ask verbena

anonymous asked:

Imagine the wedding night of Claire and Jamie in the AU fic in modern Glascow

Modern Glasgow AU

For a moment it seemed almost like any other day when they walked home together. But once they reached the landing and Jamie turned the key in the door and flipped the light switch – it hit her.

She was married. To Jamie. And now –

“Ach – Claire?” She turned to face him and watched him swallow, suddenly unsure. “Will ye – will ye wait here a bit? I willna be long.”

She nodded. He grabbed her hands, formally kissed her knuckles, and quickly disappeared behind the bedroom door.

Claire set down her purse and stepped out of her heels. They both needed the moment to breathe – to put some space between them, to collect their thoughts. Everything was about to change between them – for the better, she was sure of it. And even though she was experienced, this was Jamie. A man who clearly loved her with his whole heart, unconditionally. So her palms were clammy, her hands trembled slightly with nervousness. And excitement.

The door opened. Jamie stuck his head out. “Ready?” he asked softly, extending one hand. Before she knew her feet were moving, her hand was in his. He softly drew her inside and locked the door behind them.

He had turned down the quilt and lit three large candles on the bedside table. The flames bathed the room in a soft glow – just enough to see him, and to enjoy the way that the shadows played on his cheekbones.

“Is that verbena?” she asked softly, twining her fingers through his.

He moved closer and settled his forehead against hers. He breathed in deeply. “Aye. I remember it’s yer favorite. I – I want verra much to please ye, Claire.” His thumb traced her wedding ring, over and over.

“Shh. Just be still, Jamie. You do please me. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment they breathed each other in, calming each other. Enjoying this moment on the threshold to something new and exciting between them.

“Claire?” Jamie rasped after a while.

“Hmm?” She kissed the tip of his nose.

He swallowed. “Will ye – will ye do something for me?”

She pulled back slightly and met his eyes. “Of course. What is it?”

He licked his lips and moved quickly to pick up something from the end table. The blade glinted in the candlelight. Claire raised one eyebrow.

“It’s called a sgian dhu – a small knife. It’s a ceremonial part of the kilt nowadays, but traditionally in the Highlands it was a man’s most intimate weapon.” Jamie’s eyes focused on the blade. “We use it for a wedding tradition. It’s – it’s a bit pagan, and some priests dinna like doing it in a church. But it’s just you and me now, Claire, and I want – I need to do it.”

“Do what?”

He inhaled sharply. “Do ye trust me?”

“Yes – Jamie - what –”

“Hold out yer right hand, palm up. Please”

She did, and watched him flick the blade over the tender skin of his right wrist before making a shallow cut over her own wrist. Quickly he dropped the knife and, cradling her arm with his left hand, brought their wrists together.

“Jamie – ”

“Claire. This is a blood vow. This ties you to me, and me to you.”

Her breath quickened as she felt the blood slowly ooze between their wrists. The fingers of his left hand gripped her forearm, fingertips caressing softly.

“Do I – do I need to say anything?”

He nodded. “Repeat the words after me.” He spoke in Gaelic, and she tried her level best to repeat. Her eyes locked on his the whole time, the pure intensity in his gaze absolutely riveting.

And then suddenly it was over. He pulled away and she felt a rush of cool air on her wrist. And a slight tearing sensation – their blood had started to clot together.

Jamie produced a damp washcloth and gently held it to Claire’s wrist, dabbing at the blood that still welled. She wriggled her toes at the sensation and was pleased to feel his own bare feet against hers.

“Will you tell me what we just said, Jamie?”

“Aye,” he said after a long moment, focusing intently on her wrist. “Later. All ye need to know for now is that the words are – weel. Basic. Serious. Deep.”

She raised his wrist to her lips and reverently kissed his cut. Then her lips anointed every one of his fingers, followed by the well of his palm.

His breathing picked up sharply. “Claire,” he said, breathless. “Claire – I dinna know how to start. Ye need to – to show me what to do.”

She smiled widely and turned around, pushing her hair off the back of her neck. She almost jumped at the heat of his fingers on her nape gently removing the pearl necklace. Then he unzipped her dress, slowly and deliberately. He snaked his hands through the open back to wrap around her front and cup her belly, drawing her tight against his chest. She swallowed and slowly turned to face him.

She caressed his flaming cheeks. “I’m yours,” she whispered. “And you’re mine. Don’t hesitate. I want you, Jamie. I want this.”

Effortlessly she shrugged out of the dress and let it pool at her feet, so that she stood before him in only her underwear and bra.

Jamie, thunderstruck, reached out to touch her and quickly lowered his hands to his side, at a total loss for what to do.

So Claire flung her arms around his shoulders, edged up on her tiptoes, and kissed him hard. He bent to pick her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Don’t think. And don’t stop,” she murmured against his lips.

~~~~~

No, Claire. I canna – enough!”

Jamie threw one elbow over his eyes, laughing. Feebly he swatted his wife’s head away from his belly, but she rested her cheek against his navel, nuzzling into the coarse hairs.

“What? You’re twenty-three – you’re supposed to get it up all the time.”

He tangled his fingers in her hair, grinning like an idiot. “Aye, ye ken that weel now. But Claire – I dinna want it to break off. That wouldna make either of us happy.”

It was dawn. Two of the candles had long ago burned out, and the single remaining flame glowed brightly within its hollow of wax.

They had slept in fits and starts, neither willing to lose one moment together, neither believing that this experience, the depth of feeling for each other, could be real.

But it was real. So real that Jamie had to push away his wife’s attentions.

He hissed as her hand wrapped around him, caressing gently. “Ye’re going to chafe me, Claire,” he gasped, turning his face into the pillow in ecstasy.  

She smiled and released him, crawling up and lying on top of him, belly to belly. He opened his eyes dreamily.

“Am I awake? Are you truly here, with me?”

She kissed him long and slow and deep. He flipped them over and gently eased himself inside her. They gasped.

“What about the chafing?” she breathed against his lips.

He laughed, swallowing her moans. He held still inside her, not moving, feeling her pulse race.

After a long while he pulled away from her mouth to see tears glistening in her eyes. So much emotion between them now. Gently he kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, then her lips, still not moving inside her. She arched against him, gasping.

“Jamie –”

“Hush, mo nighean donn. How I love ye so. I’m right here.”

Slowly he withdrew, then pushed inside. Gradually he increased his pace, marveling at how her body roused to his, memorizing the thousands of emotions flitting across her face. So beautiful.

Then he gripped her hips and surged into her hard. She cried out. Again. And again. And again. He swallowed her whimpers, her moans, her screams.

And some time later, still joined, he nuzzled his nose with hers. She wound her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer.

“This is real, Jamie,” she whispered. “So real. If I’m dreaming, I hope I never, ever wake up.”

maybethings  asked:

Hawke, Fenris, herbs

He does not understand this fascination Hawke has with dirt.

Perhaps it is a Fereldan thing, he thinks in his more charitable moments, when she is charmingly tousled and her cheeks bright with sunlight. At other times, when she is streaked with dirt in every crevice and she insists on sliming sweat across his forehead, he is not so inclined to amusement. She is so easily entertained—

“Why?” he asks her, one afternoon when the sun is hot and the shadows hotter and she kneels in the middle of a dirty patch of earth in the shade of the yew tree behind her estate. He knows the heat well enough—even Kirkwall’s hottest days win nothing against Tevinter summers—but she is Fereldan and made for colder climes, and he knows she does not take this warmth well.

“Oh,” she says, sitting back on her heels, looking pensively at the trowel across one knee. “I don’t know. I mean, I know I could buy most of them well enough, or Orana could do this, but…” She looks up at him, purses her lips, looks further to the summer-blue sky. “My parents used to keep an herb garden in Lothering. My father was better at it than my mother, though they both spent hours in there, and sometimes when we’d have soup or stew and they’d bring in these plants from the yard just bursting with sunlight and smell and…I don’t know. I think of them. It makes me think of them.”

Fenris does not know how to answer that. He has no memories of herb gardens, no fond thoughts of a mother to bring this conversation to perspective. He has only perfectly-cooked meals seen only from a distance, gardens passed only in pursuit of another slave at his master’s command—

“Here,” Hawke says, and plucks some plant-blade or another from its stalk. “Smell this.”

He does. It smells of something—crisp, and sharp, and vaguely citrus, and all at once he remembers in the dimmest shadow of a flash a woman’s voice—

“Lemon verbena,” Hawke says, smiling a lopsided smile. “My mother used to keep little pots of it around the house. Bethany and I used to sneak leaves of it into our pillows at night.”

He remembers—

“I like this,” he says, the words drawing out of him slow and reluctant as wire through a forge, stronger all at once from the fire. Hawke watches him without speaking as he breaks the leaf in two, lifting one waxy piece to better smell the sharp scent bursting free. He cannot quite—but somehow, it seems right. He suggests, knowing the smirk it will provoke, “Plant more of this.”

He wakes three mornings later to a little pot of verbena on his windowsill instead, but he finds that an acceptable substitute.