#oftheridge

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        ❝ christ, mr fraser, you scared me half to death! ❞ aoife’s heart --- an uncertain thing at the best of times --- is pounding faster than a soldier’s drumbeat, and though she doesn’t realise it, she’s half-hidden herself behind the horse. aye, she’s a jumpy one, aoife knows that, but with good reason. especially when it comes to men of mr fraser’s size. but a man can hardly sneak around his own stables, can he? she’s the one without permission to be in here.

@oftheridge gets a badly drawen portrait of baby Jamie making a horse sit like a pupper 

it had been a fleeting moment, one that had passed so quick that you barely had time to register the word that had slipped from your tongue. focusing on the bucket of straw at your feet, you feel your cheeks burn. because this word that you allowed yourself to speak isn’t one that’s reserved for him. no. it’s always been for frank randall and frank randall alone. and speaking it to jamie fraser has caused an immense about of guilt to bury itself into your tummy. 

daddy. should a word harbour so much meaning? not usually, but to you, the words expressed for father have been quite complicated. the bray of the donkey manages to pull you from your thoughts and you find yourself clearing your throat. awkward as you may feel now, you can’t exactly take it back. or try and change the topic of conversation. you’d called him what you had and you know you meant it. lifting straw, you hold it out for the creature to eat before you tuck loose strands of your inflamed hair behind your ear. “what’s his name?” you point, trying to avoid your father’s eyes, god knows how he took it, “the donkey, i mean.”