random Outlander fic
When Jamie is in the prison:
"I'd ask a favor, John."
Lord John suppressed a flinch, dreading not what Jamie would ask of him but the very real possibility that he wouldn't be able to deny it.
The large hands were lax, dangling loosely between the man's knees, a tanned and scarred complement to the rough woolen breeches. "Don't tell Willy who his real father is. I realize it wasna the first thing on your agenda, but in case ye felt the need, one day…" He didn't seem to notice John's shock. His lips pressed together, and he nodded, as though satisfied with his decision. "I'd rather he remained an Earl, even a spoilt one, than the bastard of a Scots criminal."
He looked up, then, meeting John's eyes without compunction. When John's expression did not change, he seemed concerned, for the first time in the encounter. "Surely that is not asking too much," he continued, frowning.
Through much effort, John found his voice. "That cannot be all you would ask of me," he said flatly.
Jamie paused, then shrugged. "I am a prisoner of the Crown, an enemy of England. You are the commanding officer at this fort, for your crimes." He blinked at John in solemn humor for a moment. "There is not much more I could ask that you could give, John."
John finally sat on the chair the private had provided, burying his head in his hands. "I never would have expected this," he muttered.
"Nor I," came the soft response.
A silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet breathing of the man in the cell. John's stomach turned with the thought that he would never hear that sound again, after tomorrow morning.
"I cannot allow this."
Jamie looked at him sharply. "And what do you mean by that?"
"You understand that you are to be hanged in the morning," he said. It was not a question, but Jamie nodded. "How can you simply sit in your cell? You must desire life!"
He had not intended to raise his voice, but the reality of the situation was beginning to take hold. In his mind's eye, James Fraser was the epitome of unconquerable freedom, a man unfettered by fear of death, capable of nearly anything. Though he knew Fraser led a dangerous, unpredictable life, it rarely occurred to him that this might lead to his death.
In the clearing, once Jamie convinces John:
"You have done it many times," Jamie said. It wasn't quite a question.
John cleared his throat, conscious of his bare chest and feet. "Many times," he agreed, uncertain as to where Jamie's thoughts were headed.
The other man shook his head, the firelight sparking off of it. "The men at Ardsmuir did not grow lonely as quickly as one might think," he said, in an apparent non sequitor. "There was company during the day, countrymen who were familiar, a comfort. At night, if the need became too much, they could take themselves in hand and be content. At least, as content as a man in prison could be."
John watched Jamie's wide mouth pull up into a half-smile, almost rueful. "But there comes a time when ye cannot just have the company of your own thoughts, ye ken? When ye must have someone's warmth beside ye, or it seems as though you might die." John nodded, throat tightening. He knew the sensation well, from years of forced celibacy. He supposed Jamie was speaking from his own experience, as well. How long had he lasted without someone when he lost his wife? John wondered. From the still-regretful expression which graced the other man's fine features, it had been too long.
Jamie continued, almost to himself. "The loneliness took over after a time. Many paired away, became… well, I suppose there is no word for it."
"Companions," Lord John suggested, seeing the edge of discomfort.
"Aye, that would serve. It was companionship." He glanced at John with something like apology. "After Randall I couldn't understand how a man endures that. The pain. I suppose you could tell me."
John breathed in and out, feeling his arms clench without permission around his knees. "There are ways to make it quite… pleasurable, for both men concerned."
Jamie nodded, looking up at the dark canopy of trees. "Do ye know why?" he asked, after a moment. He saw John's frown, and clarified. "Why you are this way, I mean."
John shrugged. "I have never been attracted to a woman. Not by choice, I assure you, particularly at the beginning. It would be far easier to partake of their comforts than to lead the life I lived." He paused. "As for the desire, I must suppose it comes from God, despite what the Bible tells us." Fraser looked mildly appalled at that, making John remember his friend's Catholic upbringing. "My apologies if I have offended you," he said, only a little mocking, "but if I am to accept that I, with everything else, was made by God, I must conclude that everything within me comes from Him. And before you say anything, I do not believe that the devil has anything to do with it."
Jamie asks about Hector, indirectly. John tells him about first love, the terror of being found out, his death. Then Percy, with his brown eyes, his laughter. Ended poorly. A few random encounters. Jamie.
When they finally start to get down, have John kiss him in fear. That he might take it away. Make sure you mention how desperately John has wanted this, how deeply his love runs for this man. Jamie refuses to simply bugger him, will not run the risk of hurting him. John thinks about insisting, getting more desperate, but sees he can't persuade him on this. He tells Jamie that, especially if it is a man's first time or if fear of pain is too great, oil and stretching can ease the way. Agreeing, Jamie suggests the oil for his pistol, in the bundle of items John managed to steal. John says he can do it himself, but Jamie won't have that. He allows John to coat the fingers of his right hand liberally, then kisses him into submission.
He lays flat on the ground, tugging John along to sprawl across his front, his legs between John's, John's knees and elbows planted on either side of Jamie's body. With John's quick and rather breathless instructions, Jamie begins the task of the stretching. He's curious, interested in the way John is so much tighter there than a woman. He's moving so slowly, trying not to cause any pain, driving John mad. By the time he works in the second finger, John is panting into Jamie's shoulder, sweat-drenched and madly aroused. He can feel the strength in Jamie's arm where it curves around his back, the cords in his forearm moving as he pushes his fingers in and out, his hand splayed across John's buttocks. Jamie wants to know how this can feel so good for John, still not really believing. John shakily explains about the prostate. Jamie tries to pinpoint exactly, rubbing back and forth, enjoying the way John's breathing hitches and his eyes squint shut when he finds it. He does put in a third finger, spreading John's cheeks with his left hand, massaging gently. John can only hold onto Jamie's shoulders and sprawl, his full weight on the other man, almost crying with need. Jamie kisses him, fully hard at last, and then rolls, keeping John's legs up. He wraps his legs high around Jamie's waist, rocking slightly, his hands at the back of Jamie's neck, pulling him closer. By the time Jamie is positioned and pushing in, John has gone a touch blind - Jamie is so slow and careful, John's shoulders rising off the ground at the intensity of the whole situation - to finally have him, in this way. Love, need. Jamie thrusting, John forcing his eyes open to watch his face. Finds him looking back, apparently slightly shocked and awed that John is so pleased. Encourages, faster, harder, oh God, God - blinding moments of emptiness, please, Jamie. Jamie.
John was afraid to open his eyes, electing to concentrate on the shattering sensations rolling through his body. He felt each movement of Jamie's acutely: the flex of muscles in his back and side, the tendons in his neck straining under John's hands. He didn't want to have to see Jamie's closed eyes - he needed no proof that he was thinking of a woman (Claire, no doubt) while he was inside John. It would hurt him too badly.
Soon, though, John found himself getting too close to the edge of pleasure. It had been so long since his last encounter, as he wasn't sure to find someone discreet enough in his new position. Yet, more significantly, he had waited almost twenty years for this. For Jamie. The thought made his eyelids part, involuntarily, needing at least a glimpse of the man before he fell. To his great shock, Jamie's eyes weren't closed at all - he was staring down at John as he thrust, still gentle, a look of mingled awe and surprise on his face. His mouth was slightly open, breathing growing harsh. He met John's eyes with something like a question. John swallowed, feeling less and less capable of coherent thought, and answered in the only way he could: his legs tightened around Jamie's waist, hands going to his shoulders and holding tightly as he lifted his hips, body begging for more when his mouth failed to deliver.
He got the desired response. Jamie thrust a little harder, the changed angle of John's hips ensuring that he pushed directly against John's center. Though he'd gone half-blind, John kept his eyes on Jamie's face, the small part of his mind which was cataloguing every moment of this to keep close for the rest of his natural life indelibly etching the way Jamie's expression had gone both tense and tender, something under his resolve softening with John's shudders. John realized, with distant embarrassment, that the sound on the edge of hearing was his own moaning, a constant and breathy concert which faded against his determination to hear only Jamie - to cling to each rough breath, the little grunts when John's fingers dug too deeply into his skin. When Jamie's control stumbled and one thrust became almost violent, John cried out, the moan spiking higher into a kind of croon - he lifted his eyes once more, instinctively seeking Jamie's face, and saw the crooked, shy smile Jamie wore, the sweet amazement in it making his eyes squeeze shut to suppress a shout as he came, instantly.
In the white blindness that followed, he could hear his own breath: a sobbing, harsh refrain. Somewhere he knew that Jamie would try to pull out of him, to leave, and he reached blindly, knees rising higher to clutch around Jamie's ribs, ankles crossing over the small of his back, while his arms circled the powerful shoulders and he lunged forward, burying his head in the curve of his neck.
"Oh, God, God," he heard, only the addendum of, "Jamie, Christ, Jamie," making him realize that the shaky, broken voice was his own.
One large hand settled between his shoulderblades, the thumb gently stroking across his skin. "Settle yourself, man," Jamie said, the deep burr of his voice rumbling against John's ear. He became aware of the violent trembling that had taken hold of his muscles, and then of the wetness of tears on Jamie's skin. "John?"
He shook his head against Jamie's throat, trying to force his voice under his own control. His nerves were still hyperaware of Jamie's breath, the pulse John could feel under his cheek, the wide stretch of his cock in John's arse, still hard.
His body, apparently realizing that his mind was still destroyed, opted to work once more on its own behalf: without his consciously willing it, his hips shifted against Jamie's, something under his breastbone sparking when Jamie huffed out a breath against his ear, the hand on his back clutching abruptly at John's skin.
"Are ye not satisfied, then?" he asked, sounding surprised. John held him still closer, eyes closed. Jamie's hand slowly stroked up and down his back.
He dug his voice out from wherever it had gone, at long last. "Please," he managed, the sound embarrassingly cracked and faint. He clenched the muscles of his arse, provoking another grunt from Jamie.
"Well," Jamie said after a moment - and John was foolishly proud that his voice had gone hoarse, too - "ye'll have to loosen up some, John, if ye want me to…"
Reluctantly, John pulled away from the warm darkness of Jamie's throat, allowing Jamie to gentle him down to lay flat on the earth. When he managed to get his eyes open, it was to see Jamie watching him carefully. He blinked. Jamie was still supporting himself stiff-armed, hands planted on either side of John's head. John reached up with one hand, smoothing some of his red hair behind an ear without thinking. Jamie gave him a small smile, the softness in it enough to convince John that he wouldn't leave and allowing his thighs to unclench slightly against Jamie's sides.
Finally, Jamie gave a cautious thrust forward. John groaned. At last. His hips rocked with the motion, encouraging a second thrust, and a third. When Jamie finally picked up a rhythm, slow and gentle as before, John was afraid he'd start weeping again. It was too reminiscent of his first time, with Hector - only this encounter was far more dangerous than even that earth-shaking experience, over thirty years ago. The thought, with its faint echo of guilt, made him reach up with both hands, fingers sliding into Jamie's thick hair and tugging him down to land on his elbows. His grunt of surprise puffed against John's cheek before he pulled Jamie's mouth to his, kissing desperately, opening to Jamie's tongue as soon as it touched his lips. As he'd hoped, Jamie thrust harder, the increase in force enough to rock John's body against the damp soil. He spread his thighs farther apart, letting Jamie deeper, reveling in each quick snap of his hips against John, each damp slap of his testicles against John's skin. As Jamie drew closer and closer to his own completion, John experienced a piercing sadness that he was incapable of coming again - he knew, instinctively, that Jamie's orgasm would have been more than enough to push him into one of his own without even a touch to his own cock.
Um… That's all I've got. Hope you liked it. You should read the books, too, if you have no idea what just happened.
"I'd ask a favor, John."
Lord John suppressed a flinch, dreading not what Jamie would ask of him but the very real possibility that he wouldn't be able to deny it.
The large hands were lax, dangling loosely between the man's knees, a tanned and scarred complement to the rough woolen breeches. "Don't tell Willy who his real father is. I realize it wasna the first thing on your agenda, but in case ye felt the need, one day…" He didn't seem to notice John's shock. His lips pressed together, and he nodded, as though satisfied with his decision. "I'd rather he remained an Earl, even a spoilt one, than the bastard of a Scots criminal."
He looked up, then, meeting John's eyes without compunction. When John's expression did not change, he seemed concerned, for the first time in the encounter. "Surely that is not asking too much," he continued, frowning.
Through much effort, John found his voice. "That cannot be all you would ask of me," he said flatly.
Jamie paused, then shrugged. "I am a prisoner of the Crown, an enemy of England. You are the commanding officer at this fort, for your crimes." He blinked at John in solemn humor for a moment. "There is not much more I could ask that you could give, John."
John finally sat on the chair the private had provided, burying his head in his hands. "I never would have expected this," he muttered.
"Nor I," came the soft response.
A silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet breathing of the man in the cell. John's stomach turned with the thought that he would never hear that sound again, after tomorrow morning.
"I cannot allow this."
Jamie looked at him sharply. "And what do you mean by that?"
"You understand that you are to be hanged in the morning," he said. It was not a question, but Jamie nodded. "How can you simply sit in your cell? You must desire life!"
He had not intended to raise his voice, but the reality of the situation was beginning to take hold. In his mind's eye, James Fraser was the epitome of unconquerable freedom, a man unfettered by fear of death, capable of nearly anything. Though he knew Fraser led a dangerous, unpredictable life, it rarely occurred to him that this might lead to his death.
In the clearing, once Jamie convinces John:
"You have done it many times," Jamie said. It wasn't quite a question.
John cleared his throat, conscious of his bare chest and feet. "Many times," he agreed, uncertain as to where Jamie's thoughts were headed.
The other man shook his head, the firelight sparking off of it. "The men at Ardsmuir did not grow lonely as quickly as one might think," he said, in an apparent non sequitor. "There was company during the day, countrymen who were familiar, a comfort. At night, if the need became too much, they could take themselves in hand and be content. At least, as content as a man in prison could be."
John watched Jamie's wide mouth pull up into a half-smile, almost rueful. "But there comes a time when ye cannot just have the company of your own thoughts, ye ken? When ye must have someone's warmth beside ye, or it seems as though you might die." John nodded, throat tightening. He knew the sensation well, from years of forced celibacy. He supposed Jamie was speaking from his own experience, as well. How long had he lasted without someone when he lost his wife? John wondered. From the still-regretful expression which graced the other man's fine features, it had been too long.
Jamie continued, almost to himself. "The loneliness took over after a time. Many paired away, became… well, I suppose there is no word for it."
"Companions," Lord John suggested, seeing the edge of discomfort.
"Aye, that would serve. It was companionship." He glanced at John with something like apology. "After Randall I couldn't understand how a man endures that. The pain. I suppose you could tell me."
John breathed in and out, feeling his arms clench without permission around his knees. "There are ways to make it quite… pleasurable, for both men concerned."
Jamie nodded, looking up at the dark canopy of trees. "Do ye know why?" he asked, after a moment. He saw John's frown, and clarified. "Why you are this way, I mean."
John shrugged. "I have never been attracted to a woman. Not by choice, I assure you, particularly at the beginning. It would be far easier to partake of their comforts than to lead the life I lived." He paused. "As for the desire, I must suppose it comes from God, despite what the Bible tells us." Fraser looked mildly appalled at that, making John remember his friend's Catholic upbringing. "My apologies if I have offended you," he said, only a little mocking, "but if I am to accept that I, with everything else, was made by God, I must conclude that everything within me comes from Him. And before you say anything, I do not believe that the devil has anything to do with it."
Jamie asks about Hector, indirectly. John tells him about first love, the terror of being found out, his death. Then Percy, with his brown eyes, his laughter. Ended poorly. A few random encounters. Jamie.
When they finally start to get down, have John kiss him in fear. That he might take it away. Make sure you mention how desperately John has wanted this, how deeply his love runs for this man. Jamie refuses to simply bugger him, will not run the risk of hurting him. John thinks about insisting, getting more desperate, but sees he can't persuade him on this. He tells Jamie that, especially if it is a man's first time or if fear of pain is too great, oil and stretching can ease the way. Agreeing, Jamie suggests the oil for his pistol, in the bundle of items John managed to steal. John says he can do it himself, but Jamie won't have that. He allows John to coat the fingers of his right hand liberally, then kisses him into submission.
He lays flat on the ground, tugging John along to sprawl across his front, his legs between John's, John's knees and elbows planted on either side of Jamie's body. With John's quick and rather breathless instructions, Jamie begins the task of the stretching. He's curious, interested in the way John is so much tighter there than a woman. He's moving so slowly, trying not to cause any pain, driving John mad. By the time he works in the second finger, John is panting into Jamie's shoulder, sweat-drenched and madly aroused. He can feel the strength in Jamie's arm where it curves around his back, the cords in his forearm moving as he pushes his fingers in and out, his hand splayed across John's buttocks. Jamie wants to know how this can feel so good for John, still not really believing. John shakily explains about the prostate. Jamie tries to pinpoint exactly, rubbing back and forth, enjoying the way John's breathing hitches and his eyes squint shut when he finds it. He does put in a third finger, spreading John's cheeks with his left hand, massaging gently. John can only hold onto Jamie's shoulders and sprawl, his full weight on the other man, almost crying with need. Jamie kisses him, fully hard at last, and then rolls, keeping John's legs up. He wraps his legs high around Jamie's waist, rocking slightly, his hands at the back of Jamie's neck, pulling him closer. By the time Jamie is positioned and pushing in, John has gone a touch blind - Jamie is so slow and careful, John's shoulders rising off the ground at the intensity of the whole situation - to finally have him, in this way. Love, need. Jamie thrusting, John forcing his eyes open to watch his face. Finds him looking back, apparently slightly shocked and awed that John is so pleased. Encourages, faster, harder, oh God, God - blinding moments of emptiness, please, Jamie. Jamie.
John was afraid to open his eyes, electing to concentrate on the shattering sensations rolling through his body. He felt each movement of Jamie's acutely: the flex of muscles in his back and side, the tendons in his neck straining under John's hands. He didn't want to have to see Jamie's closed eyes - he needed no proof that he was thinking of a woman (Claire, no doubt) while he was inside John. It would hurt him too badly.
Soon, though, John found himself getting too close to the edge of pleasure. It had been so long since his last encounter, as he wasn't sure to find someone discreet enough in his new position. Yet, more significantly, he had waited almost twenty years for this. For Jamie. The thought made his eyelids part, involuntarily, needing at least a glimpse of the man before he fell. To his great shock, Jamie's eyes weren't closed at all - he was staring down at John as he thrust, still gentle, a look of mingled awe and surprise on his face. His mouth was slightly open, breathing growing harsh. He met John's eyes with something like a question. John swallowed, feeling less and less capable of coherent thought, and answered in the only way he could: his legs tightened around Jamie's waist, hands going to his shoulders and holding tightly as he lifted his hips, body begging for more when his mouth failed to deliver.
He got the desired response. Jamie thrust a little harder, the changed angle of John's hips ensuring that he pushed directly against John's center. Though he'd gone half-blind, John kept his eyes on Jamie's face, the small part of his mind which was cataloguing every moment of this to keep close for the rest of his natural life indelibly etching the way Jamie's expression had gone both tense and tender, something under his resolve softening with John's shudders. John realized, with distant embarrassment, that the sound on the edge of hearing was his own moaning, a constant and breathy concert which faded against his determination to hear only Jamie - to cling to each rough breath, the little grunts when John's fingers dug too deeply into his skin. When Jamie's control stumbled and one thrust became almost violent, John cried out, the moan spiking higher into a kind of croon - he lifted his eyes once more, instinctively seeking Jamie's face, and saw the crooked, shy smile Jamie wore, the sweet amazement in it making his eyes squeeze shut to suppress a shout as he came, instantly.
In the white blindness that followed, he could hear his own breath: a sobbing, harsh refrain. Somewhere he knew that Jamie would try to pull out of him, to leave, and he reached blindly, knees rising higher to clutch around Jamie's ribs, ankles crossing over the small of his back, while his arms circled the powerful shoulders and he lunged forward, burying his head in the curve of his neck.
"Oh, God, God," he heard, only the addendum of, "Jamie, Christ, Jamie," making him realize that the shaky, broken voice was his own.
One large hand settled between his shoulderblades, the thumb gently stroking across his skin. "Settle yourself, man," Jamie said, the deep burr of his voice rumbling against John's ear. He became aware of the violent trembling that had taken hold of his muscles, and then of the wetness of tears on Jamie's skin. "John?"
He shook his head against Jamie's throat, trying to force his voice under his own control. His nerves were still hyperaware of Jamie's breath, the pulse John could feel under his cheek, the wide stretch of his cock in John's arse, still hard.
His body, apparently realizing that his mind was still destroyed, opted to work once more on its own behalf: without his consciously willing it, his hips shifted against Jamie's, something under his breastbone sparking when Jamie huffed out a breath against his ear, the hand on his back clutching abruptly at John's skin.
"Are ye not satisfied, then?" he asked, sounding surprised. John held him still closer, eyes closed. Jamie's hand slowly stroked up and down his back.
He dug his voice out from wherever it had gone, at long last. "Please," he managed, the sound embarrassingly cracked and faint. He clenched the muscles of his arse, provoking another grunt from Jamie.
"Well," Jamie said after a moment - and John was foolishly proud that his voice had gone hoarse, too - "ye'll have to loosen up some, John, if ye want me to…"
Reluctantly, John pulled away from the warm darkness of Jamie's throat, allowing Jamie to gentle him down to lay flat on the earth. When he managed to get his eyes open, it was to see Jamie watching him carefully. He blinked. Jamie was still supporting himself stiff-armed, hands planted on either side of John's head. John reached up with one hand, smoothing some of his red hair behind an ear without thinking. Jamie gave him a small smile, the softness in it enough to convince John that he wouldn't leave and allowing his thighs to unclench slightly against Jamie's sides.
Finally, Jamie gave a cautious thrust forward. John groaned. At last. His hips rocked with the motion, encouraging a second thrust, and a third. When Jamie finally picked up a rhythm, slow and gentle as before, John was afraid he'd start weeping again. It was too reminiscent of his first time, with Hector - only this encounter was far more dangerous than even that earth-shaking experience, over thirty years ago. The thought, with its faint echo of guilt, made him reach up with both hands, fingers sliding into Jamie's thick hair and tugging him down to land on his elbows. His grunt of surprise puffed against John's cheek before he pulled Jamie's mouth to his, kissing desperately, opening to Jamie's tongue as soon as it touched his lips. As he'd hoped, Jamie thrust harder, the increase in force enough to rock John's body against the damp soil. He spread his thighs farther apart, letting Jamie deeper, reveling in each quick snap of his hips against John, each damp slap of his testicles against John's skin. As Jamie drew closer and closer to his own completion, John experienced a piercing sadness that he was incapable of coming again - he knew, instinctively, that Jamie's orgasm would have been more than enough to push him into one of his own without even a touch to his own cock.
Um… That's all I've got. Hope you liked it. You should read the books, too, if you have no idea what just happened.