Well I don’t know Lynette 🤔 with a little bit of imagination you actually can do SM posts without spoilers…
but I digress as we are obviously in for another 6 months of tweets “look at me I was on Outlander set, but I can’t tell you anything because you know SPOILERS”, for book which was published 20+ years ago…
At the same time Jamie asked, in a similarly accusatory tone, “How much do ye weigh, Sassenach?”
Still a bit addled, I actually replied “Nine stone,” before thinking to ask “Why?”
“Ye nearly crushed my liver,” he answered, gingerly prodding the affected area. “Not to mention scaring living hell out of me.” He reached a hand down and hauled me to my feet. “Are ye all right?”
“No, I bumped my head.” Rubbing the spot, I looked dazedly around the bare hallway. “What did I bang it on?” I demanded ungrammatically.
“My head,” he said, rather grumpily, I thought.
“Serves you right,” I said nastily. “What were you doing, sneaking about outside my door?”
He gave me a testy look.
“I wasna ‘sneaking about,’ for God’s sake. I was sleeping— or trying to.” He rubbed what appeared to be a knot forming on his temple.
“Sleeping? Here?” I looked up and down the cold, bare, filthy hallway with exaggerated amazement. “You do pick the oddest places; first stables, now this.”
“It may interest ye to know that there’s a small party of English dragoons stopped in to the taproom below,” he informed me coldly. “They’re a bit gone in drink, and disporting themselves a bit reckless with two women from the town. Since there’s but the two lasses, and five men, some of the soldiers seemed a bit inclined to venture upward in search of … ah, partners. I didna think you’d care overmuch for such attentions.” He flipped his plaid back over his shoulder and turned in the direction of the stairway. “If I was mistaken in that impression, then I apologize. I’d no intention of disturbin’ your rest. Good e’en to ye.”
“Wait a minute.” He stopped, but did not turn back, forcing me to walk around him. He looked down at me, polite but distant.
“Thank you,” I said. “It was very kind of you. I’m sorry I stepped on you.”
He smiled then, his face changing from a forbidding mask to its usual expression of good humor.
“No harm done, Sassenach,” he said. “As soon as the headache goes away and the cracked rib heals, I’ll be good as new.”
He turned back and pushed open the door of my room, which had swung shut in the wake of my hasty exit, owing to the fact that the builder had apparently constructed the inn without benefit of a plumb line. There wasn’t a right angle in the place.
“Go back to bed, then,” he suggested. “I’ll be here.”
I looked at the floor. Besides its essential hardness and coldness, the oaken boards were blotched with expectorations, spills, and forms of filth I didn’t wish even to contemplate. The builder’s mark in the door lintel had said 1732, and that was plainly the last time the boards had been cleaned.
“You can’t sleep out here,” I said. “Come in; at least the floor in the room isn’t quite this bad.”
Jamie froze, hand on the doorframe.
“Sleep in your room with ye?” He sounded truly shocked. “I couldna do that! Your reputation would be ruined!”
He really meant it. I started to laugh, but converted it into a tactful coughing fit. Given the exigencies of road travel, the crowded state of the inns, and the crudity or complete lack of sanitary facilities, I was on terms of such physical intimacy with these men, Jamie included, that I found the idea of such prudery hilarious.
“You’ve slept in the same room with me before,” I pointed out, when I had recovered a bit. “You and twenty other men.”
He sputtered a bit. “That isna at all the same thing! I mean, it was a quite public room, and …” He paused as an awful thought struck him. “You didna think I meant that you were suggesting anything improper?” he asked anxiously. “I assure ye, I—”
“No, no. Not at all.” I made haste to reassure him that I had taken no offense.
Seeing that he could not be persuaded, I insisted that at the least he must take the blankets from my bed to lie upon. He agreed to this reluctantly, and only upon my repeated assurances that I would not use them myself in any case, but intended to sleep as usual in the cover of my thick traveling cloak.
I tried to thank him again, as I paused by the makeshift pallet before returning to my fetid sanctuary, but he waved away my appreciation with a gracious hand.
“D‘ye remember when we gave each other blood for blood?” Ian‘s eyes were closed, but he smiled.
Jamie‘s hand tightened on the bony wrist, a little startled but not truly surprised that Ian had reached into his mind and caught the echo of his thoughts. “Aye, of course.” He couldn‘t help a small smile of his own, a painful one.
They‘d been eight years old, the two of them. Jamie‘s mother and her bairn had died the day before. The house had been full of mourners, his father dazed with shock. They had slipped out,he and Ian, scrambling up the hill behind the house, trying not to look at the fresh-dug grave by the broch. Into the wood, safe under the trees.
They had slowed then, wandering, come to a stop at last at the top of the high hill, where some old stone building that they called the fort had fallen down long ago. They‘d sat on the rubble, wrapped in their plaids against the wind, not talking much.
“I thought I‘d have a new brother,” he‘d said suddenly. “But I don‘t. It‘s just Jenny and me, still.”
In the years since, he‘d succeeded in forgetting that small pain, the loss of his hoped-for brother, the boy who might have given him back a little of his love for his older brother, Willie, dead of the smallpox. He‘d cherished that pain for a little, a flimsy shield against the enormity of knowing his mother gone forever.
Ian had sat thinking for a bit, then reached into his sporran and got out the wee knife his father had given him on his last birthday.
“I‘ll be your brother” he‘d said, matter-of-fact, and cut across his thumb, hissing a little through his teeth.
He‘d handed the knife to Jamie, who‘d cut himself, surprised that it hurt so much, and then they‘d pressed their thumbs together and sworn to be brothers always.
“I wish I’d known your father,” I said. “Or maybe it’s better not,” I
said, struck by a thought. “He might not have liked you marrying an
Jamie hugged me closer and pulled the quilts up over my
bare shoulders. “He’d have thought I’d got some sense at last.” He
stroked my hair. “He’d have respected my choice, whoever it was, but
you”—he turned his head and kissed my brow gently—“ he would have liked
you verra much, my Sassenach.” And I recognized it for the accolade it was.
…hair brushed my naked shoulder blades with a pleasant, tickling feel, and the air was cool enough that the small breeze made my skin ripple with gooseflesh, my nipples standing up in tiny puckers. So I hadn’t imagined it, I thought, with an inward smile. I certainly hadn’t taken my own clothes off before retiring.
I pushed back the thick linen blanket, and saw the flecks of dried blood, smears on my thighs and belly. I felt dampness ooze between my legs, and drew a finger between them. Milky, with a musky scent not my own.
That was enough to bring back the shadow of the dream—or what I had thought must be one; the great bulk of the bear looming over me, darker than the night and reeking of blood, a rush of terror that kept my dream—heavy limbs from moving. My lying limp, pretending death, as he nudged and nuzzled, breath hot on my skin, fur soft on my breasts, gentleness amazing for a beast.
Then that one sharp moment of consciousness; of cold, then hot, as bare skin, not bearskin, touched my own, and then the dizzy slide back into drunken dreaming, the slow and forceful coupling, climax fading into sleep…with a soft Scottish growling in my ear.
I looked down and saw the strawberry crescent of a bite mark on my shoulder.
“No wonder you’re still asleep,” I said in accusation. The sun had touched the curve of his cheek, lighting the eyebrow on that side like a match touched to kindling. He didn’t open his eyes, but a slow, sweet smile spread across his face in answer.
They were not evenly matched; Fraser was much the better player, but Grey could now and then contrive to rescue a match through sheer bravado of play.
Voyager by Diana Gabaldon
If that doesn’t just sum up their relationship/friendship… Jamie’s true match in life, is Claire, but LJG and his friendship is enough to keep Jamie’s life interesting and engaging (in general but especially in the absence of Claire)
Jamie and Claire having loud sexy times at lallybroch when they return. Set before The Watch appears.
Claire had noticed Jamie’s need to be physically close to her, lightly touching her, throughout the day. She felt a slight buzzing at the point of contact before it traveled to coil in her belly. The warmth already at the point of overwhelming her but it was hours before they could be together to remedy the situation. She would have to focus on more serious concerns - preparing Lallybroch and its families for the famine that would be at their door all too soon.
Jamie had listened to Ian and Jenny attest to the dastardly things the Redcoats had done to the surrounding estates and their tenants, especially the women. At their wedding, he had sworn an oath of his body to protect Claire and he would carry that out against the Crown if need be. His desire for, and need to be with her, was becoming too powerful to deny. He quickly apologized and pardoned himself from their tactical planning.
After searching for what felt like an eternity they finally located each other by the grain mill. She had been speaking to the miller about tactics to keep vermin away from his grain. He didn’t have a concern for why she was there but how promptly he could undo the belt that held his plaid to free it from his body.
Claire saw to the offending piece of leather and metal with ease as the woolen fabric fell to the ground. Just as effortlessly, Jamie undid her stays to throw them aside with some flourish.
“You weren’t here,” she said in between ardent kisses. “I needed you. I still do need you. I need you inside me now!”
He lay her down on their clothing as he rucked up her shift. She scrambled to tug at his shirt and position him between her legs. Jamie buried himself inside her with delicate reverence, his body responding to her own eagerness.
They both cried out as they soon hit a fevered pitch of pleasurable pain.