Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG WHAT TO DO NEXT? Well, we have six months of time to pass before the second half of Season One comes along. So…what shall we do? Play Scrabble (double points for correctly-spelled Gaelic words)? Comb the internet for entertaining recaps of the first eight episodes? (Well, naturally we’ll do ¬_that_...but those aren’t endless, alas.) Post casting photos of actors you think should play Master Raymond, Bouton, and Mother Hildegarde, and fight over them? (Not on my page, you don’t…) Or make lists of “Things The OUTLANDER Store _Should_ Be Selling”? All good ideas, I think (except the casting fights). And I think we’ll do a few of them. But just for fun, I thought y’all might enjoy a few interspersions and additions From The Book. As Ron said—“In the beginning was the Word…” Which is to say, wonderful as the show is—and it _is_ wonderful, not the slightest doubt of that—they only have 16 hours of screen time. They can and do capture the essence of the characters and the shape of the story, but there’s no conceivable way that the show can encompass everything in sixteen hours that I did in 305,000 words. So I thought we might have fun—especially those of you who haven’t yet read the book(s)—looking at a few of the Missing Pieces. For instance, in Episode 8, we saw an exciting raid when the rent party is attacked at night by the Grants. And the following morning, Claire is taught how to kill with a blade. But what happened in between? #ReadWhileYouWait #OUTLANDER #RaidersInTheRocks #NoSpoilersInThisOne [The rent party has retired for the night, and Jamie and Claire are conversing quietly under their blankets.] I rolled over and put my arms about his neck. “Not as proud as I was. You were wonderful, Jamie. I’ve never seen anything like that.” He snorted deprecatingly, but I thought he was pleased, nonetheless. “Only a raid, Sassenach. I’ve been doin’ that since I was fourteen. It’s only in fun, ye see; it’s different when you’re up against someone who really means to kill ye.” “Fun,” I said, a little faintly. “Yes, quite.” His arms tightened around me, and one of the stroking hands dipped lower, beginning to inch my skirt upward. Clearly the thrill of the fight was being transmuted into a different kind of excitement. “Jamie! Not here!” I said, squirming away and pushing my skirt down again. “Are ye tired, Sassenach?” he asked with concern. “Dinna worry, I won’t take long.” Now both hands were at it, rucking the heavy fabric up in front. “No!” I replied, all too mindful of the twenty men lying a few feet away. “I’m not tired, it’s just—“ I gasped as his groping hand found its way between my legs. “Lord,” he said softly. “It’s slippery as waterweed.” “Jamie! There are twenty men sleeping right next to us!” I shouted in a whisper. “They wilna be sleeping long, if you keep talking.” He rolled on top of me, pinning me to the rock. His knee wedged between my thighs and began to work gently back and forth. Despite myself, my legs were beginning to loosen. Twenty-seven years of propriety were no match for several hundred thousand years of instinct. While my mind might object to being taken on a bare rock next to several sleeping soldiers, my body plainly considered itself the spoils of war and was eager to complete the formalities of surrender. He kissed me, long and deep, his tongue sweet and restless in my mouth. “Jamie,” I panted. He pushed his kilt out of the way and pressed my hand against him. “Bloody Christ,” I said, impressed despite myself. My sense of propriety slipped another notch. “Fighting gives ye a terrible cockstand, after. Ye want me, do ye no?” he said, pulling back a little to look at me. It seemed pointless to deny it, what with all the evidence to hand. He was hard as a brass rod against my bared thigh. “Er…yes…but…” He took a firm grip on my shoulders with both hands. “Be quiet, Sassenach,” he said with authority. “It isn’t going to take verra long.” It didn’t. I began to climax with the first powerful thrust, in long, racking spasms. I dug my fingers hard into his back and held on, biting the fabric of his shirt to muffle my sounds. In less than a dozen strokes, I felt his testicles contract, tight against his body, and the warm flood of his own release. He lowered himself slowly to the side and lay trembling. The blood was still beating heavily in my ears, echoing the fading pulse between my legs. Jamie’s hand lay on my breast, limp and heavy. Turning my head, I could see the dim figure of the sentry, leaning against a rock on the far side of the fire. He had his back tactfully turned. I was mildly shocked to realize that I was not even embarrassed. I wondered rather dimly whether I would be in the morning, and wondered no more.
Posted on: Sun, 28 Sep 2014 23:24:06 +0000
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