jamie cross

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again - Jamie is hard-wired to love Claire. Just as Claire is hard-wired to heal and protect and cherish Jamie.


“When I was three-and-twenty, I didna understand how it was that to look at a woman could turn my bones to water, yet make me feel I could bend steel in my hands. When I was five-and- twenty, I didna understand how I could want both to cherish a woman and ravish her, all at once.”

“A woman?” I asked, and got what I wanted—the curl of his mouth and a glance that went through my heart.

“One woman,” he said. He took the hand I laid on his knee, and held it tightly, as though afraid I might snatch it back. “Just one,” he repeated, his voice husky.

– The Fiery Cross

happy birthday, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser!

“This is a morning my father never saw,” Jamie said, still so softly that I heard it as much through the walls of his chest, as with my ears. “The world and each day in it is a gift, mo chridhe—no matter what tomorrow may be.”  

  I sighed deeply and turned my head, to rest my cheek against his chest. He reached over gently and wiped my nose with a fold of his shirt.  

  “And as for taking stock,” he added practically, “I’ve all my teeth, none of my parts are missing, and my cock still stands up by itself in the morning. It could be worse.”

– The Fiery Cross

anonymous asked:

Dear Gotham. Could you kindly post the scene from "Fiery Cross" where Jamie&Claire make love by the hearth and Jamie reflects on his aging body, feeling a bit insecure about it? I ask because it's IMO one of the most beautiful scenes between the two of them, I only read it in translated book and I've not seen it reblogged anywhere.

Hi anon - oh, I agree this is just an absolutely gorgeous passage. Especially because it shows Jamie being so vulnerable with Claire - the only person with whom he can share these feelings. The only person who will truly understand those feelings, and cherish him all the more for that vulnerability:

“I dinna say it for pity,” he said. “But ye ken … now and then my bones ache a bit.” He didn’t look at me, but spread his crippled hand, turning it in the light, so the shadow of the crooked fingers made a spider on the wall.  

  Now and then. I kent, all right. I knew the limits of the body—and its miracles. I’d seen him sit down at the end of a day’s labor, exhaustion written in every line of his body. Seen him move slowly, stubborn against the protests of flesh and bone when he rose on cold mornings. I would be willing to bet that he had not lived a day since Culloden without pain, the physical damages of war aggravated by damp and harsh living. And I would also be willing to bet that he had never mentioned it to anyone. Until now.  

  “I know that,” I said softly, and touched the hand. The twisting scar that runneled his leg. The small depression in the flesh of his arm, legacy of a bullet.  

  “But not with you,” he said, and covered my hand where it lay on his arm. “D’ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms—my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.”  

  I sighed and laid my head in the curve of his shoulder. My thigh pressed his, the softness of my flesh a mold to his harder form.  

   “Mine, too.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Jamie’s voice spoke in English, suddenly louder, and Mr. Lillywhite started. Father Kenneth murmured interrogatively. 

“I have been guilty of the sins of lust and impurity, both in thought and in my flesh,” Jamie announced—with what I thought rather more volume than was quite discreet. 

“Oh, to be sure,” said Father Kenneth, suddenly louder too. He sounded interested. “Now, these sins of impurity—what form, precisely, did they take, my son, and upon how many occasions?” 

“Aye, well. I’ve looked upon women with lust, to be starting with. How many occasions—oh, make it a hundred, at least, it’s been a time since I was last to confession. Did ye need to know which women, Father, or only what it was I thought of doing to them?” 

Mr. Lillywhite stiffened markedly. 

“I think we’ll not have time for the lot, Jamie dear,” said the priest. “But if ye were to tell me about one or two of these occasions, just so as I could be formin’ a notion as to the … er … severity of the offense …?” 

“Och, aye. Well, the worst was likely the time wi’ the butter churn.” 

“Butter churn? Ah … the sort with the handle pokin’ up?” Father Kenneth’s tone encompassed a sad compassion for the lewd possibilities suggested by this. 

“Oh, no, Father; it was a barrel churn. The sort that lies on its side, aye, with a wee handle to turn it? Well, it’s only that she was workin’ the churn with great vigor, and the laces of her bodice undone, so that her breasts wobbled to and fro, and the cloth clinging to her with the sweat of her work. Now, the churn was just the right height—and curved, aye?—so as make me think of bendin’ her across it and lifting her skirts, and—” 

My mouth opened involuntarily in shock. That was my bodice he was describing, my breasts, and my butter churn! To say nothing of my skirts. I remembered that particular occasion quite vividly, and if it had started with an impure thought, it certainly hadn’t stopped there.

-The Fiery Cross

anonymous asked:

Hello! I can't find a certain passage- it's either in "Fiery Cross" or "ABOSAA"- Jamie's pov where he muses what would have happened to him had Claire not came back from the future. And he concludes simply that he would have died. I found it very touching. Do you happen to remember which book and chapter it comes from?

Hi anon - it’s in The Fiery Cross, chapter 17 (“Watchfire”), and one of my all-time favorite passages in Jamie’s POV:

At first it had happened only when he took her, and only at the last. Then sooner and sooner, until her hand upon him was both invitation and completion, a surrender inevitable, offered and accepted. He had resisted now and then, only to be sure he could, suddenly fearful of the loss of himself. He had thought it a treacherous passion, like the one that swept a mob of men, linking them in mindless fury.  

  Now he trusted it was right, though. The Bible did say it, Thou shalt be one flesh, and What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.  

  He had survived such a sundering once; he could not stand it twice, and live…He was not afraid to die with her, by fire or any other way—only to live without her.

anonymous asked:

I may be making this up, so bear with me. I (possibly falsely) remember there is a part in on the books (no idea which one, they are all scrambled together in my mind) where Claire is sleeping in a room with a bunch of other women and she imagines someone touching her, but then Jamie shows up and the whole near-ravishing-on-the-staircase scene happens. WHO WAS TOUCHING HER IN THE ROOM? Do we ever find that out??? Also am I nuts? I could swear this happened.

You’re definitely not nuts. It did happen.

We never find out in the text of the books who it was, because when a dark figure of a man makes sexual advances on Claire it’s clearly better to leave it ambiguous. Because hey, it could be her husband or it could be someone else! Who cares! Not important! It’s not like these books have enough issues with consent already. *eye roll of epic proportions*

It turns out, though, that Diana did say the man was Jamie. She said it on CompuServe. Because clearly everyone who reads the books goes to that archaic corner of the internet to seek out the details of the story the author couldn’t be bothered to put into the text because who needs details?! Plot holes are cool! Anyone who says otherwise is a nitpicker! Down with Death of the Author! (Have I mentioned lately that I can’t stand Diana? Because I can’t stand Diana.)

Anywho…

I’ll throw that scene under the cut and then link to the part on the stairs and in the barn.

Keep reading

“Ah … Sassenach?” he said.  

  “What is it?” I asked, surprised.  

  He ducked his head, uncharacteristically shy.  

  “I dinna ken whether I’ve done wrong or no, Sassenach, but if I have, I must ask your forgiveness.”  

  “Of course,” I said, a little uncertainly. What was I forgiving him for? Probably not adultery, but it could be just about anything else, up to and including assault, arson, highway robbery, and blasphemy.

– The Fiery Cross

protection

“As to that, sir, I swore an oath before the altar of God to protect this woman. And if you’re tellin’ me that ye consider your own authority to be greater than that of the Almighty, then I must inform ye that I’m no of that opinion, myself.”

– Outlander, chapter 25 “Thou Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live”


“It is dangerous for her here, without me.” Fraser’s eyes had momentarily lost their sharp focus; the lines of his face relaxed in exhaustion. His eyes half-closed and he sagged back. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened again.

“She is an Old One,” he said. “They will kill her, if they know.”

– The Fiery Cross


“Ye’ll take my wife over my dead body,” he said, raising his powerful voice enough to be heard across the clearing. I was rather afraid they would. He’d been right—so far—about Hiram not countenancing lynching, but it was clear that public opinion was not in our favor.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

– A Breath of Snow and Ashes

Flood my Mornings: Service

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment:  Thanks (Thanksgiving and Bree’s Birthday)

Late November, 1950

[CEBF]

“Bath time, little smudge!”

Bree squealed and, like a shot, went barreling toward the bathroom. Turning two years old seemed to have turned on a tap of perpetual energy from on high: energy to throw tantrums, energy to hate going to bed, energy to form VERY strong opinions about what she did and did not plan to eat, and so on, and so forth for all time. 

However, she had also decided she loved baths, and by the time I arrived at the tub myself, she was already standing on the bathmat, triumphantly nude and brimming with expectation with her toys in hand. I laughed and kissed the top of her head. “One minute, you goofy girl.” 

I poked my head briefly into the living room. “Do you want bath duty or bedtime duty tonight?”

“I’ll take bed, if it’s all the same to you, Sassenach,” Jamie said, looking up from the rolltop. “I’d like to get the rest of the bills paid and ready for tomorrow’s Post.”

“Fine by me,“ I said, taking the chance to stretch my back, already thinking of plopping into bed as soon as humanly possible. “Thank you for handling those, sweetheart.”

“’Course,” he said with feeling, rising and kissing my forehead. “How are ye feeling?” 

“Pretty well, at the moment,” I said, pleasantly surprised, now that I thought about it. “Like death, this morning, but I haven’t vomited once since lunch!” 

“Victory, indeed,” he grinned, kissing me, long and sweetly. 

MaMAAAA?” bellowed Bree, her voice bouncing ghoulishly around the bathroom walls. “Come’on do insee’pyder, please!”

“I’m being summoned,” I murmured against his lips. 

“Go,” he whispered. “Heaven forbid ‘insee’pyder’ have to wait.” 

“Oh,” I called when I was halfway back down the corridor, “I think the electric bill came today. It’s on the counter by the phone with the rest of today’s mail.”

“Thank you, mo ghraidh,” he called back. 

Tub filled, baby inserted, bubbles abundant, I knelt beside the tub and swirled my hands in the warm water. Bree beamed up at me, ready: “GO! Insee’pyder, Mama!”

Alright,” I said dramatically, reaching for the green plastic sandbox bucket and scooping up water as I sang: “Theeeeeeee ITS-Y-bit-sy spiiiiiider went UP the water spout ….”

I raised the bucket theatrically. “Down came the raaaaaain AND—”

The payload released on, “WASHED the spider out,” dousing Bree with warm, soapy water. 

Fizzy giggles emerged through the waterfall pouring down her scrunched-up face as I sang on. “Out came the suuuun and dried up all the rain, and the ITS-Y-bit-sy spiiiiider went UP the spout—?”

“—AGAIN!!!” Bree finished, knowing the drill and LOVING it.

We had just finished washing the shampoo-spider from her hair and ANOTHER rendition was demanded, when Jamie’s voice came from the doorway. “Sassenach?” 

“Yes, darling?” I said absently, reaching for the bar of soap Bree had just knocked into the water. 

“What is the ‘selective service?’”

My blood froze absolutely cold. I whirled on my knees to gape at him, praying that it was a newspaper clipping in his hand, or one of his library books, or—

But it was a letter bearing the words ‘Department of Defense’ across the top. The truth was written on his face, the tightness of his voice, the rigid set of his jaw. “Tis the forced conscription for the war in the east, aye?”

“Jamie—” I staggered to my feet, praying in blind panic. Please, God, no. “Jamie—Please tell me—you haven’t been—?”

To Mr. James Fraser,” he read, 

“According to our records, you have not yet registered with the Selective Service, as is required of all permanent residents of the United States. 

Please report no later than December 15th, 1950 to the enlistment station named below for registration, or risk revocation of your residency status with the Department of Immigration. 

Sincerely…”

Jamie trailed off, his face a mask of control I hadn’t seen in many years. The sight terrified me to my core—his face of duty, of danger, of great burdens to be borne.  

My hands were shaking as I reached for the letter, as I scanned it wildly for some salvation. “But you’re—you’re not even a citizen! They can’t just force you to go off and fight in their wars!”

“Apparently they can,” he said stiffly. “’All permanent residents,’ it says.”

“Jesus…” There was no way out. “Jesus—fucking—”

“FUN-KING!” Bree squeaked from the tub, sounding immensely pleased. Normally, that would have incited riotous laughter, then stern admonishment and promises between Jamie and I to guard our words more carefully. But we barely noticed. 

My blood pounded so loudly in my ears I could barely hear myself blurting, “We could go to Canada." 

He cocked his head in question. “They dinna fight wars there?”

I gave a jerking shrug. “They don’t usually start them, at least.”

“That’s the coward’s way,” he whispered, his face still stone. “I canna just run.”

“And why not?” I demanded, my voice treacherously close to both tears and shouting.

Why can I no’ take the coward’s way?” The mask wavered, showing his scorn. “Christ, Claire, do ye no’ ken me at all?” 

“And do YOU not know me?” I shouted. “Do you not have the faintest idea what it DID to me to—” It took only the cracking of my voice for the panic to overtake me completely in wracking sobs as my hands went feral. “ —to let you go to your death? For a cause you—shouldn’t even have been dragged into in the first place?? I w—” I choked. I was mere inches from his face, but I could barely see him through the tears. I wrenched a breath from my throat. “—WON’T, do it—again—do you—hear m—?”

Jamie suddenly snatched me hard against him, his voice a cracked moan of despair through his own sobs. “I know, mo chridhe…I know….”

I buried my face in his chest, and could only croak, “Jamie—”

He tried to say something, but couldn’t get a word out. 

We clung to one another with every ounce of strength, swaying and weeping for a long time, until —

“I’m scairt of this, Sassenach.” 

His breath was hot and gasping in my hair. “God, I—dinna want any part of it…. The thought of leaving ye….the—” He let out a sob, and I could feel his tears against my temple, the resonance of his words in my chest. “—Christ, the bairns—” 

He buried his face in my shoulder. “I’m so scairt, Claire.”

“What’s you scairt, Daddy?”

We turned to see Bree standing in the tub, still naked as you please, looking up, stricken.

With a small sound that broke my heart, Jamie released me and crossed to the tub. He lifted his daughter up into his arms and pressed her against his chest, not seeming to notice that his shirt was instantly soaked.

“Daddy? What’s you scairt?” she repeated. 

I had to clamp my hand over my mouth. He clutched her tighter, rocking her, focusing his entire being on love of her. 

“Use-r words, Daddy.” 

Despite everything, he choked out a laugh at that. 

“I’m scairt,” he answered hoarsely after a moment, “of having to leave you and Mama, a chuisle.”  

“Oh…” 

I came and wrapped my arms around them both, trying so very hard not to slip into panic. This—this was my home, these three people I held—That it might be ripped from—

“Dinna leave though’kay?” Bree demanded, glaring sternly at him. “Okayyyy, Daddy?”

Okay?” I seconded in a feeble whisper.

He let out another weak, broken laugh and leaned down to kiss us both. I could feel his chest shuddering with the sobs he was suppressing. 

The words were in Gaelic, breathtakingly quiet, and he repeated them over and over.

 "I won’t…I won’t.”

When he drew back a long, long time later, his eyes were dry. “Now,” he said, kissing Bree and wrapping a towel around her shivering back, “let’s get ye ready for bed, wee cub. Which storybook shall we have, tonight?”


[JF]

Jamie resolved never to let Claire or Brianna see his fear of this ever again. 

“I’ll go tomorrow to register my name,” he said firmly to Claire as he held her in their bed that night, “but it willna come to anything, Sassenach.” There are millions of folk they’ll call up before me.” 

“You don’t — ” 

“Dinna fash, mo nighean donn,” he crooned, kissing and soothing away her fears. “I’m staying right here—We’ll no’ be parted—I’m right here—”

But he lay awake far into the night and most nights to follow, praying with all his soul.

Please, God….

Please….

Dinna take me from them.

Please….

Please…..


[more to come]


From the prompts: 

@dlouise2016 said: This may not be appropriate for FMM but in response to your request for Jamie “firsts” & since he is only about 27-28, there was a military draft going on at the time for the Cold War & the Korean War. Since Jamie was certainly a warrior, he must have some strong feelings about war & Claire definitely would with her WWII experience  

@chechzooo suggested: Staying out of the draft

anonymous asked:

do you have a favourite homesteading passage from the books? one of my favourite aspects of the outlander novels is their depiction of early american settlement and subsistence farming, like the scenes from the first winter on the ridge in DoA. more than anything in book 9 i'm looking forward to more little snippets of that simple 18th c isolated farm life... which i realise is pretty weird!

What a fascinating ask! Not weird at all, anon - after all the pain and heartbreak that Jamie and Claire have been through, it’s so rewarding to see them leading a quiet, peaceful, domestic life. The life they always wanted to have together.

I’ve always loved this passage from The Fiery Cross - where Jamie is slowly kissing every inch of Claire, and tasting her. And in so doing, tells a story about how Claire spends her days - busy with domestic affairs - and we learn a lot about the simple pleasures that Jamie takes from their life together. And how much he appreciates just how hard she works to maintain that life.

He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Onions,” he said, “and garlic. Something hot … peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice.” His tongue flicked out like a snake’s, touching my knuckles. “Starch—potatoes—and something woody. Toadstools.”  

  “Not fair at all,” I said, trying to get my hand back. “You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren’t toadstools, they were woodears.”  

  “Mm?” He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. “Vinegar and dill; ye’ve been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm—were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?”  

  “You guess, since you’re so good at it.”  

  “Butter.”  

  “Damn.” I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He smelled his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin.  

   He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there, and ran his fingers under his nose. “Eau de femme,” he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. “Ma petite fleur.”

– The Fiery Cross

4

There is maybe a slight ambiguity here in terms of who in the room Malcolm is talking to except…c’mon it’s Jamie. Considering 1) Malcolm’s eye-line 2) the direction of his Dramatic!Pointing! but most of all 3) the inconceivability of In the Loop Malcolm giving even the teeniest tiniest fuck what Simon and/or Toby might think about him.

And anyway we already know from the other universe where Malcolm is always  in The Thick of It

that when he’s wearing that very same blue stripey tie – his favorite in ALL universes – that he’s 100% enforcing his Very Strict Rule about who gets to LOOK.

(NOT JAMIE)

Keep reading

takemeawaytocamelot  asked:

It's been a while since we got some Modern Glasgow love. So what if Jamie and Claire need a holiday, away from their frantic lives for a bit. We know they love their kids, but sometimes a break is needed. Maybe a nice wee date or a weekend getaway? Thank you Gotham!!

Modern Glasgow AU

“Will ye look at that? The postman is here!”

Faith Fraser – aged almost two – let out a wee cheer and scampered from the couch to the front door of the flat. Her sister Brianna – aged almost one, and at that stage where she mimed almost everything her beloved older sister did – let out her own confused wee cheer, and speed-crawled across the carpet, keeping up the best she could.

Murtagh knelt to help Faith into her bright blue sweater, then lifted Brianna to his hip, wrapping a worn Fraser plaid arisaid around her wee shoulders – knowing that Claire would have his head if she heard that her daughters had so much as stuck their wee noses outside without proper covering.

“Ready?”

Faith enthusiastically nodded, and Murtagh carefully opened the door, let Faith run out to the landing, and then turned to lock the door behind him, balancing a suddenly squirmy Brianna.

“*Seas, a ruaidh,*” he hushed her. “Ye’ll be chasing after yer sister soon enough. Faith! Dinna go down the stairs until I’m there!”

Faith theatrically froze at the top step – one small leg poised to take the first step down – waiting for her godfather.

And then Murtagh was there, taking her hand, guiding her down the three flights to the ground floor and unlocking the entry door.

Chilly, damp air – unusual for July – blasted through the open door – and Brianna suddenly snuggled against his neck, seeking warmth.

“Sshh,” he soothed. “I ken it’s almost yer naptime.”

Swiftly he unlocked the mailbox, and allowed the cards, letters, and magazines to spill out.

“Muwta!” Faith admonished. “Ye haf to clean up the mess!”

“Weel – can ye help me, Ms. Faith? I have my hands full wi’ yer wee sister here.”

Gleefully she bent to stuff her arms full of mail – and one particular piece caught her eye.

“Issa coo!” she exclaimed, holding the postcard out to Murtagh for his inspection. “Just like Bwee’s toy!”

“Aye – it’s a bonny coo,” Murtagh agreed, smiling at the blasé picture. “And look – it’s from the Isle of Skye! Who could possibly have sent it?”

“Mama and Da!” Faith exclaimed.

“Mama?” Bree briefly perked up, craning her neck to see if her beloved parents had suddenly returned.

“No, *a leannan* - they’re no’ back yet,” Murtagh soothed, running a gentle hand up and down Bree’s wee back. “They should be back tomorrow – come then, Faith. Help me wi’ the post and then we can go back upstairs, make some tea, and read their postcard – all right?”

“All right!” Suddenly engrossed in her task, Faith scooped up all the pieces of mail and darted back up the stairs – stray letters fluttering behind her.

“Mama?” Bree asked again, voice filled with sleep.”

“Hush now – lay yer heid. Mama and Da love ye so much.”

Bree settled back against him – and blessed his neck with a small, wet sneeze.

“And Murtagh loves ye and Faith more than he can ever find the words to say,” he continued, turning back to the stairs. “Though God kens it’s trying sometimes.”

“Dear Faith and Bree – we saw so many coos today! And sheep and goats too. The weather is bonny and we wish ye were here with us. Mama says we can come back once the baby comes, and take a proper holiday. Hope you aren’t giving Murtagh too much trouble. Lots of love, Mama and Da.”

Jamie looked up from the desk at the corner of their hotel room. “What do ye think?”

Claire stretched, naked, amid the soft duvet, rubbing the five-month swell of their bairn. “I think we’ll need to get a nice bottle of whisky, for Murtagh. And of course a coo for Faith, since she’ll be jealous that Bree has one and she doesn’t.”

“I’m glad she won’t take it for herself, then – God kens it’s what I would do,” Jamie smiled, finishing the last of his tea.

“Well - *I* like to raise my children to have manners,” she teased, rolling over to one side, watching him. “This one, too.”

Jamie rose, crossed the room, and slid over her on the bed, pushing her to her back, holding himself up on his arms above her. Feeling their bairn dance under his belly.

“God bless women like you for bringing more Frasers into this world,” he breathed, rolling them to rest on their sides, still skin on skin.

“It means I’m going straight to heaven,” she teased. “For putting up with you.”

“I hope you’re willing to do a wee bit more than just put up wi’ me,” he whispered against her lips. She closed the gap in a long, heated kiss.

“Happy anniversary, Jamie.” She rolled on top of him. His fingers skimmed all over her beautiful, glowing skin.

“Six years,” he breathed, swallowing with want and emotion. “Holy God, Claire – we have forever together. Do ye ken that?”

She smiled – and took him, gasping, inside – and he kent it weel.