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:

|Human|Woman|Mother|Wife|Friend| Photographer| Blogger|
|TV-Junkie|Photoshop-Beginner|Art-Lover|Cologne-based|Outlander-addict |Sherlockian |TWD-devoted

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