Work Header

Redcoat Blues

Work Text:

Black Jack Randall pours himself a brandy and sits at the head of an empty table. He slurps from the lead crystal he knows deserves better treatment. It seems he can’t help himself these days.

The young redcoat he has left bent over in the casement hastens to pull up his breeches. “I do not think anyone saw us, Captain,” he says, voice tremulous with the fear of being discovered and the aftermath of Randall’s buggery. “My ribbon - where did it go?”

Randall flicks the scrap of black cotton across the table and watches with a dyspeptic eye as the boy snatches it up and ties back his strawberry blond curls.

Strawberry blond. The closest Randall could find to red.

The boy smiles sheepishly, casts a final glance towards the yard beyond the window and leaves.

“I do not care,” says Randall to the empty room.

And he doesn’t. Not any more. He used to – a little. He has to admit that his feelings in recent weeks have proven more mutable than he imagined them to be. He has never thought of himself as a man prone to regret, considering it to be the province of the weak. It is an emotion so alien to him that when he first experienced it, he did not recognise it for what it was. It seemed nothing more than a series of fantasies connected only by the constant presence of Jamie Fraser and a yawning sensation within his breast. It was only when those momentary fantasies transmuted into hour long fugues that interfered with his duties and poisoned the pleasure he took in his rutting that he could put a name to the feeling.

“Make no mistake,” says Randall pointing a finger at the hearth, “slitting the throat of that boy is the only thing I do – and ever will – regret. But I had given him my word, you understand? There was no going back on that.”

The fire burns on, unmoved by his words and so very far away – warm and red and alive.

Sunlight streams down upon their bed. Randall watches Jamie sleep, the Highlander’s crooked hand at rest on his slowly heaving chest, light passing through the red-gold of a day and night’s beard growth. He takes a lock of sleep-slicked hair and dresses it into a curl upon the pale forehead. The chest heaves more deeply and Jamie awakes. Eyes like shining blue coins turn towards his lover and his lips curve into that one-sided smile that sometimes threatens to become a sneer but rarely does. And he says, to Randall’s delight, “I love your eyes.”

The redcoat captain’s lips work. “Do you really? Tell me why.”

“They’re like an owl’s. They make me feel peaceful. They’re so big and round.”

He allows a smile of satisfaction to creep over his face. He cocks his head. “Say that word again.”

“What word?”

“The last one.”

“Oh. R-r-r-r-r-ooond.”

Chuckling, Randall lowers his head and kisses Jamie on the mouth. There is no pretending it is anything other than a man’s mouth. His unshaven flesh is softer than the average man’s but nothing like a woman’s. His mouth is bigger and his shell-coloured lips, though finely drawn, are thinner. Randall puts a hand under his chin and kisses this man and this man kisses him back, sleepy and receptive. He runs a soft tongue over Jamie’s lips until he feels them open to him. He slips it inside. Their teeth clash momentarily. Saliva builds between their mouths; Randall gathers it in his lips and drinks.

A knock at the door breaks the mood. “Come,” shouts the captain. A maid scuttles over to the bed with a silver tray on which sit a silver teapot and porcelain cups, boiled eggs, hot toast and a slab of butter.

“Breakfast in bed?” Jamie is suddenly alert, tossing his curls into shape and pushing himself upright against the countless white pillows.

Randall takes a triangle of toast and a knife, spreads it thickly and moves it towards his lover’s willing mouth. Just before it reaches that cavern, however, melted butter makes its escape and lands on Jamie’s nipple, making them both laugh. Holding the maid’s eyes in his wicked gaze, Randall bends and licks the butter from the young laird’s chest – slowly, so his tongue has time to feel that morsel of engorged flesh pressing up into it. As the maid’s eyes widen and her mouth becomes an “O”, Randall draws up the skin in one long, hard suck, hearing Jamie moan as he does so.

The tea-tray clatters onto the bedside table as the maid hurries from the room.

Randall thinks, Men are wasted on women.

He watches Jamie eat, taking only small sips of milkless tea himself so as not to be distracted from the visual feast. The Highlander has the appetite of a clan and a half. He devours the toast so quickly Randall barely has time to count the slices. He stops only to dab at his mouth with the expensive linen the captain always provides, eyes flicking up to check his table manners meet with his approval.

Randall’s smile is wry. He nods – Continue.

As eggs and tea disappear, Randall imagines the power stored within them strengthening and animating the glorious male animal before him. He can almost see lines of energy branching out from his centre and passing into his limbs, making them quick, making that chest swell proudly, making his hair and eyes bright. He muses that it is not simply Jamie’s unarguably beautiful body and spirit that bewitch him but that expressive face. Although Jamie is stoic and possessed of that avuncular turn of phrase that can make a grown man or woman feel like a cherished child, he lacks the granite-faced dourness Randall has noted amongst other Highlanders. All that is best in man and boy comes together in Jamie Fraser. “I am afraid we must get dressed,” he says reluctantly. “We have a busy day ahead of us.”

And, yes, there it is. Disappointment writ large. “Can we no have ten minutes to ourselves?”

“Ten minutes?” Randall climbs out of bed and picks up his uniform from the bedroom floor. “Is that all you were planning on granting me?”

Jamie looks chastened but then a roguish look peeks up from beneath a raised eyebrow and a fall of shaggy auburn hair. “Alright, then. But at least let me help you dress.” He jumps off the bed, grabs Randall’s full-sleeved shirt and holds it up by the shoulders.

The captain makes him wait while he slides on white breeches, lingering a little in his touch as he places himself into his preferred position and buttons up.

Jamie’s lips press against one another but he does not speak. When given the signal, he drops the white shirt over Randall’s head and watches him pull it into shape.

Jamie is an exceptionally husky man but they are both tall men and as they dress, they are face-to-face. Randall ties a fresh white stock around Jamie’s neck with expert fingers but watches in awe as the Scotsman performs the arcane ritual of wrapping himself in his kilt. The captain pulls on his red waistcoat and topcoat, adjusting collar and cuffs until he succeeds in creating an air both of crisp authority and a certain libertine flamboyance.

Jamie’s fingers reach out and touch the gold braid near the captain’s throat, running all the way down over the bulge of his chest with an attentiveness that touches upon worship.

For a moment, Randall imagines himself pinning this dream-state Jamie to the wall and taking him roughly but instead he brings a low hand onto his thigh and pushes it upwards under his kilt.

There is a flicker across the young laird’s face as Randall’s hand finds its home.

It is not enough just to touch. He lifts Jamie’s kilt, folding back the wool to waist level and revealing everything below. Oh, cry God for Bonnie Scotland! His cockstand is fearless, inviting both terror and desire as appropriate responses. Jamie always looks big, though, even when limp. Not like Randall, whose size grows with his excitement.

That excitement is perfectly visible now even under his clothes. Aware of Jamie’s gaze, Randall unbuttons his breeches and frees himself. As ever, the redhead’s eyes widen as if surprised to discover other men swell as he does himself. He makes to go down on his knees but Randall has other plans, taking his shoulders and pressing him onto his side on the bed. “But do we have time?” asks Jamie anxiously.

“There is always time,” he says as he lies down beside him, “for Jonathan Randall and Jamie Fraser to bring each other to their crises.” They kiss once and then the captain is moving round to lie in the other direction and they find themselves facing each other’s hard members. With their owners still fully-dressed, these naked cocks look anarchic, braying their need to the air. Randall sees Jamie’s generous mouth open and the head of his cock disappear into it. His lips stay fixed on the skin as Randall begins to pump his hips just a little, pumping the head in and out. There’s a sudden warm sensation and he realises a hand has closed around his balls and is softly rolling them.

…and then there is nothing but the shadowy world beneath Jamie’s kilt. A strong smell of musk and wool. A play of muscle fine as that of a prize stallion. The prickle of a well-furred thigh against his cheek. The long, fleshy sword of the Highlander skewering his throat, making him gag gladly and open, open to this most welcome penetration…

Sometimes, Randall’s fugue takes him back to the moment he took Jamie’s life in Wentworth Prison, the moment he pulled the naked boy up from the pallet, stood behind him and slit his throat. Quickly. Cleanly. The way it had to be. But time after time, he elaborates upon it.

He is pressed, naked as the one he is destroying, against Jamie’s back, his head in the crook of his shoulder, mouth sweeping up and down that firm right angle. Every quiver that is Jamie, every involuntary sound, every scent is consumed and known at the point of his death. The experience of his death is a shared one.

Once – and this made even Randall’s eyes widen at the prospect – he pictured himself sodomising the young Scot at that very moment. He has heard it told that the spasms of death occur inside as well as out and that it is not unheard of for conquering soldiers to sodomise their dying enemies on the battlefield. So in this singular fantasy, his cock is buried deep in Jamie’s bowels, his left arm hooked around his chest, hand splayed over one huge pectoral as his right draws a red line through that lovely neck. And the quivering tightness inside is replace by a staccato clenching of such power it threatens to tear off his cock at the root. Instead, it pulls from him an orgasm so powerful it seems his soul must surely pass out of his body along with his essence. He topples with the giant, clinging to his back, crying out as each delicious spasm rocks him. Such a unique harmony, his cries of pleasure and the sputterings of the heart’s blood of the most beautiful creature he has ever known as it spills upon the befouled prison floor.

No. This is not what he really craves. The darkness inside him could find no true outlet without its foil.

Not Wentworth now. His own rooms – a special room he keeps for special guests. There are chains and racks but there are also piles of velvet and satin cushions, a desk, a tub, a chaise longue.

Jamie has been washed. It had been a delightful experience kneeling at the side of the tub and squeezing a sponge laden with soapy water across his chest, watching it run down his taut stomach, leaving him shining. Washing his hair. Pulling back his foreskin and gently wiping around the dark pink head while the tough young Highlander winced. Leaning him forwards and washing his anus, lightly tickling his balls until he saw that sweet puckered hole clench. Even brushing his teeth.

And now to the chaise where Randall has him lie on his belly. There it is – the boy’s ruined back. He straddles him. The Laird of Lallybroch twitches, unsure what’s to come. Randall’s tongue moves behind his teeth in anticipation as he produces a leather belt and shows it to his playfellow.

Jamie’s eyes cloud as he recognises it for the instrument for beating it is. “I thought as much,” he spits.

“Oh no,” says Randall, “not that.” He runs an appreciative hand across Jamie’s numerous scars. “My work here is done.” Instead, he plunges a hand into the mop that seems made for such cruel treatment and lifts his head. The next thing the redhead knows, the leather belt is being fastened around his neck just above his Adam’s apple. Randall leaves it so the slightest flick of thumb and forefinger will tighten it.

Jamie is feeling feisty. “So,” he says, “you’re going to choke me if I don’t -?”

“Oh, I am going to choke you no matter what. But I am not going to kill you. Believe me, however close you feel to dying, I will not let that happen. I will be keeping a very close watch on your face.” And with that, he cinches the belt just a little so the Highlander coughs and goes red about the neck. It pleases Randall very much. Then he turns his attention to his masterpiece, the raised scars created by his twin floggings that form a pattern complex as a Turkish carpet on Jamie’s back. The captain is not wearing his redcoat uniform today but a loose-fitting white nightshirt. It is nothing for him to lift the hem and lay his semi-erect member in the small of the boy’s back. With the application of a little oil of lavender, he is ready to begin.

He does not bugger Jamie. Nothing so simple. He moves his hips where they are, rubbing his lubricated cock against the ridged flesh. He closes his eyes and puts back his head, glorying in the unusual, unpredictable sensation. He grasps Jamie’s hair, forcing his head down with each thrust, making him moan into the cushions. He covers the length of his back, ensuring not one square inch of abused skin escapes this second claiming. The cockhead leaks as Randall’s excitement increases and this, too, is massaged into skin that grows redder and redder with the friction, scar tissue standing out white against it.

That is one of the things Randall finds delightful about redheads. Though their faces and their postures might remain composed, the reddening of their skin gives away their passion: fear, embarrassment, excitement, suffering.

Jamie’s back is strong enough to support the captain, broad enough to force his knees apart so even his perineum makes contact with the young bull he is riding.

Randall leans forwards and whispers in the Highlander’s ear. “Are you ready?” He means to come.

Jamie furnishes him with no response but Randall notes the slackness of his mouth, the heavy breaths that make his body throb. He smiles his viper smile. He lets go of the shaggy curls and wraps his fingers around the free end of the belt instead. Keeping his face close to Jamie’s, he places his left hand over his cock, creating a seal between it and the skin of the boy’s back. He begins to thrust in earnest, all the while slowly increasing the pressure on his neck.

He is rapt in Jamie’s reactions and each new level of distress gives power to his passion. Jamie’s colour deepens, flushing upwards from his neck; Randall’s hips go into overdrive. Jamie’s gaze turns glassy, eyes beginning to tear; Randall begins to gasp, teeth bared against the boy’s ear; Jamie’s mouth gapes and a deep choking makes him drool onto the red velvet.

Randall lets go of the belt and as the young laird’s head flops in relief, he points his angry-looking member at him. Stomach muscles quiver as the knot inside is undone and he fires across his face. He wastes not a drop, pulling with his fist now, face grim even as he shudders out the last strings of his orgasm, ensuring the final, weaker spurts are still shaken over the laird’s cheeks.

As if in a trance, Jamie’s fingers move up to his face, gather the semen dripping from his sharp cheekbones and smear it into his mouth. His tongue moves forwards to taste it.

Then, satisfied, his lips close over his fingers, his eyelids droop and he withdraws into a swoon of pleasure, suckling on the captain’s come.

Randall grins his approval.

He is riding with the dragoons one day and then suddenly he isn’t. It’s only when another redcoat trots his horse back down the line to ask why he has stopped that he realises he has. He stares at the younger man angrily, as if blaming him for the quality of the visions that have shortly haunted him. Visions so vivid, he can still feel the imprint of that fantastic body upon him: hands clutching at his chest, teeth on his ear, what feels like a white-hot sword standing upright in his bowels…

Wentworth Prison again. This time, Jamie has gained the upper hand. Has Randall let him? Maybe – maybe not. Whatever the case may be, there is a Scotsman of terrible power behind him, pinning him to the black stone wall. Randall’s lips are a trenchant line as he listens to the filthy threats the Highlander is pouring into his ear. But all he really hears is the romance of the Scottish accent – the explosive consonants, the pitch and yaw of the vowels, the alien, evocative words. One hand pins his wrists above his head while the other pulls down his breeches, exposing his pale buttocks. Fingers quest, making his cock twitch, slapping left cheek then right and finally pushing inside. Randall lets out a long cry as if this is what he’s been seeking all along. Is it really? Is it?

Jamie growls and bites him on the shoulder. He seems content that Randall will not now resist and brings both hands down to his hips, parting his cheeks and pressing his barely-lubricated cock against his enemy’s fundament.

It’s a giant’s cock, too big, surely, for anyone to bear. As it splits Randall apart, he screams. All other sensation is lost. There is only the cock now, the impalement, the rawness of his anus beyond which lives the exquisite sensation of wet sliding. His insides are no longer a private place; they are owned by another. He is lost and finally happy.

A brutish rhythm begins that mashes him against the grimy wall. To save himself from that, he leans back into the young laird’s embrace and Jamie Fraser proves big enough to hold him upright, arms surrounding him. Red hair spatters its sweat over his shoulders while a belly convulses against his behind. It is like being swallowed by a giant oyster. There is flesh everywhere. He can smell the flesh of another man more strongly than his own. Randall knows this is the way it would have been had it ever happened. He remembers the feel of the boy’s skin was like a furnace: burning cheeks and belly flesh, fingers and toes. Bull-warmth. Stable-warmth.

One of Jamie’s hands clasps over Randall’s and carries him to his own cock. Together, they stroke that neglected member. As the pace quickens, Jamie humping him like the great bear that he is, Randall turns his head and finds he can just make out flashes of Jamie’s profile: a gasping mouth, a sweat-beaded cheek. Randall’s lips evert and he reaches out with his tongue, just making contact with a beauty spot when the magnificent creature lets out a strangled cry and thrusts as if trying to reach the captain’s heart. Then for a moment, all is still. The Scotsman and the Englishman wait together, quivering. And Jamie says simply, “Sassenach,” releasing a torrent of warmth into Randall’s insides, filling every part of him.

Full of cock, full of cream, engulfed by the flesh of the Highlander, Randall feels his own cock shoot, semen hitting the black wall. “I wish I were Claire,” he moans…

…the redcoat reels as he is struck across the face.

Is it true? Randall finds himself reflected in an empty pewter plate propped up on the sideboard. He tamps down the leadshot in the muzzle of his flintlock pistol and primes the pan. Second nature, loading a weapon. He hardly needs to look. He unties his dark hair and pulls it around his face. Bewitching hair. Wood nymph hair. He sneers. He turns the flintlock to face him and looks into it, away from the pretty, false image. Click-click, it says.

Randall answers. “I am not Claire.”