Sam Heughan as James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser (continued)
The men then would not talk about their feelings,” he chuckles. “Life at that point was very dangerous and very short. He had to look out for himself, protect himself, and I think that initial [distance] is where it stems from.”
Aside from his relationship with Claire, Jamie’s actions in season one are largely driven by his interactions with Black Jack Randall. That first season outlines their violent history and then brings them together once more for a horrific dark passage of the soul in Wentworth Prison.
“I remember building up to it, thinking, Can I do this?” he says. “As an actor, you’re not even sure if you can go there or if it scares you to go there.”
It took about a week and a half to film the torture sequence. “With all the prosthetics and makeup involved, we were doing four hours of prosthetics in the morning before shooting,” he explains. “I’m coming in at four A.M., and then, obviously, a couple of hours at night to take it off. And then in between takes, I couldn’t just go off on my own to sit and relax. I would have to go into the makeup room and get all of the back prosthetics touched up. There’s no break in that. They were long, long days,” he remembers.
“In the evening, there was the process of taking off all the makeup and prosthetics and having a shower,” he recalls. “That was kind of the way to release it all and get rid of it. Everyone would leave the studio and I would stay there and do a quick workout in the gym, just to do something. I was staying in a little bed-and-breakfast right next door to the studio because we were in so early in the morning, so I was living this strange little life. I think that helped, living in this little bubble. It felt very much like being in this prison cell and that was my little world for that week and a half.
“In the real darkness of it, in between takes of some pretty heady stuff, I do remember [director] Anna Foerster coming up to me and saying, ‘Let it go now. Just go and relax. We got it.’ That was such a relief when it was over,” he says. Heughan says he’s grateful to get the opportunity to play such intense content.
“When you’re dealing with such big, emotional darkness, it’s great to be able to take yourself there. In TV, you don’t always get to do that, so it’s nice to be given the opportunity to really stretch yourself.”
Excerpt From: Tara Bennett & Diana Gabaldon. “The Making of Outlander: The Series.”
It was a quiet chaos that he needed. The need to descend
into complete madness to be there. I was a part of something good, he said. I
was the light, and he needed the dark to be the person he needed to be…
His muscles flexed, the strength shooting out of him like a
bullet. Another blow. Another shot to the bag. Another wretched feeling thrown
to the wall, beaten and cursed like his body felt. He struck again, this time
falling into the bag, begging for it to hit back. Fucking hit back, he cried, his
arms circling the black leather, his taped fingers clutching at the smooth
texture, nails digging in.
He dropped to his knees, elbows on his thighs as his clenched
fists cradled his temples. He had no more to give tonight, but too much taken
I wanted to go to him, then. Wanted him to beat me. Wanted
his bloody fists bruising my breasts, his fingers tight around my legs as he
begged forgiveness. I would give it to him, if it meant he would find peace.
I stayed away, though. Stayed back, in the shadows, far from
the anger of the fluorescent beacon of the gym. It wasn’t time, yet. He needed
to beat himself up. Needed to take the energy of the day and bring it to its
knees. But it always brought him down first. Each night he would tie a noose
around his anguish of the day, fully intent on watching it dance, choking slowly,
before swaying its stench of rotting flesh in the breeze as death finally stole
it away. Each night I watched him fail that goal, the anguish stealing his
body, sucking the life out of the man I love.
He would be back. Sam would come home. Sam would be proud that
he went where Jamie needed to go.
He asked me to stay away. We had spoken but a few times
during the day. As the morning glow of dawn would cross my bedroom floor, I
would stretch out the kinks of sleep in my bed. I’d turn to find a message
waiting for me on my phone. Each day, I’d snap the phone from my bedside table,
open the harsh light to my sleepy eyes, and read a simple message. He was okay.
Tired. Missing me. But okay. I would sigh and fall back into my bed. Our bed. I’d
run my hand along the empty space where he would lay, his smell still lingering
in the sheets.
As the day wore on, I’d get maybe a message near noon, then
nothing. The day would break him down. The scenes would open his chest, pluck
another piece of his soul, then bind him back together with a rusty needle and
wire for thread.
We had fought so much the week prior. He had told me his
plans and I had fought him. Promised him
that I would be there for him each evening, but he turned a cheek. I had to
watch him leave. I wasn’t allowed to visit him. After our scenes together with
Tobias, I had been broken. I hadn’t been strong enough to bear his pain, the
way he did mine. Sam had taken me aside afterward, held me. I should have been
I cinched my coat tighter as we left the gym. I kept a good
pace behind him, but stalked him like prey. If his stride hastened, mine did as
well. When he slowed, I all but stopped. Whether he sensed me, I do not know,
but each time he looked behind, the glow of his face breaking through the dark rain-filled
night, I ducked into the very shadows he had been living in.
I curled my side against the brick wall in the alley of the
B&B he had been staying at. Closing my eyes, I raised my face to the sky,
the rain washing away all sorrow I felt in his absence.
I hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t wanted any part of being in a
relationship. Scotland was supposed to be a break from that life. A chance to
focus solely on my career. But there I was, just a few short months ago, enjoying
a beautiful and rare sunny day with my co-star and suddenly he laughed at
something he had said. A story he had been telling me, that I cannot even
recall, and quite unexpectedly, my heart staggered, tripped, and fell squarely
into his strong hands.
He never gave it back.
I tucked Sam’s smile away, safe in my memory, for another
time, and stepped into the B&B. No one was out front, so I headed up the
stairs. I waited by his door, my heart racing, my thoughts flying from one
thought to the another.
Would he want me here? No. He asked me to stay away. Would
he throw me out? I don’t think he had the strength. Nor I, if asked, to walk
I tried the door, it wasn’t locked. I opened it, walking in
a few steps. Light from the street cast a ghostly shadow across the floor. He
hadn’t closed the drapes, and I could see his half-naked form curled on his
side, facing the door, on the bed. The dark linen sheets rested comfortably
across his hips.
His eyes were open to the door. His dark, quiet, stare
shocked me inside. He lay motionless, barely a rise of his chest could be seen.
I undressed before him, leaving my wet clothes to gather on the floor, while a
puddle quickly formed around them.
Sam moved his form back, giving me room on the bed. I sat near
his hip, watching his face. I remember taking his hand from its resting place,
my lips falling to the battered knuckles. I closed my eyes, bathing the cuts in
my comfort. I kissed each knuckle, rubbing it across my cheek, feeling his body
against mine. When I opened my eyes, I saw sadness in his.
Could he not leave Jamie be, tonight? Could he not guide
himself back to the light?
I took each finger in my mouth, sucking gently, like a
gluttoned newborn. The fever of starvation gone, or, at the very least, at bay,
and just savouring the warmth of another body. I watched his breathing increase
faintly. Just a hint of arousal in his breath, but I would set that aside for
When I finished with one hand, I took the other. Sam rolled
on his back, as I positioned myself fully on the bed. I made love to his
fingers. They were strong like him, but showed the signs of battle that needed
time to heal. Time to feel loved, before they were sent to fight another day.
With the bathing complete, I pulled both of his hands to my
lips, kissing each knuckle once more, before resting them on his chest.
My words spliced through the night, like a wolf cry in the
wood, piercing the soul. He remained quiet. Still. Not wholly understanding the
words for a moment. Slowly, he turned on his stomach, his bare back exposed to
the air. I tugged the sheets down a bit and straddled his thighs. I lowered my
naked body down to his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder-blade, the
hard muscles, like iron, under my skin.
I listened to his breathing, waiting for our hearts to join
in union. To beat the same beat. I could feel him settle beneath me, and I
raised myself, my fingers tracing his back, where marks from the prosthesis had
been. I gently laid a kiss along each muscle, across each crease of skin, and into
each valley along his back.
His body is mighty and he pushes it hard, as he does with
his mind. He craves knowledge and strives for excellence. I come alive when he’s
inside my body, like he’s passing me all this joy and child wonder through his
skin to mine. The most adult of acts, the most carnal of desires we express and
demand of each other, almost seem childlike with him. There’s an innocence to
his guilty pleasures.
And I feel alive when he’s in my mind. I can see him
standing on mountain tops, waving with a wide smile plastered across his face.
I can see the sadness in him when I leave him, and the proud father that beams
out of him when he holds Eddie. He’s in
damn near every thought I call my own and I often wonder if it’s the same for
him. But I know it is. And sometimes I hate it, and most times I love it until
it hurts. Until I feel terrified that it will leave someday.
My kisses turn from sweet and tender, to passionate, as I
crawl into his skin, needing his feel across my face. His taste is salty under
my skin. Salt with a little mix of soap. I can’t quite smell him yet and I scrape
his back gently, with my nails, eager for his arousal to bring forth the heady
scent of him at his finest.
I try to push my sexual desires aside. I want to care for
him. But Sam stirs beneath me, and I raise myself, so he can roll over on his
back. His cock, hard and ready, rests against my ass. No. Not yet. I kiss his
chest, my tongue taking a languid stroll across his nipples and through his
chest hair. I feel his hands fall loosely across my back, tracing my skin, reminding
himself of the touch and feel of a woman. The touch and feel of a woman that
I lay my body down, his cock trapped between us, the wetness
of my centre, coating it in liquid sex. He doesn’t enter me, but we rock slowly
together. I try to kiss him, but he turns away, burying his face in my hair. I
can feel his chest constrict as he weeps quietly into my hair. I stop my
movements, concern beating desire, but he holds my head in his hands, watching
“No,” he says quietly, “don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He releases my head, turning into my hair once more as I
begin to move in time with him. Our bodies are wet with desire. Anguish and
sorrow make the strangest of bedfellows with passion. I want him inside me, filling
me with all he has to give. But tonight, that is more then he can give, so I
just move with him.
Our bodies speed up, and I can feel my cheek wet with his
tears. I take his hand, kissing his bruised knuckles once more, while his other
hand clutches my back, holding onto me for dear life. When we climax, we do it
through kisses and tears, sadness and joy, our bodies soaked from our release
and the strive to get there. My name, my full name – Caitriona – falls from his
lips, but drowns in my hair, as we float back down into our bodies.
It’s quiet now. No sounds, but his soft breathing, sleep
dragging him under.
Sam slept in my arms that night, but his body never rested.
Even in sleep, his hands gripped me, fearing I would fall away.
I never will.
I can’t live without my heart. And he won’t give it back.
I wish you would write a fic with HOT NEW TEACHER CLINT BARTON. And yknow, some Clintasha too. BUT HOT TEACHER CLINT BARTON IS IMPORTANT. Tattoos would he gr8 too. Maybe a suit. Please and thanks.
I’ll do ya one better, Hot New PROFESSOR Clint Barton get in my life here we go.
“The Aristocracy in 18th century London. You got this, Barton.”
The door of the lecture hall opened. He clamped his mouth shut and looked up from his notes to see the first student - his honest to God first ever student - enter the room. She paused at the top of the stairs, brows drawing together, black leather bag clutched tightly in one hand.
“History 312?” he called, and tried to inject a little enthusiasm into his tone, to cover the nervous butterflies clenching his chest. The woman’s eyesbrows arched up at that, a wry little grin pulling her mouth up at one corner. “Come in. Sit anywhere. I won’t do attendance or assigned seats or whatever.”
She hesitated for a moment that seemed to stretch on indefinitely, long enough that he began to feel anxious that she was in the wrong place, this wasn’t his first student at all, maybe he wouldn’t have any students–.
She walked down the stairs and chose a seat right on the front row, placing her bag carefully on the seat beside her.
“Professor Barton,” Clint said, stepping forward and sticking out a hand to introduce himself. Were you supposed to introduce yourself? She probably didn’t give a shit. Was he being creepy? Super creepy, probably. He jerked his hand back, realizing too late that she’d been about to accept the gesture.
“Natasha,” she said with a slow grin, and tucked her hand back into her lap.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. Blowing it, Barton! “It’s uh…it’s my first class. You’re early.”
He went back to his notes, heat stinging his cheeks. He didn’t look at Natasha again, didn’t look up at all until the door opened once more and a tall guy stumbled in, looking a little lost. He looked to Clint and then at Natasha, sitting in the front row; she gave the kid a jaunty little wave and smile, and he took a seat in the back row.
Two students! The new kid even pulled a textbook from his backpack.
The lecture hall filled up, and Clint shuffled his notes on the podium. Were the tattoos peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down too much? Probably so. He didn’t want them to think he’d be an easy credit. He shrugged on his sportcoat and did up one button.
The clock at the back of the lecture hall read 9am, and he launched into his introduction. The kids actually paid attention, took notes, a couple even looked for a moment as if they’d interrupt, maybe to argue a point or ask for clarification, but they chickened out in the end.
No problem. He’d made sure to leave a transition in his notes, a good point to pause and regroup.
“Any questions?” he asked. Crickets. He felt his posture slump and tried to reign in the disappointment.
Natasha’s hand shot up. Maybe she had a question and maybe she was just taking pity on him, but he didn’t much care at this point. Relief swept through him and he gestured for her to go ahead.
“Could you tell me what day it is?” she asked.
“Tuesday,” he said. A hushed ripple of laughter swept across the room. Natasha smiled again, stood and stepped forward, stuck out her hand.
“Professor Romanoff. It’s Wednesday and you’re in my lecture hall.”
Chris Evans x Reader
Genre: fluff, angst
Request: Can i request a chris evans imagine where him and the reader are in a relationship and reader’s ex flirts w/ her and so chris got jealous and they get into a fight? You can choose how it ends :-) thank you bby 😘💜
A/N: so I know that it’s suuuper fuckin short but I just wanted to write without staying up all night.
The loud music filled the building, people were dancing dancing on each other left and right. This wasn’t exactly your scene but It was your friends birthday, so you and Chris dragged yourselves off your couch to celebrate. You had dolled up (since you were clubbing) wearing a tight burgundy coloured lace dress that went down to slightly above your knees paired with black wedges and a leather clutch. Chris wore a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of dark jeans, and damn he looked good. You make your way to the bar following behind Chris with his hand in yours. You see Y/F/N wish her a happy birthday then comes the first round of shots. Then the second and you move on to a rum and coke. A few drinks later Chris excuses himself to the bathroom so you decide to dance with your friend. You see Y/F/N look behind you and you instinctively turn around. Your eyes widen as you see Mark, the ex that broke your heart. He walks toward you through the sea of people “Y/N hey, can I buy you a drink?”
“No thanks, I have one”
“C'mon just let me buy you one.” As he says this he wraps an unwanted arm around your waist, you don’t know how to react. You try to shrug out of his grip but he has a hold on you. You give in, admitting to only talk to him and attempt to be civil. You sit at the bar sipping on your drink as he stares at you intensely. “How’ve you been?” He asks
“I’ve been good” you don’t say anything else
“It’s been a while”
“Oh c'mon, don’t be like that. I know we ended on a not so good note but that doesn’t mean we can’t try again.”
“Yeah that’s true. But having boyfriend does” you can see that he’s about to get angry but Chris came to the rescue. “Hey man, didn’t you hear her? She has a boyfriend”
“Oh? What are you gonna do about it pretty boy?”
“I’m going to ask you to leave Y/N alone”
“And I’m gonna stay here”
“Look, I said back off” Chris shoved Mark off his seat. This started something. Mark shot up “why don’t we take this outside?” And with that Chris said he’d be right back and walked out the door, you followed him trying to stop him. You ran out to see cameras flashing and people recording. “Chris no!” He threw a punch and hit Mark square in the face. Mark tried to throw a hit but thanks to Chris’s Cap training he dodged it, just to be able to punch Mark again. You didn’t know what to do, you felt frozen. Once Mark got up he successfully hit Chris in the face making him fall back “Chris!!” You run over to him. “Fuck off Mark! Just get out of here” you yell. “Fine then, you’re not worth it anyway” Mark mumbles, stumbling away. “Chris are you ok? C'mon get up, we have to get out of here” Chris stood up and you shielded him from the paparazzi and slowly growing crowd. You hailed a cab and ushered Chris in. After you settled you told the cabbie your address you pulled out your phone and texted Y/F/N saying that your sorry you had to leave so early.
When you get back to your apartment you kick your heels off. “Y/N I’m so sorry about that. I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you. Well, I didn’t like that he was talking to you in the first place”
“Chris I get it, you were jealous. But there was nothing to be jealous about. I was just talking to him because I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone if i didn’t. But did you really have to fight him? I mean all those people, the paparazzi, it’s gonna be everywhere tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Fuck I know” he puts his head down and let’s out and exasperated sigh.
“But hey. You were my hero. You saved me back there” you get Chris an ice pack. You hold it to the side of his face where a bruise is starting to form “You saved me” you said smirking, looking into his eyes. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips. “I love you Y/N”
“I love you too Chris. It’s just a drag about your face. It’s all bruised up. It was the money maker” you say in a teasing tone.
“You don’t think it’s hot?”
“Well I never said that” you say going on your tippy toes to attach your lips back to his. And let’s just say that you both forgot about Chris’s bruise that night.