The stars, rearranged.
The air emptier than before.
Or so you thought.
Soaked to the bone and utterly weak, you slowly turned to your right, only to find a wide-eyed white man, seemingly stunned to shock at the sight of you.
"Aingeal..." he exhaled, breathless, as if he could hardly believe what had just happened before his eyes.
Unable to hold yourself up anymore, you collapsed, hitting the rocky shore with a soft thud.
Unaware that you had fallen into a world far more distant than you thought...
Warnings: 18+, mostly fluff with a bit of a angst, oral
Summary
You're a barmaid at a tavern where Jamie Fraser shows up to with his entourage. While this men drown their sorrows in the drink, Jamie prefers to drown his sorrows in other endeavors.
It's a rowdy night at the bar, you're no stranger to nights like this, in fact you look forward to the heavy handed tips the men throw your way. Men splash ale on one another, women giggle and dance with each other, or in the arms of drunken men hoping to see the underside of their skirts. A few brawls break out but are quickly broken up by the owner and his son, Charles. Two level headed business men who refuse to partake in the drink, after spending most of their life in a tavern surrounded by babbling idiots. Just a typical night, you wouldn't have it any other way.
The height of the night is upon you and a group of four men walk in, one is quite small, one quite large, one a bit older, and one a redhead. They're clearly from around here, as the older one motions to a group and the table dispurses in an instant. Though they don't seem familiar to yourself, they're obviously recognized by the townsfolk. The tall red headed man, peers over towards the bar and eyes you, he does a double take as you're pouring two cups of ale and smiles devilishly in your direction.
Your eyes dart back and forth from the cups to the curious man, as you hand the ale to the women before you, when you notice him heading your way. Wiping your hands on your dress you smile and nod to him.
“What can I git ya, Mr..”
“Fraser, James Fraser.”
He extends his hand out and you shake it with a smile.
“What can I git ya, Mr.Faser?” You ask again.
“If you'd be so kind, a pale of your finest brew, for my lads.” He asks smiling.
“Of course,” you nod politely. “Four glasses?” You ask.
“Ah, pretty and astute.” He says.
“Pardon?” You say with a grin.
You load up a tray with cups and a pale of ale before him.
“It warms me to know my lands are not completely barren of bonny lasses like yeslef.” He winks, leaning against the bar.
“My lord!” You clatter the cups upon the tray, attempting to bow before the lord from behind the bar.
“Ay, no need to stand on ceremony for me, I am but a simple man, honored to be in the company of a beautiful woman…. It should be me who is bowing.”
He steps back and takes a slight bow before you. You feel your cheeks redden as a giggle erupts from within you as you clasp your hand over your chest.
“You're too kind, my lord. Please, enjoy the night and the spirits, on the house.” You reply gleefully.
“I appreciate it lass, although it will only be my men enjoying the drink tonight.”
You shoot him a puzzled look.
“While I appreciate your generosity, it is only the purest Scottish whisky I partake in these days.”
He winks devilishly at you before taking the tray in his hand and heading back over to the table with his men.
You wrack your brain thinking of where Charles and his father kept the good liquor. Normally the townsfolk couldn't dream of being able to afford a cup of pure Scottish whisky, nevermind get drunk off it. Thus, the owners kept a small stash of it in the back for occasions just as these.
You rush to the back of the alehouse and scan the dusty shelves lined with barrels of drink, mostly quickly brewed ale, what most of the townsfolk can afford. Peering in the darkened room, you spy two small glass bottles on the highest shelf. Peering around the room you spy a crate and hold your skirts up as you reach for the bottles. The crate beneath your foot lets out a large crack and you gasp gripping the dingy shelf tighter. It holds strong, as you retrieve the bottle and nestle it into the folds of your skirts while walking back out to the bar.
The lights and sounds hit you as you step from the darkness; the lord's eyes catching you and you smile. Peering around the room, you attempt to make your way back to the bar. You grab a whisky glass, dust it off and dry it before uncorking the bottle of whisky, its aroma fills your nose with delightful notes of amber and woods. You fill a glass and quickly slip the bottle away under the bar away from the patrons view. Placing the glass upon a tray amongst some other cups of ale, you make your way over to Lord Frasers table.
His men are loud in conversation and do little to acknowledge your presence. Lord Fraser grins wildly at you, and you return the smile as you place the glass of whisky in front of him. He peers down at the glass, doing another double take as his thick head of red locks tousle. You quickly disappear into the crowd before saying a word.
Behind the bar, Charles bustles about tending to patrons.
“Where have you been!?” He demands.
“I'm sorry, Charles, Lord Fraser and his men are seated over there and I thought it well to deliver a gift to his table.”
Charles slams the empty ale cups on the bar and peers around the bar.
“Ay, Lord Fraser you say?” He asks.
“Yes, he…he's right over there.” You say pointing in his direction.
The red headed lord looks over his shoulder seeing you point towards him and gives a faint wave. You smile and settle back on your feet, Charles sneering at your interaction with the lord.
“Ay, must go pay my respects I suppose.”
Charles bounds from behind The bar and barges his way through the crowded tavern. You pour drinks for the men in front of you, their eyes barely open with intoxication.
Charles approaches the lord and slaps him firmly on the shoulder. Lord Fraser stands and shakes Charles’ hand. Their conversation is unheard, but the Lord points toward you and smiles. He shows his whisky glass to Charles and you drop your gaze as you pour more ale cups for the customers approaching the bar.
Moments later Charles reappears behind the bar.
“Offering whiskey to the Lord was a good move, …he says he'll recommend the tavern to all who ask!”
You smile coyly as you wipe the clean glass in your hand.
“Ay, hurry and put that bottle back before a drunk sees it, and a brawl breaks out over it though, eh?”
You nod and secretly snatch the bottle of whiskey from under the bar, hiding it again in the folds of your skirts and hurry back down the darkened hallway towards the back of the alehouse.
You rush as you hear the roar of men and know you should hurry to return to the bar. In the darkened room you reach up, stepping to reach the highest shelf, when your full weight settels on the crate, a loud creak sounds from under your foot. You freeze, instantly remembering the uncertainty of the crate from earlier. The bottle is almost on the shelf as you carefully reach just a bit higher.
‘CRAAACK’
But its too late and you feel the crate give way. You shield your face with your arms as you prepare for the hard ground below you. You hear the smash of the whisky bottle but feel the padded landing of nothing compared to a hard floor. It takes you only a moment to realize you haven't hit the ground at all, but have fallen into the arms of… you peer up spying his vibrant blue eyes and shaggy red hair. Even in the dark, his features are flawless.
“My lord!” You gasp.
He eases you down on the ground and you stand close to him between the narrow shelves.
“Ay, are you alright lass?” He asks in a low gruff tone with a smirk.
“...I…Yes, thank you.. my Lord..” you say breathless, taken aback.
His hand reaches up and brushes your stray hairs from your face, gently tucking them behind your ear. Your breath catches in your throat at his touch. He's standing so close to you, holding your face in his hands.
“...My Lord..” you manage to squeeze out of your tight chest.
He brushes a finger over your lips.
“Shhh… Jamie, please call me Jamie.” He says with a smile.
You exhale quickly, your pulse quickens and your mind races, trying to comprehend what is happening.
“Tell me lass, would you do me the honors of allowing me…to…I would very much like to..to kiss you?”
You swallow hard, your core burning hearing his words. Your breath quickens yet again as you gasp slightly.
He searches for an answer in your eyes, cradling your face in his hands, his face slowly turns to terror.
“I'm…I'm so sorry lass, this was…”
“Yes!” You force yourself to speak quickly.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you. Slowly, he brushes his lips against yours. Gently caressing your jaw, he draws your face up towards his. Then harder he presses, his tongue gently grazing your mouth. He takes his time exploring your plump wet lips; softly grazing his teeth against them. Finally, he cocks his head, and his mouth devours yours. You moan into him, his hands gently gripping your neck lapping at your tongue.Your hands slide up under his coats and he quickly sheds them. His blunt finger tips trail down your neck, over your chest and pluck at the ties of your dress. He prys them from each intricate hole, as his mouth devours yours.
With the last lace your dress, your breast's spring free and he holds you firmly by the waist as he takes in full view of them before him. Your hips grind against his as you both stand gasping, wide eyed. His hand reaches to palm your breast, but pauses;
“…Would it be alright…; his hand shaking as he speaks. “..For me to touch you?..”
Your own hands creep along his large muscular torso, up to his collar where you carefully unbutton his shirt. Staring at his broad sculpted chest, you trail your fingers down his pecs, your fingers tracing the indents in his abs.
“…You may touch me…anywhere you please.” You reply shakily.
His rough hands squeeze your breasts, you take a sharp inhale. His fingers press into your soft sensitive skin, gently rubbing your nipples between his fingers as you moan.
His stomach covered with a thin layer of sweat as his chest huffs up and down, admiring you. You release him from your touch and reach behind your back to loosen the straps of your corset. It drops to the ground at your feet and the front of your blouse falls, exposing your skin to the cool damp air. His hands grip your hips, softly at first, then diggin his fingertips harder in your skin. He reaches down and lifts you by your ass up against the wall, pinning you as he buries his face within your breasts.
He kisses them softly, trailing his mouth down your stomach and back up, taking your nipples in his mouth and sucking eagerly at them. You gasp with pleasure, running your fingers through his thick head of hair. He grunts against your soft skin, his stubble rubbing you raw as he’s lapping, and sucking, and kissing the soft supple tits in his face.
You moan against him, panting breathlessly, before exploding with a sudden shout of pleasure. His teeth sink into the sensitive skin around your nipple, he pulls his head back taking it in his mouth again and sucks hard. It ignites a new sensation in your core, aching against him.
Suddenly, the door flings open, light rushing in shining perfectly upon the two of you, you gasp. Prying your faces from one another, he cranes his head and does his best to shelter you from the light peeking in.
“What in the bloody hell, is going on in here!?” Booms Charles voice.
Charles spies Jamie's piercing blue eyes staring back at him, seething with lust and anger..
“…My Lord, forgive me…” Charles stutters.
“Aye, close the door, this lass deserves proper privacy!” Jamie bellows back.
The door shuts abruptly and Jamie drops you to the ground gently.
“My..sincere apologies, lass..” he says breathlessly.
He kisses you hungrily again and you pull him against you, savoring his taste; the warmth of whisky, amber and wood, with the heat of lust and hunger. With his hands firmly on your waist, he prays himself from you and stares down longingly in your eyes.
“We…should probably get out of here..” he says in a huff.
“Jamie, no!” You plead, urgently. “You can’t, please!…don’t stop now!” You beg, pushing against him.
He grunts with your forcefulness, pinned between you and the wall, you stare up at him pleading with your eyes to him. He shoots you an apologetic look, eyeing the door.
“…Lass…” he says, stroking your hair softly.
You stand against one another still panting.
“Jamie!” You moan against his damp skin.
You pepper kisses across his chest, you are not about to let him leave, not now! Quickly, you decide to do something that would force him to stay. Something he couldn’t refuse to deny, nor could any man.
You peer down at his stomach, quivering a bit, eagerly undoing his belt and the front of his trousers. You pry them open, carefully grabbing his cock in your hand and pull it out from the layers of fabric. He groans at your touch, and you kneel down in front of him.
His cock; slowly growing stiffer and longer, in the grasp of your small warm hand. You feel the wetness slick and hot between your legs. Peering up with hunger in your eyes, you lick your lips and gently press his warm tip to your lips. You shoot your tongue out, wrapping his head in your warm mouth and peer back up at him.
“Shall we leave?…” You ask in a hushed voice.
“Christ lass, don’t stop now!” He cries, tilting his head back.
You wrap your wet lips around his pushing tip, swirling your tongue around him with a gentle tug. Your hand stroking him as you wetten his shaft with your mouth inch by inch. You have him right where you want him.
“…Don’t stop now!” He says again in a breathless moan. “ Christ, don’t ever stop!”
Reply only when you feel better,but i was just asking myself if you would write matchups? in general are there any things you don't write about? and what anime do you write about exactly? thank you very much in advance,sorry if I did any mistake but english it's not my native language.
What do i write about?
Hi anon!! Thank you so much for your understanding.
Regarding your first question:yes,I’d love to write matchups! As long as I’m familiar with the source material i’m definitely down for it.
A few things to keep in mind for now:
1)-Length: Since I'm just getting back into writing,i don't want to burn myself out immediately. To keep the spark alive,I’m not doing long one-shots for now...please stick to short ones,headcanons,or matchups.
2)-I'm willing to write about anything,but SFW only:I'm just not comfortable writing NSFW at the moment. If needed I could try writing for minor characters,provided that the reader is also portrayed as a minor in the story. Regarding age gaps I am okay with them only if the reader is portrayed as an adult (at least 18+). As I already said I'm willing to write about many tropes (i'm lowkey actually fascinated by the yandere concept,so I'm definitely open to writing that if you're interested) but you really can request anything!!
3)-How requests work:You can make a request, but if I don't think I'd enjoy to write it, I won't. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be able to do it, but unfortunately, if a topic doesn't appeal to me enough, I just won't be able to write it.
I’m in a lot of fandoms,but these are the ones I’m most comfortable writing for:
⚔️GLADIATOR 1/2
(Commodus, Geta, Caracalla etc.)
🪨OUTLANDER
(Young Ian,Jamie,Fergus,Stephen Bonnet etc)
🏴☠️ONE PIECE
(Mainly Law,Kid,Killer,Sanji,Shanks,Shamrock,Doflamingo,Corazon,Cavendish,Sabo,Yamato but you can still try asking for others!)
warnings - p in v sex, reader is described with words like "soft" and "round" and is also fem, rag's status as a widower is an afterthought, i kept losing track of where i put his furs
also - i think oldegaard is funger's norway?? or something... :P oops
“Please- I’ll be quick, I swear! I’ll carry things! I know how to mix herbs, I can heal you! And I’ll be quiet, too. Just, oh, just please... please let me stay with you…!”
Your hands rattle against your chest, which heaves like you’re fresh from a churning dash through the entirety of the dungeons -- just to ask this man, a stranger, a simple question.
“Can I stay with you, please?”
Ragnvaldr stares down at you over the bridge of his nose, seafoam eyes lapping over the weaker stain of your frame in his vision. Such bold, shameless desperation plagues him. He starts to wonder how you’d made it to the courtyard. How many cramped corners you’d jammed yourself into, barely scraping out of the dungeon beasts’ sights. How you’ve held your mind together to form words and continue your slow crawl to freedom.
The reddened, raw stretch of skin over his right ribs stings suddenly to emphasize your point. Ragnvaldr was raised well enough to know which shrubbery to scrub into which wounds and which ones to avoid at all costs, but his knowledge was poultry compared to what these cells demanded.
At the downwards twitch of your knees, Ragnvaldr can feel an uncomfortableness to rival the ache of his seared flesh twinge through his beating chest. He takes you by the shoulder, grip loosening when you flinch under his hold. Ragnvaldr shakes his head, silky cardinal tresses dancing over his skin. His lips, cracked and fading in color, pin themselves back faintly to ease your shivering uncertainty.
“No need to beg on your knees,” Ragnvaldr unlatches from you completely in favor of cradling the slowly leaking slashes in his side, “You said you can heal?”
“Yes!” you eagerly respond, nodding, “Yes, let’s sit you down!”
Ragnvaldr flows under the bristle of your fingertips, fur armor quickly coming off. His uncovered back was against the chilled stone highwall; lower body stretched out against the grass bed. Your hands move in smoother, more assured strides as you single out the most useful of your colored leaves.
“Can I…?”
“Ja, anything you need.”
Ragnvaldr’s eyes, you notice, have softened in how they watch over your work. The flutter of his lashes now matches the tenderness of their color. A near-missed swipe from a serrated weapon -- none like you’ve seen -- decorates the majority of his right side under his arm. Angry red lines string over the pink flesh. You press a careful hand into the surrounding area, testing the firmness of his body for soft spots. For broken bones. He allows it, despite the stark difference in strength and the fact he could probably crush your skull with one palm -- he allows your hands to roam.
The bag you pull from is ratty and he thinks the deep brown hue may be more from staining than original dyes, but he says nothing. You first pull out a thick book with yellowed pages between faded, peeling covers. Then, four blue herb sprigs and two glass vials -- the stretch and twist of your bones and ligaments beneath soft, unbruised skin is hypnotizing to Ragnvaldr. You crush the sprigs with a single vial before hurriedly separating the remains between the two vials and combining two blue vials into one.
“I don’t think it’s infected,” you murmur, clogging the vial with a cork. A lighter shade of blue now shimmers beneath the glass, darker shreds of herb cling inside the abandoned second vial.
Ragnvaldr shakes his head, “Nej. I’d have mentioned it.”
“Ah, right,” you cup a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as if you’re offstruck by your own words, “I didn’t mean- of course, you- I mean… I’m sorry,” you bashfully reopen the cerulean bottle and hold it up towards the man’s face, “I didn’t mean to suggest anything…”
A vicious anxiety continues to course through your chest, no matter how pliant Ragnvaldr has made himself to show his trust for your care. You’re visibly hyper-aware of how simply he could end your life. Something about the nature of this makes him nauseous.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Ragnvaldr speaks softer than before, his voice a deep, gentle purr through the broad expanse of his chest. Tenderly, he swipes the open vial from your palm, the warmth from his skin washing over the cold nips of your own, “Thank you.”
Silently, you nod, wasting seconds to watch his adam’s apple bob thickly with each swallow before you pull loose the cloth you’ve collected through ransacked rooms. The strips coil around themselves by your kneeling legs.
“Can I start wrapping it?”
“Ja.”
“This might be…” you flounder under his eyes, instead stringing up the cloth in your hands and leaning over Ragnvaldr’s bigger frame. Invasive.
Ragnvaldr contemplates, for the second time, how you’d skipped past guards and tentacled flesh beasts and dogs. Even the impish, frail, winged creatures seem capable of knocking your terrorized self off your steady. Then, he asks himself why he’s taken you in. Oldegaard groomed strong warriors, and he had always taken pride in that. He was raised with scorching blood and willing hands, you were not.
But you remind him of the blacksmith’s girl. A sweet thing -- also unfamiliar with the fighter’s path. He prays she was killed quickly rather than being made to suffer.
Perhaps he can apologize to her and the rest of his gutted homeland by escorting you back out once he’s taken revenge.
“How did you get this?” your voice lulls Ragnvaldr from his own head, he looks up from your binding hands to your soft face, “Can I ask that? How were you injured?”
“A man with the head of a crow,” Ragnvaldr admits this to you with the ease he would his name, “A mace for an arm,” he gestures down the length of his side, “He’s much faster than I am.”
“I’m glad you got out,” you finish tucking the tattered end of your cloth spiral into the rest of the sprawl. You are suddenly afraid of being misconstrued, “I’m glad this dungeon couldn’t claim another soul.”
Ragnvaldr thinks you are as kind as the blacksmith’s girl, but you must have resilience to survive this far. More guts and nerve, and even teeth. They may be loose and accustomed to chewy, lavish fat, but you most certainly have teeth.
He wants to see them.
“I feel the same.”
You smile, bigger than he had earlier. The thin shadows and dimples highlighted in your face remind him of when he was younger, with the liberty to stare up at full moons. Absorbing and beautiful with radiance to shine over shadowed forests and into black night seas. He wants to return to there. Even in the cruel winters when he was faced with the opened chests and severed limbs of his deceased comrades. Even then, when he had to eat or be eaten, things were simpler compared to now.
“I think you should rest,” you frown immediately after speaking, “To avoid agitating the wound with the cloth… it isn’t very clean and I don’t have enough green herbs to keep infections at bay for long.”
Ragnvaldr tenses, but it’s not as nerve-wracking as it would’ve been mere moments ago. He clenches his fists and gently skims his knuckles down the pseudo-bandages, when it stuns him momentarily, he nods.
“We can’t stay out here, then.”
“There are rooms in the dungeon’s first level.”
“For torture?”
Dread fills you, that he may consider your suggestion foolish and ultimately dump you off to a guard, but then you see the lopsidedness of his grin. He’s messing with you.
“Well, yes,” you huff, coming to a stand and holding out both hands to assist him up, “but our options are limited.”
Ragnvaldr stubbornly stands on his own, pushing off the tower wall behind him and stumbling ahead of you towards the entry hall.
And with just as much defiance, you jam yourself under one of his arms before you can properly think out the action. Your desire to be helpful and needed by the strongman outweighs your politeness; not wanting to be abandoned with your back turned. Ragnvaldr jolts over you, but relents and leans the more unstable part of his weight against you. The trek is difficult, but you both manage. You feel less afraid traversing back through the dank, dark halls than you did leaving them, and you are not ignorant to the fact it's because of Ragnvaldr hanging over you. Injured as he is, he’s still far more competitively capable than you.
Once you’ve properly settled into a room and jammed the door shut, Ragnvaldr slips onto the sole creaky bed. His eyes close, exhaling noisily through his nose.
The bed’s frame is caked in dried, blackening blood and sits opposite a bucket full of murky sludge; a crinkly film drying over the surface. Pressed far into the side of the room is a table with glinting blades scattered across the stained wood. You can’t define what most of the tools are, but you can identify the skinning knife teetering by the closest edge of the table.
Aside from that are the typical smears of carmine blood over cobblestone: people before you and someday people after you. You can only pray now to the old Gods that it won’t be your own blood to join the pool.
For that, for your safe passage through the dungeons, you need to ensure your new party doesn’t fall to infection or blood loss.
“I’ll check you over tomorrow morning,” you tangle your fingers together, switching the weight between your feet, “Maybe tonight if it’s noticeably hurting.”
Ragnvaldr stares over at you again before patting the bed.
You heed the silent command, dragging along the worn bag you pulled from a barrel in the basement.
“What brought you here?” you wonder quietly, looking over at the man. He monopolizes the bedspace, spread wide over the mattress without even intending to.
His eyes drift up to the ceiling before finding your dutiful hands again, he follows the movements as they dig through your items. Taking stock of what you have, mourning the losses, and fretting over what you need. The blacksmith’s girl didn’t have hands as mystifying as you.
“I am here to find a relic that a certain person took from my people. This man is imprisoned somewhere deep down below,” Ragnvaldr is not so foolish as to believe his home’s pillaging is either undeserved or unbefitting for his soul to bear. He’s done the same, and the parasite from Vinland still burns a hole in his pocket. Even so, his human heart persists, “When I found them- I was one of only a few survivors.”
“Oh,” you pause your inventory search to very delicately press a hand to his shoulder and pat sympathetically, “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
He wonders what someone with as soft hands and face as you would think of such a declaration. If the teeth you have can chew through the toughness of his words. You pull back, but much slower than he was expecting, and return to sorting through your bag.
Much to Ragnvaldr’s surprise, you smile, “Then I’ll make sure you get there in one piece.”
You swallow his ominous message without pause.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah, a friend of mine…” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, fingers caught at the bottom of your bag with a thin slip of paper, “She’s pregnant and the man promising to wed her came for a job to set them up for life. He’s been gone for a while.”
“A friend would send you here? Into this evil?”
“She never said she wanted me to come here,” you shrivel into yourself, settling your bag against the bedpost leg, “I don’t know what compelled me… I really- “ your hands fist the torn, blood-stained sheets, “I was an idiot to think I could’ve done any good here.”
Ragnvaldr sits up, laying his calloused palm over yours, “The man you’re looking for. What’s his name?”
“Cahara. Cahara of the South.”
The man nods, auburn strands hanging with the motion, “And I’ll make sure you find him for your friend.”
“Thank you,” you notice the way he moves further to the side, a new gap on the mattress for your body to slot beside him, “Thank you, Ragnvaldr.”
He doesn’t think he’s heard someone outside the North say his name with such care.
You lay beside Ragnvaldr and revel in how close the two of you are. Safety and comfort buzzing in the lack of space.
He’s big. And warm. Like the sun.
You missed the sun.
…
Upon rising from slumber, you see that Ragnvaldr is still in unguarded rest. His bare chest rises and falls in soothed repetitive swoops, and his soft hair rains over the flat pillow beneath him. Prepared to slide off the mattress, you don’t register the arm fastening you to Ragnvaldr before you’re brushing against it. The arm tightens and you’re rendered useless.
You contemplate waking Ragnvaldr. Of squeezing yourself through the narrow hold. Even forcefully unwinding his muscle from your midsection.
You fall back asleep.
…
By the next time you’re awake, Ragnvaldr is too. You’ve sat him up against the scratched, chipped headboard and are undressing his wound. Green herb sprigs sit at the ready by your right knee in case pus is clinging to the cloth and oozing from open shreds. Thankfully, nothing of the sort awaits.
“Good!” you chirp, and Ragnvaldr remembers a full moon hanging over the spindly, leafless trees in the harsh falls of his youth, “There’s still some scratching, probably scarring later… but no infection! And it’s not inflamed or red.”
“We should continue our way, then.”
“Oh.”
Ragnvaldr laughs suddenly, from the hull of his chest, and only stops when the skin over his ribs pulls uncomfortably, “You want to stay here?”
“It’s been nicer than out there… We could stay in here. Away from the darkness.”
It has been nicer. The dungeons of Fear and Hunger are no place for domesticity, but anything is fair in a locked room. In a strange way, you wish you could stay with the beautiful man from Oldegaard.
His hair brushes past his shoulders and even though he is so much larger than you (you fear that he may even be able to kill a guard on his own), he is nicer than most men you’ve met in your life. Especially where you live in the seedier underbelly of Rondon -- men with spines are not uncommon, but men with spines and hearts are. Cahara was a welcomed gem in the coal mines of home.
And Ragnvaldr, you fear, might be your prettiest diamond.
He gazes upon you fondly. Seafoam you want to drink up. Or drown in. You haven’t decided yet. He cups your round cheeks and smooths back the stray hairs slicked to your face.
“Maanejente,” he coos beneath his breath, the harsh pads of his thumbs glide over the plain of your face and down your neck, working into the knotted meat of your shoulders, “Maanejente… nothing will hurt you. Not with me here,” he wants to see your teeth in that pretty smile from last night, “You have sugar in your heart, has anyone told you that?” you bare your teeth in a grin and he feels more successful than after any battle, “We’ll press on later.”
You nod under his calm massaging, eyes drifting to the fiery lines over his right side, “I don’t have anything to make the wounds close.”
“I don’t expect anything more,” he soothes, studying you kindly. Oldegaard had such a wide, unhindered view of the skies, when he was a boy he would stare into the moon’s craters. He’d compare them from night to night and dream about a day when he would defeat a beast so great, he’d be rewarded. The thick trees of Vinushka Himself would lift Ragnvaldr high into the sky and he’d be able to study the deep caverns up close, “You’ve healed me plenty to keep fighting.”
He became a man and forgot those dreams in favor of providing for himself and his wife and their child.
But he remembers himself in his purest form and finds that he doesn’t want to part with you after taking revenge against the foolhardy Le’Garde. If you asked, he would stop fighting after that, or he could become the God of Ultra-Violence. Whichever way you please, he’ll bend.
“Maanejente, we should go.”
You move swiftly, exhaling sharply with a curt nod, “Right!” you stow away the unused green herbs, “Right, we’ll go.”
“The job your friend had taken, what was his work here?” Ragnvaldr watches you move. Your sureness and determination sway him further.
“He had to find a man,” you bury yourself into the shadow of Ragnvaldr as he unsticks the room lock, “I’m not sure of the name.”
“An important man, though,” Ragnvaldr is embarrassed how his first thought is what you’ll do if he kills the man your friend is meant to rescue, “Must be.”
You realize what he means, eyes widening, “No! It… Well… It could be…”
Ragnvaldr’s warm gaze melts into the floor tiles as he guides you through the dim hallways. Prison guards moan and gurgle in the distance and the sound used to freeze you in your spot -- it now feels like the squeaks of mice with the Northern man in front of you.
“I’m sure if he knew,” you brace, “he wouldn’t get in your way.”
Ragnvaldr pushes through to the courtyard, unveiling rows of hanged men naked and baking in the open air. Despite the fact this is, in fact, open air, the scent of death continues to cling along each blade of grass. A mist clogs your vision.
Bared skin wafting more warmth than the exposed sun, Ragnvaldr looks down at you as you clutch your measly bag. Your expression is pinched like you’ve somehow stabbed him in the back. His red hair burns like gold embers in the bathing light.
“You would let me kill the man, then?”
“He hurt you,” you answer simply. A way so unbridled by dark and evil, Ragnvaldr once again cannot comprehend your survival past the entrance guard dogs.
You discuss a stranger’s death with the comfort you would which color you prefer for robes. You have teeth unsharpened by true terror. Ragnvaldr should get you free of these walls soon.
“Sugar for a heart,” he muses.
The two of you duck under an archway and find a womanly figure in the mist. Two oblong points jut out from her skull, and the closer you get the more defined her shapes become. Firstly, is that she’s naked (Ragnvaldr chuckles when you gasp and clench your eyes shut); second is that her horned points are ears on a mask. Her voice drips like honey from behind the bunny mask,
"Welcome to the meadows, o' travelers,” she shifts closer to the wood post behind her, your eyes slicing sharply away from the sway of her breasts, “Let us ease your suffering…” your stare dawdles up over the contemplative face of Ragnvaldr, then to his injured side, “The first one is free."
“Mending of flesh,” you mutter, creeping further into Ragnvaldr’s coziness, “Sylvian will heal you, if you…”
Ragnvaldr is struck by the opportunity, wringing his hand through yours and stringing you into the scene. The expressions you can make out from under the eggshell masks are highly varied -- from twisted agony to buttery bliss to far-off stares and brainless drooling. Some bodies are limp, unmistakable from corpses aside from occasional jolts and twitches of their hips. Other bodies are more lively, rocking and humping in veracity. A man with dark hair stands in the middle, he waves the both of you over.
"Are you looking for partners?” you clutch Ragnvaldr’s hand tightly and pointedly ignore his exposed groin, and he squeezes back. The man giggles quietly beneath his mask before holding out two more, “Just take off your clothes and put on these masks."
“Come, mannejente,” Ragnvaldr pulls you away from the man, a previously unfamiliar thrumming working hot blood through his entire body. He works off his furs quickly and lifts your bag from your shoulders to lay it down, “Would you be my partner?” he smiles softly, “I’m not sure of these other people.”
His utterance curls inside you like a full meal. The thought alone makes your mouth water. He’s got meat on his bones and you want to sink your teeth into him. If he were to sleep with anyone else in this garden, you can already tell the sight would make you physically sick. You hope that he’d feel the same.
“Right,” but the dungeons are not a place for his affection for you, and even though you know you’re not made for this world -- you don’t want to make him lose sight of his mission, “Everyone else is just strange.”
“Not you,” Ragnvaldr’s hands find your shoulders again -- working slightly under the hem of your lackluster cloth shirt, “Not you.”
Ragnvaldr is big and warm like the sun. More like the sun than what hangs in the sky above. The sun you used to run under as a small girl before the crushing weight of responsibility ran you tired and nerve-sprung. You miss those days. Somehow, even though he’s directly sifting off your clothes, you even miss Ragnvaldr.
Somehow, you need him closer.
And closer you pull Ragnvaldr, right by the furs draped over his shoulder; unsurely brushing your hands under the thick material. Ragnvaldr flows under your call, shrugging off the weight of his furs as he frees you of your own clothing. Little mind is paid to either you or Ragnvaldr by the other erratic bodies, but still, their presence is off-putting. In a terrible nightmare, you could see these people being broken from their overstimulation as soon as Ragnvaldr is tucked inside you. Then their eyes would wander -- would they judge you? A newcomer unwelcomed, perhaps?
Ragnvaldr gently kisses your cheek, sweeping you up between his arms and smoothly lying you on the plush grass. He kneels between your spread legs, angling the surrounding bodies out of your vision the most he could.
“Focus on me,” he simpers, all to your ears, “Sweet girl… snill maanejente...”
You never studied the tongue of the North, figuring that it would never come into play in the West, but you could listen to Ragnvaldr ramble to himself in his mother tongue all day. His hands slide over your sides, molding into the bend of your waist before snatching you up by the hips and perching you over his bent knees.
“I- “ wind catches in your throat, hands balling on the ground, “I’ve never laid with a man before…”
Ragnvaldr nods, leaning over you with his broader form to kiss you again. On the lips this time. He leaves with a soft, chaste peck before pursing his lips and letting spit pool in his mouth and laving your cunt with the saliva. He promises to be patient while slicking a single finger inside you.
The stretch is not entirely unpleasant, a faint pinch.
“Relax for me, sweet girl,” Ragnvaldr stares down at his hand slowly pressing into the apex of your thighs, “Take a deep breath and relax. Let me take care of you, yes?”
Ragnvaldr hikes one of your thighs to his waist, continuing to fingerfuck you until you’re gasping his name. His spit is joined by your natural wetness mixing along his thick middle finger, slippery and messy: he coils a second finger into you, carefully stretching your hole. Your other thigh joins at his waist of your own volition, jerking your leg into him in the throes of bubbling pleasure.
The warmth of Ragnvaldr’s body swaddles you, the meat of his palm grinding against your clit and sending a spiral of heat down your spine. Heating your chilled blood and raging all the way into your face.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, both hands squeezing around Ragnvaldr’s wrist as you cant your hips into his hand.
Noticing your earnest efforts to meet his fingering halfway, Ragnvaldr’s spare hand cups the flesh of your ass and pulls you higher over his lap, “Eager, maanejente?”
“Oh, please, Ragnvaldr!” you whimper, jerking onto his fingers. This begging he could get used to, “Please, please, I need you to- !” unfortunately for him, you stop that plea short, “I need you!”
“Beautiful voice for such greed,” he shadows over you, kissing and sucking the column of your throat as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock. The enveloping heat of your cunt sucks him in as though you’re starved, tightly he grasps your hips and restrains the urge to give in and press your pelvis flush to his. He may leave violet imprints, but he knows he will soothe them later so the concern is quickly pushed aside, “My sweet girl is greedy,” he whines at the squeeze around his dick, “And so lovely when I’m inside her. So pretty, aren’t you?”
Your arms loop around his neck, nails puncturing into the skin of his bare back. Heat waves through your palms and through your arms -- all down your chest and into your churning gut. Most of all, however, the heat is buzzing where the both of you are connected. His hips slotted against yours.
“Pretty when you’re working,” he lifts you from his cock before thrusting in again, building in speed until his hips are pistoning into you in smooth, fluid strokes, “Pretty when you’re fucked,” his thumb finds your soaked clit and circles it, just to pinch out as many of your whines as he can, “Pretty - hah! - pretty maanejente.”
Ragnvaldr is big and broiling hot and you don’t know if you can stand to be apart from him after this. Dungeons be damned, damned as your souls.
His cock spears each sweet spot nestled inside you: thick and full. And messy. So wet you can feel your juices webbing between where his hips meet your thighs on every pull-back.
The arm not stimulating your button of nerves rolls under you and up to the back of your neck. He secures you in his hold, pressure on the sides of your throat though not suffocating, so he can push even further inside you. Ragnvaldr kisses up from your collarbones to your jaw and finally the corner of your mouth before he huffs into your mewling lips. Your thighs tighten around him as the steady warmth of ecstasy comes to a boil.
Ragnvaldr’s tongue dips into your mouth, desperate to taste your own tongue. Try as he may to keep quiet in favor of your moans, the throaty, raw groans and grunts from his chest never cease. The sounds make you wail louder into his gaping maw as your cunt cinches around Ragnvaldr.
When he was a boy, he used to dream of being lifted by swirly branches until he could scrape the moon with his fingertips. He imagines the feeling of you cumming with him is the same, inseparable euphorias digging up from his gut and swallowing the rest of his body whole. Your teeth latched into his neck, and he is unwilling to be released.
In darkness, he finds the moon. And for now, he doesn’t need to consider how foolish it is to trap a celestial body beneath him when he’s here for Le’Garde’s bastard head. In darkness, he’s illuminated by the powdery shine he senselessly clings to.
In the same way, you bathe in a sun that feels otherwise unattainable. Large and unburdened, Ragnvaldr warms your chills with ease under a sun less desirable than his company. A muggy, clouded sun -- wholly unappealing compared to the man above you.
☆ day twenty-four: murtagh fitzgibbons ☆
— outlander murtagh fitzgibbons fraser x gn!reader with the following prompt: You would never see it, for when you looked his way, he always turned his gaze. But in the moments before, when you were distracted, he believed that you hung the very stars in the sky—he believed you were the reason the birds sung in the morning, that the tide found its way to the shore.
w/c: 883 words
a/n: i lowkey wrote this prompt out of thin air and pinned it to murtagh immediately. i love him, your honor. p.s., mentions god if that makes you uncomfortable
click here for the original event post.
MASTERLIST
Murtagh was a rich man—not with money or good fortune, but because he was graced with your presence. Many a time, his past snuck up to haunt him, a reminder that he once held the world in the palm of his hand and lost it all in an instant. He did not talk about it, either. But now, as he lived his life regardless of what happened in his younger years, he had you. That alone was enough for him to believe that his fate was in the hands of some otherworldly being. Perhaps the fae saw his efforts and decided to reward him. Maybe God finally chose to listen to his half-hearted prayers and whispered promises.
You did not know this. You knew little of Murtagh's past, only knowing him for his present and the way in which he cared for his nephew and those he considered close—you, of course, being included in that mess. Other than that? You did not know how he felt. You did not know what he truly felt. You would never see it, for when you looked his way, he always turned his gaze. But in the moments before, when you were distracted, he believed that you hung the very stars in the sky—he believed you were the reason the birds sung in the morning, that the tide found its way to the shore.
No. It was not belief alone. He knew it to be true. Your delicate hands strung the lights in which he knew so well, your soul ignited the fire that kept him warm on nights so dangerously cold.
You were the reason he lived, the reason he breathed when he was not keeping a long-held promise to his nephew.
Perhaps that's why now, he stood in front of you, eyes locked with yours as they never had. You saw every mark on his face—every wrinkle, every sun-kissed spot, every crease of a man who had lived a life of daring. He saw you just the same, though his recollection of your features had long since burned itself into the back of his mind.
He had fallen completely and utterly in love with you like an absolute fool, and yet, he did not regret a moment of it.
His tongue darted out to wet his tongue, words soon flowing in an uncharacteristic way—he really was trying. "I've to confess to ye," he said, hands balled into fists by his side. "It's somethin' I've held on for months now, an' I cannae hold it any longer."
Your eyes widened at his words, but you made no move to interrupt. You may not have known—the intrigue, however, was enough to keep you enraptured with the rugged man before you. Ultimately, whatever he confessed to you now, you would accept it in stride. You were certain that there were parts of him that were like your own in that you cared for him. Deeply.
"I love ye," he said, voice quiet yet powerful in its own way. "I love ye, and there's no part of me that's ready to live without you." His hands relaxed by his side. For a man who stood proud before so many powerful man, he was a lost cause in front of you. "I cannae go another day without yet knowin', but I understand if there's no way you feel the same."
"What?" you balked, almost immediately speaking as soon as he finished. "What do you mean? Why would I not feel the same?"
"I never seem to catch your eye," he said, eyes twinkling with mirth. He always looked away on purpose, or pretended to be looking at something beyond you.
"Oh, Christ, Murtagh," you said, frowning deeply. "You never catch my eye because you're a stubborn man who refuses to be caught."
A small smile tugged at his lips. He tilted his head curiously as he watched, unable to stop himself from such a childish, mundane act. "For what it's worth, I cannae say I've ever spent a day without thinkin' of ye."
That familiar burn of embarrassment—or, well, your nerves—began to bubble in the pit of your chest, a tell-tale sign that he was getting to you with merely his words. You cleared your throat, glancing around. No one was watching, but it would not last that way forever.
"Should we... should we go some other place?" you asked softly. "You know. Speak of this without any prying ears."
"Pryin' ears? You care so much, hm?"
"No," you quickly said. "No, no, I don't. I just... assumed you would rather talk in private instead of letting everyone know your business."
His smile did not disappear. He continued to look at you, assessing the situation, before he nodded and motioned with a hand for you to lead the way.
"After ye, then," he said. "Take me where this conversation will best be had."
You hung the stars—that much was true. What you'd soon learn was that Murtagh now knew you to paint the very sky itself, your soul a canvas marked by all you were and all you would ever be—now with the help of the rugged Scotsman, as long as you let him.
