Fight back

Jamie Fraser
The whole Scene:

Jamie was on his back now, writhing slight­ly against the pain of his wounds. His eyes were fixed and star­ing, with no sign of recog­ni­tion.
I caressed him in the way I knew so well, trac­ing the line of his ribs from breast­bone to back, light­ly as Frank would have done, press­ing hard on the aching bruise, as I was sure the oth­er would have. I leaned for­ward and ran my tongue slow­ly around his ear, tast­ing and prob­ing, and whis­pered, “Fight me! Fight back, you filthy scut!”
His mus­cles tight­ened and his jaw clenched, but he con­tin­ued to stare upward. No choice, then. I would have to use the knife after all. I knew the risk I was tak­ing in this, but bet­ter to kill him myself, I thought, than to sit qui­et­ly by and let him die.

I took the knife from the table and drew it firm­ly across his chest, along the path of the fresh­ly healed scar. He gasped with the shock of it, and arched his back. Seiz­ing a tow­el, I scrubbed it briskly over the wound. Before I could fal­ter, I forced myself to run my fin­gers over his chest, scoop­ing up a gout of blood which I rubbed sav­age­ly over his lips. There was one phrase that I didn’t have to invent, hav­ing heard it myself. Bend­ing low over him, I whis­pered, “Now kiss me.”
I was not at all pre­pared for it. He hurled me half across the room as he came up off the bed. I stag­gered and fell against the table, mak­ing the giant can­dle­sticks sway. The shad­ows dart­ed and swung as the wicks flared and went out.
The edge of the table had struck me hard across the back, but I recov­ered in time to dodge away as he lunged for me. With an inar­tic­u­late growl, he came after me, hands out­stretched.

Jamie Fraser
The whole Scene:

It is dif­fi­cult to describe in detail what hap­pened next, if only because every­thing hap­pened a num­ber of times, and the times all over­lap in my mem­o­ry. It seems as though Jamie’s burn­ing hands closed on my neck only once, but that once went on for­ev­er. In fact, it hap­pened dozens of times. Each time I man­aged to break his grip and throw him off, to retreat once more, dodg­ing and duck­ing around the wrecked fur­ni­ture. And once again he would fol­low, a man pulled by rage from the edge of death, swear­ing and sob­bing, stag­ger­ing and flail­ing wild­ly.
Deprived of the shel­ter­ing bra­zier, the coals died quick­ly, leav­ing the room black as pitch and peo­pled with demons. In the last flick­ers of light, I saw him crouched against the wall, maned in fire and man­tled in blood, penis stiff against the mat­ted hair of his bel­ly, eyes blue mur­der in a skull-white face. A Viking berserk­er. Like the North­ern dev­ils who burst from their drag­on-ships into the mists of the ancient Scot­tish coast, to kill and plun­der and burn. Men who would kill with the last ounce of their strength. Who would use that last strength to rape and sow their vio­lent seed in the bel­lies of the con­quered.

Some time later…

Claire Fraser

The whole Scene:

We bashed into some piece of fur­ni­ture and both lay still. Jamie’s hands were locked on my breasts, fin­gers dig­ging bruis­ing­ly into the flesh. I felt the plop of damp­ness on my face, sweat or tears, I couldn’t tell, but opened my eyes to see. Jamie was look­ing down at me, face blank in the moony light, eyes wide, unfo­cused. His hands relaxed. One fin­ger gen­tly traced the out­line of my breast, from slope to tip, over and over. His hand moved to cup the breast, fin­gers spread like a starfish, soft as the grip of a nurs­ing child.
“M-moth­er?” he said. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. It was the high, pure voice of a young boy. “Moth­er?”
The cold air laved us, whirling the unhealthy smoke away in a drift of snowflakes. I reached up and laid the palm of my hand along his cold cheek.
“Jamie, love,” I said, whis­per­ing through a bruised throat, “Come then, come lay your head, man.” The mask trem­bled then and broke, and I held the big body hard against me, the two of us shak­ing with the force of his sob­bing.

All rights for the Pic­ture go to the right­ful owner Starz
Excerpts and Quo­te by Diana Gabal­don from “Outlander“
I own not­hing but the editing
Heike Ginger Ba Written by:

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