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lvrhughes · 16 days

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Always Been Yours | F. Minten

pairing: Fraser Minten x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: drunk mints?

summary: After his teams drops him off with you, you're left to take care of drunken Fraser

not my gif!

The loud knocking on your door pulled you from the book, glancing at the clock, flashing 01:03, in your kitchen as you walked to the door. Opening the door to the group of boys, mainly consisting of Fraser’s teammates, holding the Minten boy up, barely.

“What happened?” A flash of panic covered your face, seeing the team carrying the boy.

“We may have lost him in the bar, then found him with about five empty shot glasses.” Rhett answered, moving quickly to drag Fraser inside, leading the drunken boy onto your couch.

“You lost him in the bar? Are you serious?” The fear that flashed over each boys face was enough to interpret that you were sounding like your mother, enough to drive fear into any man.

“We’re so sorry, we’re going to leave now.” Bradon spoke quickly, pulling Rhett out of your living room and outside in seconds, the door closing shortly behind them.

You shook your head, walking over to Fraser, who sprawled across your couch, in a way that could not be comfortable.

“Hey minty.” Your voice was soft, running a hand through his hair as he groaned.

“My head hurts.” His voice was muffled, buried into one of the pillows.

“I bet, let’s get you to a bed.” You urged, trying to move the boy upwards.

“Too tired.” He urged back, refusing to move, earning an eye roll.

“Fraser, either get up or get out.” The change in tone snapping him away, his eyes blinking to adjust to the light, sitting up in seconds.

An immediate look of regret covering his face at the fast movements, the color draining from his cheeks, a clear sign of how sick he felt. You were fast to move, your arm across his back to lead him to the bathroom, Fraser hitting the floor within seconds of entering the room. Leaning over the toilet as you brushed a hand through his hair, trying to calm his heavy breathing as he finished.

“That was disgusting.” He spoke slow, his voice deeper than usual.

“Yeah? I’m sure you’re loving those shots for a second time.” He simply groaned, leaning his head back against you.

“Bed?” The energy had drained from his eyes, whatever had been left, and you nodded.

Moving to stand, urging Fraser to give you his hand to pull him up before leading him into your room. He moved to the bed, lying on it quickly before you told him off.

“Off, mints, get changed first, you’re never going to want to move if you lay now.” He nodded, moving off the bed, rummaging through your closest for the pile of clothes he kept.

He pulled his clothes off without a second thought, switching his jeans for sweats in the corner of your room. Your mind racing, looking everywhere but at the boy, shuffling your things around to make the bed fit for him. His body fell to the mattress quickly, melting into it in seconds, a groan of pleasure escaping his lips.

“I love your bed.” He mumbled, his face shoved in a pillow as you moved his body just enough to move the blankets over him.

“‘M glad you like it, Fras.” You kept your voice soft, keeping the boy in his sleepy state as you tried to leave, heading towards your couch for the night.

You had barely reached the bedroom door before he realized, sitting up quickly to stare at you, a look of confusion covering his face.

“Where are you going?” His question was slurred, no longer being able to tell if it came from the tiredness that cover him or the alcohol in his system.

“To go sleep.” You shot back, turning the light off, the lamp in the corner emitting the only light.

“Sleep here.”

“Fras-”

“Just sleep, I need you here.”

How could you deny him? The pleading voice, the puppy dog eyes, it was too much for anyone, leading you to curl into the bed beside him. His arms dragging you tight against his chest, letting you lean your head on his chest, feeling his breathing steady as he slipped into sleep.

“You’re so pretty I wish I could kiss you.” The words were mumbled, falling from Fraser’s lips just before, his eyes shut and breathing steady.

“Go to sleep, Fras, if you still want, you can kiss me in the morning.” Anyone could see the smile that grew on his face, even in the dark, his eyes still closed.

“I’m holding you to that.” He answered once more, his words fading near the end of the sentence, his body finally falling lax as he slipped off.

In the morning, when you awoke to find the bed empty, the only thought was Fraser regretted last night. The flirty remarks, sleeping curled up with you, doing things that friends don’t do. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes before making your way to the kitchen, reaching for the coffee pot, that was already full.

The coffee pot was full and hot, and Fraser sat on one of the few barstools you had lining the counter, his head in his hands as he glanced up at you, sparing a small smile.

“G’morning, Fras.” His eyes seemed to brighten at the sight of you, his smile growing when you spoke his name.

“Morning, pretty girl.”

It was near impossible to stop the flush from covering your face, turning back to the coffee at hand, pouring yourself a cup quickly. A smirk covered Fraser’s face when you turned, walking towards the empty stool beside him.

“How’s your head?” It was a cheeky question, earning a deserved eye roll from the boy before he spoke.

“Hurts.” He mumbled, taking another sip of his coffee before speaking again. “Our deal from last night, still on the table?”

The question caught you off guard, assuming he’d forgotten about it, choking slightly on your coffee.

“What?” You managed to couch out, Fraser's hand rubbing circles on your back to help calm you.

“You know, if I still wanted to kiss you?” He spoke so calm, as if it were so simply, as if it were crazy to react how you had.

“Are you serious? Fraser, don’t fuck with me like this.”

“Why would I lie about wanting to kiss the prettiest girl I know?”

The blush that covered your cheeks was unmistakable, Fraser’s hand moving up to cup your jaw, keeping your face towards his.

“Fra-”

“Please let me kiss you.” His words interrupted yours, sounding like a painful plea, ready to drop to his knees to beg.

You nodded, his other hand moving to cup the back of your neck, pulling you against him as he pressed his lips against yours. Melting in each other's body, your hands moving to tug gently on the curls at the nape of his neck, a soft groan escaping his lips. He kissed you like he needed it to live, pouring all his emotions into it, in return for you to do the same.

Panting for air as you pulled away, your hands still entangled in his hair, his hands having dropped to your waist, pulling you into his lap.

“I’ve waited so long to do that.” He was the first to speak, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before you could answer.

“You could’ve asked earlier, I would’ve let you. Fraser, I’ve always been yours.”

You could see his eyes soften, his pupils dilate with love. His grip on your waist tightening, tugging you impossibly closer to him, like you could never be close enough.

“I’ve always been yours too.”

#fraser minten #fraser minten x reader #saskatoon blades #fraser minten imagines #toronto maple leafs #mads writings!

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allofthebeanz · 5 days

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Happy 30th Anniversary to Pilot Dief

Some screenshots (of poor quality because 90s television) of the first wonderful Dief, Frankie. He was such a great actor and cutie pie, and the one Dief I could believe would be half wolf <3

#due south #diefenbaker #frankie you were so wonderful <3 #i hope everyone knows that when I write diefenbaker this is the one I'm depicting #piercing blue eyes just like Fraser #(and the attitude)#beanz rambles #ds30below

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flyinghome-againstthewind · 2 months

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Wednesday 100: to see the look on Claire’s face

The only news to rival the joy on Claire’s face when she learns of a new grandchild is when Marsali tells her they’ll return home to the ridge with them; this war has cost them so much — their safety, for one — and it almost cost them their children. Too close… They’d come too close to a nightmare they’d never return from.

She suspects Claire’s joy is actually greater now than months ago when Marsali shared the news of her fifth pregnancy — because they will be home for the birth, and altogether.

Marsali already knows the name, whether lass or laddie.

#wednesday100 #outlander #Claire Fraser #marsali fraser #saw the Bree & marsali moment in 6x05 and set out to write a Mandy & HC being mischievous together au #ended up writing a setup for it instead!#drabble

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miss-spookhead · 19 days

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thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

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saturnville · 10 months

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nightmare

45. “I had a nightmare about you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

author’s note: this was a part two that i never realized could be a part two until someone inboxed me and asked for a continuation of “the soldier’s lady.” this sat in my drafts for two years. so thank you to the supporter whose message encouraged me to finish it 🫶🏾 @queen-dk

Alone he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid. Lost between the beautiful, green mazes. Surrounded by thick stumps covered in damp moss, assaulted by crawlers at every direction, destroyed by his enemies.

Voice too coarse, too far gone to utter even a prayer to the Master he served. His hand, covered in blood and gashes filled with dirt and debris, clasped around his throat. His dry lips parted and nothing more than a small gasp dribbled out.

He cleared his throat. A sandpaper-like substance shimmied along the sides of his throat. He spat it out on a pile of crushed leaves and opened his mouth once more, managing to call out. He was greeted with silence.

Painfully, he scrambled to his feet. A string of obscenities passed his lips. His hands patted his waist in search for his sword. He only felt the tattered fabric of his kilt. Through blurred vision, he searched around, circling himself for his sacred weapon.

Loudly, he cried out again. He was answered with the rustling of the leaves and the clapping of a dangerous thunder. His chest heaved as he looked around, stumbling in every which direction.

Alone, he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid.

She awoke suddenly with a gasp. Thin lavender slip damp with sweat, soft skin heated from distress, she sat up slowly. Her eyes darted around the dark room, save for a beam of moonlight against her bed frame.

With a shaking hand, she brushed the stump of her hand across her forehead, sweeping away the perspiration that rested there.

Her non-dominant hand forced the warm covers off her body. Slowly, she swung her slender legs across the edge of the bed. They dangled, her heels jabbing the wooden frame.

A soft breath flew passed her dry lips. Her hands were a net for her head as she buried her face within her palms. Her cardiac muscle beat harder than wooden sticks against the tenor drums she saw a young boy playing weeks ago.

He was back home, yet subconsciously, she still worried for his well-being, for his safety. For almost two weeks, he’d been walking through the halls of the estate, healthy and strong in stature. Her worry was no longer necessary, but it never seemed to subside.

Theo nibbled along the inside of her cheek. Should she do it, she thought to herself. The young woman reached across her pillow and snatched her robe that warmed it, sliding it over her arms.

Her bare feet smoothed the cold floors as she padded around her bed and out of her bedroom. She started straight down the hallway and made a sharp left turn. In front of his bedroom door she stood. Hesitantly, she knocked softly.

A warm light peaked from the bottom of the door and gentle movements could be heard from the other side. She twiddled her fingers around a loose thread on the stomach of her slip.

After a few moments, the door opened. Theo smiled awkwardly, feeling small under his naturally intense gaze. She had trouble lifting her head to meet his.

“Why’re ye up, lass?” His voice was like water on a hot day—clear and crisp. Aila rolled her shoulders then shrugged.

“Had a nightmare about you,” she said quietly, her eyes nowhere near his. “Wanted to make sure you were okay...”

The man cracked a smile. His teeth peeked from behind his pink lips. Such a pretty sight, she thought to herself. He said nothing, only opened the door wider and nodded for her to enter.

She was hesitant. It was the first time she’d been in his room in the wee hours of the night. Theo stood in the middle of his bedroom, eyeing the knickknacks and other articles around. His desk was in the corner and it was littered with papers, some of them smeared with dark ink she assumed he knocked over.

His clothes were folded messily and tossed on a chest to her right. She shook her head. His messiness would never go away, it seemed.

Ahead of her, the flames of the fireplace danced and leapt swiftly.

“Tell me about this nightmare,” he asked of her. He palmed the door and closed it gently. Theo tore her eyes away from the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. Jamie moved to sit on his bed, hands rubbing his covered thighs.

“You were alone,” she started, eyes locked on the dancing flames in front of her. “had spent days alone in an area you did not know. Cold, starved, and afraid. No one could get to you.”

Jamie cocked his head to the side.

“I had nightmares like that all the time when you were gone.” Her voice was so small that he could hardly hear her. “I was scared you’d die out there alone. Hell, I thought you were dead the whole time you were gone.”

“Theo...” he inched towards her. His large hand cupped hers gently. “Ye should know ye canna get rid of me that easily.”

“You say that like you’re made of metal,” Jamie chuckled with a shake of her head. While any other time she would’ve scolded him for joking in a serious matter, she couldn’t help but feel the weight lift from her shoulders. He didn’t think she sounded ridiculous.

“Might as well be...come here, lass.”

With no sense of urgency, Theo’s legs carried her slowly to his bed. The weight was back. His soft demand made her nervous.

Jamie sensed her uneasiness and smiled. “Why’re ye nervous?”

“I...I don’t know,” she mumbled. Again, he ushered her over and she joined him on the bed. It was comfortable, she thought, as the bed dipped just slightly. Jamie laid against the pillow, while Aila sat upright, her legs crossed and her hands in her lap.

“You’re kind of intimidating,” Theo said after some moments. She turned her head and saw an amused grin on his beautiful lips.

“Is that so?”

Theo nodded. She scooted closer to him, finding it easier to relax. She shimmied onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Jamie turned his head to look at her. “Yeah. Maybe it’s your eyes. They’re pretty but intense. Or the scowl you always wear. You’re gonna mess around and lock your features into place.”

A hearty laugh fell from his lips which pulled a giggle from hers. “You truly believe me that?” Theo nodded . “Indeed, I do.”

“I thought about ye all the time,” Jamie said after some time. The portraits on the wall seemed to be less important as her attention was pulled from them. She met his eyes, “what?”

“I’m convinced,” he started. “that if I hadn’t thought of ye the way I did, I wouldn’t have survived. Ye were the one thing I held onto, Theo. I ken I had to come back to ye.”

“You’re just saying that,” she blew off bashfully. She moved to turn her head to face the ceiling but his hand grazing her skin halted the movement.

“No,” he said lowly. “Ye were the only thing I had to hold onto. And...ye mean a lot to me, lass.”

Theo found herself smiling. It was awkward and her lips quivered as they curled upwards, but nevertheless, she smiled a smile he found beautiful.

Jamie’s eyes fell from his eyes to her lips, tempting to pull her head close to his face and just taste them. He wondered if she tasted like the tea she drank twice a day—once in the morning and once a night.

“Can I...”

“...please,” she breathed.

He wasted no time in bringing his mouth to hers. She released a mewl of satisfaction. Her hands found his hair, and she gripped his frizzed curls tightly. He groaned softly into her mouth and she swallowed his sounds like a delicious meal.

His hands shook as they took place on her thighs. His fingers dug into the flesh and she whimpered softly. Theo’s fingers raked through his hair and massaged his scalp. Achaius felt his insides twist like a freshly wrung towel.

He'd never thought the day would come where he'd confess his feelings for her, let alone have her rocking on his lap like a ship on water and assaulting his neck. He enjoyed it more than words could explain.

"Jamie," she whimpered when it became too heated. She wanted him, but she couldn't put herself in such a position at the given moment. If they continued on, she was convinced things would've escalated in a manner she was unaware if she was ready for. “Can we just—“

Jamie sensed her growing anxiousness and tore his lips off of hers, and placed his hands on her middle back. His ocean eyes bore into hers and she was convinced if she stared long enough, they’d turn into a whirlpool and suck her in. Jamie brought her hand to kiss lips and kissed it gently. “Rest. And when you wake up, I’ll still be here. I promise.”

Theo nodded and rolled over to her side. She didn’t make it too far, as Jamie’s arm bracketed her to his side. She giggled softly, but accepted his closeness nonetheless.

“Good night, Theo.”

“Good night, Jamie.”

#saturnville #original writing #original content #original characters #original story #black!reader #jamie fraser x reader #jamie fraser fluff #jamie fraser x black reader #jamie fraser x female reader #jamie fraser x black!reader #the soldier’s lady pt 2 #old fic turned new #historical drama #inspired by outlander #outlander #outlander x female reader #outlander x reader

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jensky2000 · 2 months

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Chapters: 3 “The Blue Thistle”

One night at the "Blue Thistle", Claire and Jamie's worlds collide. After this chance encounter, one of them is in love and the other is running in the opposite direction. Will they listen to the little voices inside their heads or throw caution to the wind? Or maybe a little of both. Follow along in this revised and rewritten version of "Little Voices"

#ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #fanfic writing #outlander fanfic #outlander #outlander ao3 #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp

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userkayjay · 10 months

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Outlander S07E02 "Happiest Place On Earth"

Come in.

#outlander #outlanderedit #perioddramaedit #tvedit #lord john grey #jamie fraser #outlander spoilers #saltybenchday #i've had this in my drafts for weeks now and i wasn't gonna post it #because oh my god what even IS THIS LIGHTING ON JOHN/DAVID #but then something... happened #@SALTYBENCHDAY's writing happend #and... and... 🫨#now i have to

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opheliapenning · 11 months

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In these pages, I first understood what it meant to be another person. True empathy. Even if I was just a fledgling being constantly adapting, I could always dip my toes into the lives of others. It wasn��t imagination, as such, because I was there. These characters sunk their teeth somewhere inside my soul, and I was glad of it. No greater teacher existed.

- Ophelia Penning

#reading aesthetic #original writing #original prose #jo march #Queen Elizabeth II #hermione granger #beatrice edit #elizabeth bennet #natalie portman #jennifer jones #brianna mackenzie #brianna randall #brianna fraser #judi dench #women reading #ophelia penning

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walkinginland · 4 months

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when my time comes around

five times Jamie Fraser nearly dies, and one time he does canon-compliant 5+1 for Outlander part of my hozier song fics series; this one's based around "Work Song" aka the most JamieClaire song ever written.

one

Boys workin' on empty

Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?

Jamie Fraser is almost twenty years old the first time he truly comes near to death. Now, there had been no shortage of foolish boyhood accidents, and the illness that took his brother from him had not left him unscathed. But he is almost twenty years old, barely more than a child, the first time that he stares into that darkness, and feels it staring back.

The last few days have been a blur interspersed with sharp moments of startling, scarring clarity. Anger and shame and hurt and fear. He can’t comprehend how he had gone from pitching hay in Lallybroch’s fields to laying in a prison cell with his back flayed open and a burning infection creeping up his spine and into his limbs.

The fort physician has been kind, at least. Had let him cry, had set his hand gently on his shoulder, and done what little he could for Jamie’s shredded back. He had offered water and a bit of bread, said that it was important for him to keep his strength up. Jamie had taken some water, shook his head at the bread. He can’t imagine holding anything in his stomach when his whole body feels so hollow, carved out as cleanly as a hunted animal.

The physician’s best hadn’t been enough to prevent infection or erase the memory of the last time he saw his sister’s face, but it was something. He had handed him a worn out book, a worn-thin Bible with the smudged ink of fear-dampened hands.

“Here you are, lad. This belonged to another prisoner, but I reckon he knows the truth of it now better than any of us here do. Mayhap it’ll bring you some comfort.”

Jamie lays on his stomach on a creaking cot in a prison cell, trying to calm his spinning mind any way he can. He blinks at the tiny print of the Bible from an awkward angle, head tilted to the side and book resting on the edge of the cot, and tries to turn a page without pulling the muscles in his back. He had had no idea that the tips of his fingers were connected to the back of his shoulder in such an intimate way, but he is learning it now with every twitch in his hand.

He's not sure he is actually reading any of the words in front of him, couldn’t tell you which book or passage he has open before him. He could do without the chastisement of Saint Paul. Perhaps one of the Prophets, calling out doom and hope in the same breath. It feels fitting, somehow.

He steers far away from the whipping of Christ. Some things feel far different from a prison cell than they do in the pews in kirk of a Sunday.

His fingertips feel numb and the words in front of him blur, from tears or exhaustion or just the poor typeset and smeared lettering, he can’t tell.

The fingerprints and tear tracks that lived on these pages long before he opened them won’t judge him for the drops that find their way out of the corners of his eyes.

keep reading on ao3

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #jamie fraser #my writing #hozier fic series #when my time comes around #i haven't posted a full outlander fic in over two years 💀#who am i hello i guess i'm back??#anyways this is pretty heavy at times please take note of that before reading #but no main character death tag!!#because despite the summary this is canon compliant so jammf is not really dead. yet.

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adsosfraser · 10 months

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Chocolate, churros, scarves, and princesses

A modern au one-shot of Jamie and Claire

“Claire, mo ghraidh, mo Sorcha, I love ye so verra much-” Jamie gulped, the bob of his throat catching Claire’s eyes. “Will ye-”

The yes was on the tip of her tongue. And she was hoping more things would be on the tip of her tongue after an enthusiastic yes and vigorous round of celebration in their flat.

The light of the candle flickered in his blue eyes, darkened by the ambient lighting of the restaurant. His hand reached to hold hers, unsatisfied with just holding the one. She hadn’t felt a hard imprint in his pants or his suit jacket when they were pressed up against one another earlier, well other than the one she was intimately familiar with for almost two years now. But there was something about tonight. It was their first anniversary. Well, officially. Her cheeks flushed the entire day with thoughts of their more than adequate remembrance of it that morning. Being almost twenty minutes late to her shift was well worth it. There was a ring somewhere. She was sure of it.

Read on AO3

#outlander #jamie fraser #claire fraser #jamie x claire #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #adsofraser writing #modern au #fraser children #jamieclaire #one shot

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fraserbraw · 5 months

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home again, to his love.

john mactavish x f!reader

nsfw, MDNI, chubby reader, oral fem receiving, suggested p in v, johnny being so obsessed with his pretty little plush wife

john & johnny used

1.3k words

nsfw below cut <3

his footsteps sounded softly against the dirt pathway leading to your house, his heart beating from out of his chest.

john’s throat works at the sight of you in the distance, eyes drinking up your figure as if he was the desert and you were the ocean.

“‘m home,” he rasps out. you had been expecting him next week. “forgot t’ call.”

your breath leaves your lungs as his voice fills her your, your mind immediately jumping from the bread you were baking to him.

you rush over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. your husband, your johnny, came home to you.

whispered prayers and thanks in gaelic left your lips as you held him close, thankful to the lord for bringing him home to you once more.

john holds you, eyes closed as he breathes in the scent of you. the smell of you brings a calmness to the turbulent sea of emotions and stress that he holds inside. “i’m home,” he whispers back—he’s back, back with you again, where he knows he belongs.

warmth fills his eyes and heart as feelings of love overflow him on this happy night, his head tilting down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. “i missed you,” he says, “too much.”

you press kisses to his neck and jaw and face, finally crashing against his lips. you hold him close to your body as you absorb all of him.

“lord i hate when you go for so long.”

“i hate leavein’. it just ain’t a choice when yer in me sorta line o’ work.” his hand moves up your back, fingers gently stroking through you hair.

“how’s me bonnie been doin’ whilst i been gone?” he asks, that familiar scottish lilt in his words.

“i hope y’ ain’t workin’ yerself too hard here. i seen how thin yer gettin’ in the shoulders. i’ll have ta fix tha’.”

that accent always made you melt. you clung to him as if he was your life force, because in a way, he was. you needed each other, almost more than you needed air.

“i’ve been alright. cooking, mostly. isn’t the same when you’re not here to eat it.”

he hums and lets his hands find your shoulders, massaging right between them as you lean against him. he presses a kiss to the crown of your head before speaking.

“y’ got any leftover, love? m’ starved.”

you let out a soft groan as he massaged the soft tissue of your neck, your head falling against his chest.

you always smelled like a bakery. you owned one, so it made sense, but herbs and flour and warmth seemed to seep from you like the air you breathed.

“i’ll make some more for you. no one i’d rather cook for.”

john’s smile is like the sun cresting the horizon, breaking through clouds of stress and worry. he holds you close in the early morning light, your breaths slowing in that cozy moment that feels like hours.

“aye, love,” he rumbles, “i’ll eat all y’ make for me.” he kisses the top of your head, pulling you in even closer. “what else have you been up to? did ya finally watch that old western i told ya bout?”

you nuzzle into him. you felt like you could never get close enough. if you could crawl inside of him, you would in a heartbeat.

“mhm. watched it last night. i liked it.” you left out the fact that you had watched it every night since he left, clinging onto any part of him that you could in his absence. you knew the movie by heart.

with your face buried against him, john’s hands roam about underneath your shirt, tracing along your skin as he begins to kiss down your neck and move lower.

“tell me, darlin’, what else you been doin’ with yerself?” he asks, his mouth reaching your shoulder and nibbling on your collarbone. “have ya been usin’ the time wisely, hm?”

your eyes fluttered closed, your mouth slightly agape as he kissed all over you neck and collar, as his hands wandered under your shirt and teased just where he knew you would fold.

“mhm.. thinking about you a lot.”

that was all you could say. that was all you needed to say. you knew he would get the message. most nights, you would try to work yourself to an orgasm, wearing something of his. it never worked. not when it wasn’t him.

“ahh, love,” he groans against your skin, “y’ been missin’ me, hm?”

his hands go for the shirt you wear, working to pull it over your head.

his face is buried in your necks and shoulders, hot breath falling against the sensitive skin as his hands run along your skin; he couldn’t believe he had been away for so long.

“y’ been touchin’ yerself for me?” he asks, his words like smooth whisky.

soft whimpers escaped you as he pulled your shirt off, revealing your bare chest. it was a rare occasion when you wore something under your shirts or sweaters, so he knew he would be greeted with the sight of your exposed breasts.

you weren’t a skinny woman, not by any means. you were plush and soft and curvy, just how he loved you. your voice was soft and sweet as you answered him.

“m-mhm.. not the same when it’s not you..”

john’s smile stretches wide; he knows he’s going to be enjoying this.

he moves to his knees, pushing your skirt up over your hips and slotting himself between your legs. he looks up at you through his eyelashes, nosing against your clothed cunny.

you let out a soft gasp as he drops to his knees and lean more against the wall he had you pinned to. you could already feel the wetness of your own arousal begin to soak into the cotton.

“johnny..” you whispered, hands holding up your skirt.

“hmm?” he hummed, pressing kisses to your cunt. his arms wrapped around the backside of your thighs and his fingers played with the soft plush of your hips.

“somethin’ the matter, bonnie?”

you bit your lip and gazed down at him. your eyes closed and you leaned your head back as he licked a stripe up the cotton, the roughness of his stubble scratching so fucking good against your thighs.

his fingers slipped into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down and off of your legs. “told ye i was starved, didn’t i?” he taunted, pressing an unusually soft kiss to the outside of your excited and very much deprived pussy.

you didn’t even think to respond as he lapped at your cunt like a man starved. he ate you like it was his last meal on earth, lapping up anything that he possibly could.

mewls and moans left your lips as he devoured you, lapping at your entrance before moving to your clit. he ran the flat of his tongue over the bundle of nerves and swirled around it. it sent shivers down your spine and trembles through your thighs.

you had to fight off the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. your hand found his hair and tugged, louder and louder moans coming from you.

“f-fuck, johnny, i’m close-“ you moaned, breathy and full of pleasure. he only tightened his grip around your thighs.

“cum for me, bonnie. let me taste you.”

his voice sent vibrations through your cunt and spiraled you over the edge, cumming all over his face. he hummed happily and drank up all that your blessed body gave him.

of course, he didn’t stop there. no, he kept going, eating your pussy and groaning at the taste until you physically pulled him off with a “t-too much, johnny, fuck.”

he let you regain your balance for a second before standing back up and pulling you into his arms. he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and flashed that devilish smile at you.

“le’ me show ye how much i missed ye in the bedroom, aye?”

(a/n: thank you all for all the support <333 i’ll do a m!reader for the next post, feel free to suggest any and all ideas)

#me when #man #mmmmm #soap x reader #johnny x reader #soap mactavish x reader #no y/n #female reader #smut #fraserbraw #fraser writes #cunnilinctus #smash next question

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spacebugarts · 13 days

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Holy shit I just realized that my dreams have a version of PotO (Broadway version) where the Phantom just fuckin shoots Raoul in his box and it apparently happens not long after Masquerade? Like in place of the Red Death scene they all go into the theatre and Raoul is in box 5 alone for some reason and Erik just. Shoots the poor guy with a period-typical pistol and disappears. Raoul recovers eventually but its like the turning point of the story yk.

#also Philippe is in it!!!!!#hes the one that finds Raoul and takes care of him afterwards :)#also i have reoccurring dreams about being part(?) of a local theatre priduction of it #my position in the musical changes sometimes but the Raoul Getting Shot part is canon #to the degree where I noticed it was coming up and was confused when it didn't #turns out they wanted to try pushing it back a bit and I Did Not Vibe With That #most of the time im either a background actor or set design but once im pretty sure I was Raoul?#which was cool :)#bc in Dream Fashion the actors actually looked like my headcanons for the characters #so i got to be hadley fraser lol #i distinctly remember being on the set crew and getting excited when they got to Masquerade #bc it meant my favorite part was coming up lol #like i feel bad for Raoul bc hes my blorbo but the Tension! the Drama!#might fuck around and write about it idk #poto #phantom of the opera #rip Raoul you deserve better but Damn That Character Arc

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allofthebeanz · 20 days

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The Last Time by knightandgale (beanz) on ao3

Pairing: Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski

Rating: E

Tags: the porn is plot, bad sex, inexperienced sex, the boys figure it out

Summary:

It all starts after they catch Gilbert Wallace and lay the Robert Mackenzie to rest.

#due south #fraser/rayk #beanz writes #ds30below #ship week!!! (two weeks off but still!!!)

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flownwrong · 4 months

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perpetuum mobile (due South fic)

Fraser/Kowalski, 5k words, tags: first kiss, post-canon, 5+1 things

Summary: Nothing's permanent.

Written for @duesouthseekritsanta as a treat for @feroxargentea. Thanks to @wicked3659 for running dSSS this year, and happy 20th birthday to the exchange!

read on ao3

1999, 22:37, Yukon

"Three bags. How is it three bags? I'm not even doing souvenirs." Ray ran his hands through his hair, said, "Ow, ow, fucking ow," as the edge of his sleeve produced a visible spark of static electricity.

Dief nosed his way under Ray's elbow and stuck his face deep into a bag. Probably the one half-full with dirty laundry, seeing as Ray had spent a truly impressive amount of time putting the packing off.

Ray grabbed Dief's muzzle firmly in two hands and gave it an impatient shake. "Hey, eyes up here. How is it three bags, Dief?"

Dief snorted with enough derision to make the cabin walls wilt and nudged his way to the fireplace.

"Right, right. I thought we borrowed most of this stuff, how did..."

He crouched down and reached up a blind hand over his shoulder. Fraser put Ray's green scarf into the waiting palm. He wanted desperately to ask Ray why he was taking his winter gear back home in the first place.

"You're welcome to store any clothing or, ah, personal items here, between your visits." The words felt as presumptuous as they did inevitable.

Ray spun quickly on his knees and squinted at him, ever good at hearing the unsaid.

Fraser's neck was itching under the collar of his flannel. Days were getting hotter fast. "I can mail them to you at your request. The postal service here is really remarkably fast, considering."

Ray fingered the little hole in the scarf where a stitch had come undone. "No, no, you hang onto them."

His mouth was downturned, but his laugh lines were clearer now than Fraser has ever seen them. Between the windburn and the sun, Ray's skin was darker, eager to reveal the expressive motions of his face. Fraser looked his fill, already missing it fiercely.

Ray ducked his head. "Shit, when I was moving out, Stella looked like she'd nuke everything I didn't carry on my back." He linked his fingers behind his neck and shivered without moving, somehow. When he looked back up, his smile was a jolt of radiance. "Imagine how much shit I'd hoard around here in another ten years."

His throat felt tight as he reached for the thick mittens Ray'd hated so much on the trail. Feel like the T-Rex, he'd said, staring at the steaming snow where his cocoa mug landed, mouth downturned and quivering like a child's. Can't do a damn thing without you.

He'd been exhausted, one of those first days out, searching desperately for something that Fraser could never seem to get into focus, like looking through a dirty lens, or maybe from too close a distance. By the time they got back and Ray held the cabin door open for Fraser, he was—serene. A Ray he hoped nobody else had gotten to see.

Fraser came back with no serenity in sight, which was confusing and bitter and made him helplessly afraid of the four walls around him, of going back into the vastness beyond.

He turned the mittens over, traced the creases where they'd molded themselves to Ray's hands with his thumb. He could feel Ray's eyes following the motion.

Ray shook his head, his mouth a tight line. "Here, gimme a hand," he said and yanked hard at the duffel's zipper, once, twice, watching it catch on the green weave.

They took Maggie's kindly offered pickup to the airstrip. It was almost summer, the terrain free of snow. Diefenbaker refused to get out, sounding torn between whining and snarling. Ray climbed halfway up the seat and leaned into the back.

"Hey, mutt, you take that back," he said, hand pressed firmly into the thick fur at Dief's nape, "sure I'm coming back. Every chance I get, and—I'm not leaving, okay?" Ray's voice dropped, raw and frantic. "I can do it. You—I can do it." Fraser watched him lower his head, hands going slack on Dief, and hoped against all hope Ray knew who he was talking to.

Halfway through dinner—the last of Ray's artless stew made in a bout of either inspiration or procrastination—he put the spoon down and picked up the mittens he'd discarded on the windowsill. Can't do a damn thing without you, he thought, and felt like his chest was breaking open.

2000, 09:07, the 2-7

Huey was on Ray's phone as he walked up to his desk, which was nothing unusual, what with him being less than ten minutes late and probably not expected for another thirty, and Frannie was practically jumping up to peek over his shoulder, gesturing wildly as he spun around and around until she was practically growling.

He snapped his fingers at Ray, mouthing Fraser, and Ray ducked under Frannie's arm, snatching the phone from his hand.

"Ray?" the receiver asked in a tinny Fraser-voice.

"Hey. Couldn't wait to get me at home?" He was smiling like a sap, so loud it was kind of embarrassing. Two days since they last spoke. A real hair-trigger.

Someone called Fraser's name faintly on the other end of the line.

"Thank you kindly, Maggie, that won't be necessary, and Ray, I'm calling to give you my new address, actually," Fraser said without pausing for breath.

"At how much AM on a Monday? Wait, Maggie's there?"

"Ah, yes, Ray. She insisted on driving me from the airport."

Frannie nudged his shoulder and swerved him bodily until he could see Welsh tapping his left wrist and motioning for Ray to shake a leg. Ray made like Dief and shook his head instead, earning himself some dizziness. "Say again?"

"Ah, I should've mentioned it sooner, but—I took a posting at Whitehorse, as of tomorrow."

"You what? Wait, wait, your cabin didn't burn down or anything? Is Maggie—what?"

Frannie sure knew an opening when she saw one, so that was when she did a solid Michael Jordan impression and snatched the phone from Ray's hands.

"Frase! It's so good to hear you! You sound really, and I mean really—oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize"—she gave Ray a major stink-eye for no apparent reason—"yeah, yeah, I'll bring your highest regards, I'm printing them out as we speak. Yes, yes, I'm doing good, just, really good, I had this great date last night—well, not so great, kind of a douche, so it's not like it's going anywhere, and, HEY!"

"This," Ray brandished the recaptured receiver over his head, "is now a pay phone. Come back with a quarter, or, you know, don't."

That got him a shrug and a seriously dangerous-looking eye roll, but that was par for the course.

"Yeah, Fraser. So, what?"

Fraser cleared his throat twice, and wow, there must've been something really awkward he was going to drop on Ray's head.

"Well, Ray, the fact of it is, I found myself somewhat... unmoored."

"Unmoored."

"Yes, Ray. Unmoored. Out of my depth."

"In the Territories?" Ray's brow was gonna fall off if he frowned any harder.

"Yes—that is, no. It occurred to me that I have grown—possibly—too accustomed to the state of being, as you would put it, 'a capella'."

Ray swallowed and nodded, then blinked and realized he'd probably do better sitting down for this conversation.

"A capella, huh." He elbowed yesterday's paperwork aside and dropped into his chair. "Fraser, you do realize you get to choose now? If you wanna hide from the world, you go, convene with the caribou. You earned it."

He could hear Fraser rubbing his brow. "I don't want to hide from the world, Ray."

Ray opened his mouth to say, yes, 'course you do, I get it, but then—Fraser probably had fifty words for lonely, like the Inuit and their thing for snow. Maybe lonely has lost some of its appeal. Maybe lonely changed meaning, hopped across the dictionary, and, in a truly bizarre way, landed near "home". Well, shit. Trust Fraser to not act in Fraser's best interests.

"Okay," he heard himself say, raising a placating hand. "That's, um, good to hear."

"You know, Ray, John Keats noted in one of his odes that solitude is easier borne where one has the freedom to be expressly and unmistakably alone with nature rather than 'among the jumbled heap of murky buildings'. My time in Chicago was certainly proof enough. But the more I return to his words, the more I look at another passage—"

Huey caught his eye and mimed something vaguely threatening.

"—poem, which—"

Ray groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Jesus, Fraser. Now is not the time to be quoting poetry at me."

"Oh. Ray, I realise I sound somewhat maudlin—"

Ray waved his hand at the phone, annoyed at having his attention torn—never a good tactic with Fraser. "No, no, no, I don't mean it like—listen, Welsh will have my hide if I keep this up much longer. I'll get back to you when I'm home—or, um, when you're home, I guess. Gimme the number, will you?"

"Ah. Certainly, Ray."

Ray grabbed a post-it and wrote the digits down hastily.

"Be safe," Fraser said.

"Right. I will."

He dropped the handset back and stood up before he realized that, a) Fraser could easily call him after getting home, unless he planned to catch Ray with his hands tied and, b) with Fraser across the border and a zillion miles away, the murky buildings did suck massive balls.

He chewed on his thumbnail on his way to Welsh's office.

He chewed on it again after asking the kid behind the counter at the book spot near his place what the poem with the buildings was.

2003, 14:21, N. Octavia Ave

"This is ass-backwards, Fraser," Ray said, balancing seven shoeboxes between two arms and a knee, as Francesca said, "I'll nail your ass backwards to my door if you drop those pumps, bro," and Fraser said, "How so, Ray?"

"It's two weeks in Chicago. There's squat to do. What's not ass-backwards about this?"

Ray was being a hypocrite, really.

"Seeing as you have been spending much of your leave in Canada, I don't think you have a leg to stand on."

"Hell yes I don't, I'm holding shoes on my knee. Which, why are we hauling my ex-fake-sister's schmutter on our backs through the whole city on my day off?"

"It's three blocks, geez!" Francesca said.

"I'm sure you would appreciate the help were your positions reversed, Ray," Fraser added.

"Hey, casa de Ray is not going anywhere anytime soon," Ray said, defensive.

Francesca snorted and looked over her shoulder. "I bet."

Ray bared his teeth at her. "What's that supposed to mean?" He glanced longingly at a passing truck. "Jesus, Frannie, why don't you at least use those rolling rack things?"

Francesca sighed a sigh of the horribly wronged. "I'll roll your rack if—"

"I got it, I got it, you can pipe down now." Ray's hands twitched on the boxes, but he settled for a scowl, thankfully.

"Ray, it's only a short trip on foot—"

"Fraser, you're carrying dresses—"

"Yeah, Ray, and with you hogging the Fraser—"

"Me what?"

"Although, perhaps, in your condition, Francesca—"

"It's not a bug, Fraser, it's called pregnancy—"

"Me what?"

Francesca threw her hands up and stopped, turning on her heel. "Alright, alright." She closed her eyes and counted to ten under her breath, then jabbed a finger at Ray and kept talking to Fraser. "I know you came to see Ray, but it is two weeks. Forgive me for not realizing some time together that isn't yelling at each other over lasagna is too much to ask."

His hands grew cold so fast he wanted to push them against his rapidly warming face. "Francesca, I'm sorry I have given you the impression I don't enjoy my time together with you and your family."

She sighed wearily and looked skyward. "Impression. Right."

"There is a lot in this city for me to come back to," Fraser said, meeting Ray's eyes, wide and wounded.

Francesca's face softened into something like pity. Ray ducked his head and put the revered pumps down slowly.

"Hey," he said, and nudged Francesca's right boot gently with his left. "Whadda you say we get you settled and, um, you can make tea—or I can make tea, just not Fraser, I'm not drinking tree juice—and then we veg out? It's my day off. Got nowhere to be."

Francesca looked confused, primed for an explosion that never happened. Ray sent him a flash of a wink.

Ray was wrong: two weeks, even confined to city limits, was not nearly enough.

By the time Francesca let them go, it was getting dark. Ray scuffed the toe of his boot against the asphalt. "So, uh. Wanna catch a show? Or, or we could just get some grub—"

"I would love that, Ray."

Ray smiled, endearingly lopsided, then not, then snorted helplessly and started laughing, flinging an arm around Fraser's shoulders.

"Come on," he said, giving him a brief but firm shake. He piled Fraser into the GTO, put his glasses on without complaining—for once—about how he could drive just fine asleep with his hands tied, tossed him the cell phone and turned the keys in the ignition. "Chinese okay with you?"

Fraser dialed the number from memory and recited their order, which hadn't changed in years.

Ray's place was largely unchanged, too, and he felt a hot prick of shame for hoping that it was so. Ray'd swapped the television set for a newer, bigger one, and the plumbing seemed to have improved, the metallic smell of tap water less noticeable. The one toothbrush was perched precariously on the edge of the bathroom sink, near the empty cup.

The kitchen counter was still covered in junk mail. The photograph Maggie took of them, two days before Ray had to go, was pinned high on the fridge with a Leafs magnet he didn't expect to see here. He hoped Ray didn't look too hard at the picture—he thought he could see the cornered quality of his own gaze from where he was standing.

"Stay the night?" Ray said, folding back the flaps of his takeout bag and peering inside like he was waiting for something to jump out of it.

Fraser picked up the chopsticks—the nice ones Ray had bought for him and never commented on while snapping apart his own and rolling them between his palms to smooth out any splinters, every time for months and months of takeout dinners—and inhaled the fragrant steam, keeping his breathing even.

The hotel was a safety catch, as was, he supposed, the careful timing of their respective vacations so that they never overlapped fully. Ray had always held up his part of the unspoken deal. If this was a trust fall, he was willing to take it.

"Alright."

Ray's lips curved into a smile, unguarded and relieved, and Fraser's ribs felt tight.

2005, 23:49, apt. 309

Ray unbuckled the holster, his shoulder throbbing sharply.

He was slower than Elaine this time—equal parts pathetic and unnerving. Forty three was not it. He was not gonna croak at forty three, courtesy of some crook with sharp elbows. Fraser would laugh at him. Well, no, Fraser would frown at him. Dief would totally laugh at him.

He grabbed a Miller out of the fridge and picked up the phone.

"Hello, Ray," Fraser said, muffled.

"Hey yourself. Whatcha eating?"

"Oh—pizza."

"You got mushrooms on there?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do."

"Right," Ray said and looked at the mess of dishes in the sink. "Your funeral." He picked up the brush and stared at it before dropping it back into a dirty bowl and popping the beer open.

"How did the housewarming go?"

Elaine's building was nice, newer than his, a little further uptown, her apartment uncluttered but lived-in already. He'd stuck to people-watching in the corner, mostly, and wallowed in being too old to go anywhere now. It was kind of a good wallow, not sad or anything, just—content. Eight years on, he still liked his digs. Not like there was any need for a second bedroom—Fraser had always been cool with the couch.

"Uh, great, great. Got herself a good guy, Tony. A lawyer, no less. Wedding's next April."

Fraser was somehow smiling politely into his ear.

"What? What?"

"Oh, nothing, Ray. I got reminded of—that's not important."

Ray groaned. "God, Fraser. Elaine is way prettier—and sharper—than I ever was. And Tony—let's just say Stella he ain't. They'll knock it out of the park, you just wait."

"You've never not been sharp, Ray. Or, ah—eye-catching," Fraser said in this soft voice reserved for late night, before-bed calls. Ray had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second.

"Yeah, right, I'm a regular James Dean. Oh, and, speaking of—Vecchio was there. He's back, him and Stella."

"So I've heard."

There was a shrill whistle of the kettle in the background, and the clutter of Fraser putting the phone down to deal with it. Ray frowned at the mysterious stain on his sleeve and swallowed another mouthful of beer.

Stella wasn't at Elaine's, which was just as well, but Vecchio was, and they'd chatted about cars—Vecchio got zip right—and Frannie's youngest, and it was fine, none of the edgy shit Ray'd come to expect from himself.

Fraser picked up the phone with a click. "Sorry, Ray. Please go on."

"Um, yeah. We're all co-pathetic now. He's got this whole private dick deal—hey, why am I telling you this? You two must gossip like fishwives."

"Well, yes, we did talk not so long ago. But that's beside the point." There was a smile in Fraser's voice. Beside the point, huh.

Ray kind of drifted into the bedroom, shrugged out of his beat-up flannel, yanked the t-shirt up, got the phone tangled in it and gave up, flopping sideways onto the bed.

The shoulder was sore as hell. The glasses were starting to hurt, too, jammed between the phone and his ear, and he flung them onto the nightstand with a bit too much force, picked up the beer instead.

"How's the mutt?"

A gruff Dief-noise was reassuringly loud on the line. Last time he heard it there was an unpleasant wheeze tucked onto the end; not this time. He huffed back. Never let it be said he wasn't a great conversationalist. When it came to aging half-wolves who couldn't see or hear him, anyway.

"Hey, I know, I know. Took one today myself."

Dief sneezed. He knew it, he knew he'd never live it down.

"Diefenbaker, that was uncalled for." A grumble. "Are you alright, Ray?"

"Peachy. Bastard dislocated my shoulder. Elaine got him cuffed before I could whack him."

"I'm glad to hear that. You two make a good team."

"That we do, Fraser, that we do."

He got kinda lucky when Elaine made detective. He'd worked alone, mostly, a fact he knew Fraser knew and didn't seem too happy about. So when he'd finally partnered up with her, Fraser seemed to unclench, and she could hold her own, didn't chafe, didn't bring up any Fraser-memories.

Then again, his Fraser-memories were now as much snowball fights and Chicago museums he didn't even know existed and the flannel Fraser'd left on the couch that first night Ray got over himself and asked him to stay—because really, the whole hotel thing was chicken—as they were burning cars and ice crevasses and Vecchio's crappy fake mustache signaling his personal apocalypse.

"Hey," he said, as it clicked, not a hunch but a stone cold truth, "we made it."

There was a long pause, and Ray swore he could hear Fraser thinking. "Yes, Ray, so you've said."

"No, no, not me and Elaine. I meant, um, you and me." He willed Fraser to know, because he didn't have the right words to mean six years of calls and emails and goddamn visits—and here they were, off the clock and on the phone, pizza and beer, and the two zillion kilometers (zillion miles was around two zillion kilometers, he remembered) mattered fuck all.

"I suppose so, Ray," Fraser said, low, and Ray couldn't stop imagining his stupid dimples and his stupid graying temples and the passing months he'll get to see on his face, next visit, next coming back, soon, soon.

2006, 09:02, Whitehorse

He signed at the last line and set the turtle paperweight down on the forms, like a lock. Immediately thought better of it, picked the pile up and evened the edges out against the table, lengthwise first.

He was lucky to get so much—his job, the only one that mattered; his home, not a long trip away; the kindness the city has extended to him, of not having to be alone and not having to be lost. Ray, highly irregular, always coming back.

It gave him courage. Made it easier to think, I want this, even if I have to leave, I want it, and pick up the pen, the phone, the bags, start moving.

"Hi, Frase," Ray said on the phone, hoarse with sleep.

"Ray."

"Mm-hmm?"

"I'm putting in for a transfer. I thought you would appreciate a, ah, a heads-up this time."

"Oh, hey, right! The promotion—you going back up there to hug the trees, or, or, the lichens?"

Fraser knew Ray could name most of the trees and the lichens and the bird species to boot, but that was neither here nor there. He resisted the urge to straighten out his uniform, seeing as he wasn't wearing one, on a Saturday morning in his own kitchen.

"No, Ray. As a matter of fact, there is an administrative position open at the consulate." He rubbed his eyebrow. "In Chicago."

There was a rustle of sheets—Ray sitting up in bed. "Admini—what, a desk job? Oh God, a Thatcher job?"

"Well, if you mean international espionage, then, no." He thought briefly on the oxymoronic quality of them discussing something they should have had no knowledge of in the first place.

"Don't—no." Ray sighed unevenly, then was silent for a long time.

He worried at the corner of the paper right next to his signature. The whole form would probably need redoing. "It's rather more restrictive than I would prefer, given the choice—then again, my duties as a sergeant would be less than ideal concerning the time I'd spend in my office, so it wouldn't be a big change. And, while we wouldn't be able to partner on cases like we used to—"

"You want to partner up with me?" Ray sounded—dangerous.

"It's hardly news to you, Ray."

Ray was gaining momentum as he spoke, louder and faster and more desperate. "Given the choice, what, given the choice?"

He stopped abruptly. Fraser imagined him running a hand through his hair, mussed with sleep and yesterday's helping of product.

"Listen, Frase. Can't you, dunno, wait until Monday?"

"I certainly could, Ray, but—oh." He had to put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. The emptiness at his feet where Dief would curl up before still hurt acutely. "You don't want me back?" He sounded all of five years old and couldn't do a thing about it.

"No!" Ray's voice was a snarl, and it tore at Fraser's throat like it was his own. "God, Fraser, it's not back. Back is out there, back is away from that fucking desk, not Chicago."

It isn't Chicago, he wanted to say. You must know that much.

Ray's breathing came fast and uneven, like back in the GTO, when he shook apart after—and God, Fraser should have been smarter than this by now.

More rustling, the sound of Ray's open palm connecting with something solid once, twice. He wanted desperately to be standing there, to put his hand on the back of Ray's neck, rub circles against it like he didn't, hadn't dared to in that car.

"Ray—of all people, you know the most about what I can call home." It felt like a déjà vu. I don't want to hide from the world, Ray. He'd meant it more than anything, the choice of being alone where he'd been with Ray an unimaginable punishment.

There was a creak, like Ray was putting too much pressure on the receiver. "Yeah. Alright." He sniffled. "But, it's bad luck to paper shuffle on a Saturday morning, right?"

That was such a Ray non-sequitur it made him giggle recklessly. "Who said that, Ray?"

"Someone, I remember—they say it, okay? Just, go with me on this. Sleep on it. Forty-eight hours, and you do what you need to do. I have a hunch."

He opened his mouth to ask. Ray cut him off like he'd seen it.

"Uh-uh. Monday, okay? So we don't jinx it."

"So we don't jinx it," he repeated, willing to go with anything that got Ray saying sentences with the subject we.

The shrill ring of a doorbell almost knocked the phone out of Fraser's hand.

"Shit, should've left it broken," Ray mumbled. "Look, I have a, a thing here. I'll call you back, or, whatever, you know the drill. Just, forty-eight hours, okay? I'm counting."

"Forty-eight hours, Ray."

"Good."

He hung up, stared at the papers some more. Forty-eight hours had nothing on seven years.

Forty-eight hours, and Ray hadn't called, hadn't called it off, so Fraser walked into the RCMP building, up the stairs, turned left and—Ray was leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his beaten-up brown jacket, the same one he had on when he was leaving that first, most painful time. The slump of his shoulders screamed belligerent.

Ray pushed himself off the wall, jittery and graceful. "I've figured it out," he said, breathless. His hair was growing out, going half-heartedly for an unfamiliar slicked back look, and his eyes looked feverish. He looked younger than Fraser had ever known him, and older than he remembered. "I've figured it the fuck out. I quit, okay, I don't want to—" He kicked at the lone backpack at his feet. "Asked Stella to mail me what I need and nuke the rest."

Fraser couldn't take his eyes off him, three steps away, tried to think of something to say before he would inevitably move and knew the first thing out of his mouth would be a curse or a vow, no stopping it.

Ray crossed the distance and took the key from his limp hands, jammed it into the lock with too much force, said, c'mon, c'mon, and they were inside, door locked.

And then Ray was on Fraser, fists curled on his chest, forehead rubbing restlessly against his shoulder. "I figured it out, why didn't you say it, Fraser, Jesus, fucking desk job, fucking—poems, why didn't you just," and then Ray kissed him, or he kissed Ray, and someone was saying, "Fuck, I didn't know, I didn't know how, I didn't know, I swear," and they made it. They made it.

2023, 17:29, Yukon

"Ow, ow, fucking ow!"

He dropped the box and gave it a kick, and fuck, "Fuck, it better not be dishes in there."

Fraser picked the box up and stared at Ray's handwriting upside-down, frowned like he didn't get it, because of course he didn't, it was Ray's hand upside-down. "I don't believe so, Ray, if the weight and the sound are any indication."

He loaded the box into the back of the ancient pickup. If Ray was sentimental when he took it off Maggie's hands and rigged it up better than new, then it was a surprise to just about nobody.

"Good, good. I, uh, I really like Charlie's one."

Fraser hummed his agreement. "You know, she would make you another one if you asked."

"She's going to Vancouver, Frase."

"There are pottery wheels in Vancouver, Ray. In fact, Maggie said she had to argue with her for almost an hour about setting one up in the dormitory room."

Ray smiled and just knew he was gonna choke up, any second now. "Shit. Charlie's picking out prom dresses and we're—shit, Ben."

Fraser looked at him, and Ray was turned inside out not by the look itself, the same one Fraser had given him in the hallway at the ass-crack of dawn—seventeen, Jesus, years ago, the same one Fraser had given him many times before, if only Ray'd known how to—but it wasn't that, it was that they were both fucking retired and hauling their asses back into the great white only-two-of-us-here nowhere, and Fraser still had enough wonder in him, enough hesitance to look at Ray like he was an honest-to-god miracle.

Then he had the gall to look concerned. "We don't have to go, Ray. You like it here."

And, okay, that was it.

He picked the boxes up first, stacked the remaining ones neatly in the back. His back complained a little, which was okay, considering.

"C'mere," he said then, grabbed Fraser's hand impatiently and felt Fraser link their fingers together, easy as anything. Pulled some courage out of nowhere—which, hey, just how much longer would they have to do this courage thing?—and said, "Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, when to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. Or, uh, however that goes."

Fraser's head snapped up, eyebrows quirking, mouth reaching for a grin, but kind of a wobbly one.

Ray shrugged and didn't look away. "So. You say that again to me and count the fucks I give."

Fraser took a few big, heaving breaths and reached for Ray's right hand, brought it up to his cheek, soft with the beard he'd been growing out for the past few weeks.

"Hey." Ray turned their linked fingers so Fraser could see. "Look."

Fraser stared at Ray's ring finger, which, by the way, still hurt like a bitch.

"That box caught on my damn wedding band."

Fraser's crow's feet gave him away before a smile broke over his face, a bright and hopeful thing. Ray kissed the corner of it, kissed his eyelids, and his jaw, and his temple, and thought of home.

#my writing #due south #fraser/rayk #fraser/kowalski #benton fraser #ray kowalski #due south fic

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