Hopefully confirmation will come soon! I know at least one of the mods is very busy with Stuff at the moment but I'll drop her a line.
In the meantime, because it's clear by now that feeding you TT-related content is The Most Fun Ever *loves pimping so much* *that was probably obvious, huh?* - have a wee whumpers fic of mine in comments - it was for a 'partially finished fic' posting drive but it stands OK alone I think:
Working Title: Mud Pairing: Jason/Mark with mention of Mark/Robbie Rating: R Warnings: None Disclaimer: None of it really happened. In case you thought TT were actually medieval or something...
--- Jason carried him through the courtyard, into the castle, all the way up all of the stairs and along the narrow corridor to their chamber. Mark couldn’t help but allow his head to rest against his husband’s chest, seeking the warmth coming through the rough shirt of homespun; Jason had been hard at work all morning and his skin fairly glowed -‘uncouth, sweaty, stinking peasant labourer’, that was what Mark had called him, and to his face, but it was truly not so unpleasant a scent. And as for Mark’s body, it was exhausted, pliant in Jason’s arms and his throat was sore with angry weeping.
Though Jason’s arms never trembled and he made no sound, they moved at a gentle pace; the walls were thick in this, the oldest part of the castle and Mark couldn’t hear the rain any more, only Jason’s heartbeat and his own shivering.
From the first night he had come to it three months earlier, Mark had always seen their chamber as mean and meagre, always compared it to what he might have had, always looked askance at the simple furniture and unsophisticated decorations. And yet now, as he was brought in, and he saw the wide wooden bath sitting waiting, steaming, in the middle of the floor, he would not have exchanged it for a room of solid gold.
“Let go now,” Jason murmured, and Mark realised he’d slid his hands around the back of Jason’s neck, and that Jason was trying to let him down to the ground. Blushing, he unclasped them and attempted to stand up, only stumbling a little.
Jason was regarding him with an expression that was not entirely contemptuous, brows furrowed in thought – ‘monk, squint-eyed monk’ Sir Robert had named him, whispering with laughter into Mark’s ear, and Mark had giggled, squirming on his knee with glee and thinking how when Sir Robert married him they would sit just so, every night and be the envy of everyone.
“You have made an effort today, for which I thank you.” Jason’s speech was more refined than Mark was yet remembering to expect, and it confused him.
“I’ve ruined my jerkin,” he pointed out, gesturing at the mud caked all over his clothes, hands and face – dear heaven, even in his hair. Not the right thing to say, neither clever nor elegant, but he was unaccountably nervous. “My silk jerkin.”
Jason’s face broke in a smile and a laugh, and it was quite extraordinary, really, how different that made him look. “Peace! With the fruits of your efforts today perhaps we can visit the St Bartholomew Fair at Claister after all. I know it shall be no equal to your London finery, but if that will bring your happiness.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Free Gift Fic -1
Date: 2011-03-17 01:53 am (UTC)In the meantime, because it's clear by now that feeding you TT-related content is The Most Fun Ever *loves pimping so much* *that was probably obvious, huh?* - have a wee whumpers fic of mine in comments - it was for a 'partially finished fic' posting drive but it stands OK alone I think:
Working Title: Mud
Pairing: Jason/Mark with mention of Mark/Robbie
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: None of it really happened. In case you thought TT were actually medieval or something...
---
Jason carried him through the courtyard, into the castle, all the way up all of the stairs and along the narrow corridor to their chamber. Mark couldn’t help but allow his head to rest against his husband’s chest, seeking the warmth coming through the rough shirt of homespun; Jason had been hard at work all morning and his skin fairly glowed -‘uncouth, sweaty, stinking peasant labourer’, that was what Mark had called him, and to his face, but it was truly not so unpleasant a scent. And as for Mark’s body, it was exhausted, pliant in Jason’s arms and his throat was sore with angry weeping.
Though Jason’s arms never trembled and he made no sound, they moved at a gentle pace; the walls were thick in this, the oldest part of the castle and Mark couldn’t hear the rain any more, only Jason’s heartbeat and his own shivering.
From the first night he had come to it three months earlier, Mark had always seen their chamber as mean and meagre, always compared it to what he might have had, always looked askance at the simple furniture and unsophisticated decorations. And yet now, as he was brought in, and he saw the wide wooden bath sitting waiting, steaming, in the middle of the floor, he would not have exchanged it for a room of solid gold.
“Let go now,” Jason murmured, and Mark realised he’d slid his hands around the back of Jason’s neck, and that Jason was trying to let him down to the ground. Blushing, he unclasped them and attempted to stand up, only stumbling a little.
Jason was regarding him with an expression that was not entirely contemptuous, brows furrowed in thought – ‘monk, squint-eyed monk’ Sir Robert had named him, whispering with laughter into Mark’s ear, and Mark had giggled, squirming on his knee with glee and thinking how when Sir Robert married him they would sit just so, every night and be the envy of everyone.
“You have made an effort today, for which I thank you.” Jason’s speech was more refined than Mark was yet remembering to expect, and it confused him.
“I’ve ruined my jerkin,” he pointed out, gesturing at the mud caked all over his clothes, hands and face – dear heaven, even in his hair. Not the right thing to say, neither clever nor elegant, but he was unaccountably nervous. “My silk jerkin.”
Jason’s face broke in a smile and a laugh, and it was quite extraordinary, really, how different that made him look. “Peace! With the fruits of your efforts today perhaps we can visit the St Bartholomew Fair at Claister after all. I know it shall be no equal to your London finery, but if that will bring your happiness.”