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discoveredinaljI'm a bit excited about this - inspired by a rather fab picture that was posted to my lj in a comment this morning, I actually sat down and began writing, and I actually carried on doing so all day, until I'd finished a wee fic! And then I realised that it also fit one of the prompts on my Pros Bingo Card, which I've neglected shamefully so far this year, and... well, this is a fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loxleyprince, with her picture included in the right place (and I hope you don't mind me doing that, loxleyprince). It's a historical AU, with apologies to anyone who might actually know about the High Middle Ages, and with hopes that it's at least vaguely still our lads... It's almost my first Pros historical AU (complete, anyway), apart from a Jack the Ripper crossover snippet from years ago, so it's a bit worriting, and like I say, the 1000s aren't exactly a period I'm familiar with, but... but that's enough rabbiting on. Here 'tis. *crosses fingers* *g*
A Stranger on the Path
by Slantedlight
It had been the first clear day of spring, and dusk had fallen deep blue, the moon already halfway up the sky and waxing silver. The path was quiet, the woods peaceful. Doyle was almost home, for the last half-mile he had been following the tang of wood smoke from the village, and his own visions of a good pottage cooking over the manor fire, peppered and thick with mutton. It was wishful thinking, more likely there would be pork, and few spices, because the old man had been at home from London and his other travels this past month and it was what he preferred, but it didn’t hurt to hope just a little. Either way, the last harvest had been good and safely stored, and the loaves were still wholesome and plentiful - even if his meal was nothing but bread and pease or frumenty, it would fill his stomach, and that was all he wanted right now, that and a good bed.
It had been a long day, with no pause to eat since he’d broken fast on the edge of de Beaufor’s land, a bare handful of wizened nuts and fruits, and the last of the winter apples presented to him at the abbey the day before that. All in all, he reflected, walking with an eye to the woods around him, but more than half a mind to his thoughts, it had been a long week. It had turned out well, though, two local feuds quietened with the simple mention of his lord’s name, and the expected messages safely received, and sent north.
He was approaching the great beech trees that marked the corner of the demesne when he became aware of movement that was strange to the path. It was barely a sound, no more than some stranger’s breath shifting the air, someone else’s waiting, but it was there, and it didn’t belong. They’d call him a witch for that, perhaps, but he knew this land better than if he’d been born to it, and the man close by was no man of this place. He walked a few more paces without turning his head, feeling every sinew in his body stretched with awareness, until he was sure he had the direction, and then in a single smooth movement he whipped around, his bow dropping from his shoulder to his hand, arrow nocked and aimed.
“Show yourself,” he demanded.
“You’re fast as well.” A voice spoke from the shadows he’d targeted, though it sounded amused rather than daunted, and then the shadows themselves moved, and a figure stepped clear of them, three paces onto the path.
A well-built man, cloaked, and a sword sheathed at his side, but he was making no move towards it, arms held peaceably out to the side. The moon was behind Doyle, and it shone brightly past him, illuminating the stranger. His clothes were finer than Doyle’s, good leather and wool, but not greatly so, and though his hair was cropped oddly close he could have been any man from any land between here and the city of London.
He could have been any man, and yet… Doyle’s gaze raked him from head to foot and back again, met eyes that he’d swear were dark blue as the dusk, though he knew he couldn’t see well enough to know it in the evening light, and was caught and held. For all that the man had been brought into the open, he felt pulled towards him still, his skin pricking with awareness of him, and - he swallowed - other stirrings too.
“As well as what?” he asked, to gain time, and his breath back, but the man ignored him, and instead gestured at Doyle’s bow, still solidly aimed.
“You could hurt someone with that,” he said instead. “I’m not brigand nor footpad - just a traveller, like yourself.”
Trouble was, that kind of traveller wasn’t someone the lord would want on his land either.
“Back from pilgrimage?” he asked sarcastically, nodding to the man’s sword. “Or was it a journey home to see your old mum?”
“You’ve got me.” The man’s lips stretched to a half smile. “She fed me milk and toastee, and sent me away with honey cake!”
Doyle’s stomach growled, despite himself, loud to his ears. Damn the man, he could have done without this tonight. “Where are you bound?” he asked again, more plainly.
The man shrugged - “Truthfully, I’ve no path set. I was lately paid off in Spain, and I thought I’d make my visits home before pledging again.”
A mercenary then, with no loyalty to anyone but his own gold. It was probably true, he had the look of a soldier, and the confidence of someone who’d survived more than one battle, and survived it well.
“I’m a little tired of the forest floor - I was hoping I might find a bed for the night.” The man’s gaze dropped, and this time it was he who looked Doyle up and down, slowly and with that same confidence, so that Doyle found himself taking a deep breath, was suddenly aware of the beat of his heart. “Do you know of one?”
“The manor gives relief,” he said, because it was true that no one who came to the door was turned away empty handed. The lord seemed to feel he had much to make up for. “And news from abroad is always welcome.”
“Will you shake on it?”
Doyle eyed him a moment more, feeling an edge of violence on the man, but no worse, he thought, than his own, and not set against him. He nodded abruptly, dropped his bow and slid the arrow away - though he let his hand return peacefully to his side by way of his knife, tucked solidly at his belt. The man followed his movement, gave an appreciative smile and a nod, then met his gaze again, held out his hand.
“Bodie,” he said. “Good meeting.”
“Raymond Doyle.” Doyle met his clasp, matched it, tried to ignore the shock of their skin coming together, though he saw Bodie raise an eyebrow. He’d felt it too, then. “Just Bodie?”
The man shrugged again, looking wryly at him. “There’s enough Williams in the world these days - I prefer to be remembered for myself.” He’d stepped closer to shake hands, and hadn’t moved back again, and Doyle could smell the woods on him, sharp and clean.
“I shouldn’t think that’s hard,” Doyle said, before he could stop himself. He looked away with a scowl, to cover it, but somehow he didn’t move away either.
“Nothing so hard, right now…” Bodie trailed off, started again. “You’ve a memorable look yourself - and I meant what I said, you were fast.”
“No point being slow…” he began, but then Bodie was smiling at him again, and he was distracted by the smooth planes of his cheeks, rising to those eyes, crinkled at the edges, long lashed, and…
Bodie was staring at his mouth now, as if mesmerised, and then the space between them was a bare breath, and then their lips were meeting, were kissing - he was kissing a stranger in the woods, and nothing else mattered, because all he wanted to do was stretch himself against the man’s body, feel their bare flesh together. Bodie let himself be pushed, his own arms around Doyle, hands stretched wide across Doyle’s arse, until they came up against a broad tree trunk, were stopped, one against the other, and still kissing.
This was madness, and it was worse than madness because Doyle knew it, he recognised it, and he had no intention of stopping, lord or no lord, duty or no duty. He wanted this man more than he’d wanted anything in all his years. He moved his hands from Bodie’s back, tugging the tunic away from his belt and sliding his hands upwards, over smooth skin, until they swept across Bodie’s nipples, and Bodie moaned into his mouth. Doyle smiled at that, even while he was being kissed, then let out his own moan as Bodie’s hands found their way down the back of his trews, pulled them even closer together, hard length against hard length.
It didn’t take anything more than that, then, just friction and kissing and such an ache in his chest, and all through his blood, and then he was coming, and Bodie was coming, and their mouths were torn apart by the need to breathe, and they were pressed together against the tree by the need just to rest, a split-second’s sleep, that little death…
When Doyle came to again, Bodie’s hand was on his back once more, stroking soothingly up and down, and Bodie’s breath was warm and damp against this neck. Doyle swallowed, sniffed, and then moved himself away, a bare step. If nothing else he wanted to prove to himself that he still could stand, on his own, because it hadn't left him, that tug towards Bodie was still there.
Bodie looked up at him through those lashes again. “Alright?”
Breathe. “Fine.” He nodded, and then he couldn’t help himself. “Good meeting.”
Bodie brought his head up then, grinning properly at him, wide and bright in the moonlight, their eyes meeting again. “I knew there was something about you,” he said. “Felt it as soon as I saw you. Shall we find a bed in the village for the night?”
Just the thought of it brought him to the rise again, and he grinned back, happier than he could remember being since he was a little boy. This was right, this was sent by God, it had to have been, this meeting of souls in the woods.
“Can do better than that - I’ve a bedchamber of my own at the manor. No one will think twice if I share it with an old friend chance-met on the road.” He paused, but he had a feeling about this, knew there was no mistake to it. “My lord is always on the look out for good men to enforce his law. He’s somewhat…” What was the best way to put it? “…unconventional in his life. You might find him interesting. He’s been abroad, as far as Jerusalem, he says. He used to soldier, like you, before he found himself on the right side of the king.”
He reached to straighten his bow and quiver, still slung across his back throughout it all - had it been no more than minutes? - tried not to hold his breath as he waited for Bodie to answer.
“Couldn’t hurt to meet the man.” Bodie nodded, tugging and smoothing at his own clothes. “I like what I’ve seen of his land so far. Very…” He was still smiling. “…promising.” He reached out an arm, nudging Doyle to turn him back onto the path, following close enough behind that Doyle felt him like a warmth.
He led the way, but Bodie stayed walking closely, their shoulders brushing now and then. It was a good warmth, a solid warmth. If Bodie would stay, they could work together, he was sure they could. And then… his body was still alive and humming with their coupling, the joy and the life of it rushing through him. He wanted Bodie to stay, and just as he’d known to kiss him back, he had a feeling that Bodie wanted to.
Somewhere above them in the trees an owl called into the evening, and its mate replied, the first he’d heard this spring. An omen, perhaps. “Come on then,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to my lord. He can be a mean old bastard, but you’ll like him. He’s a Scot. His name’s Cowley.”
o0o
How gorgeous is that picture? *vbg*
PS - my Pros Bingo Card! With a square filled in! The prompt was strangers *g*
loxleyprince, with her picture included in the right place (and I hope you don't mind me doing that, loxleyprince). It's a historical AU, with apologies to anyone who might actually know about the High Middle Ages, and with hopes that it's at least vaguely still our lads... It's almost my first Pros historical AU (complete, anyway), apart from a Jack the Ripper crossover snippet from years ago, so it's a bit worriting, and like I say, the 1000s aren't exactly a period I'm familiar with, but... but that's enough rabbiting on. Here 'tis. *crosses fingers* *g*A Stranger on the Path
by Slantedlight
It had been the first clear day of spring, and dusk had fallen deep blue, the moon already halfway up the sky and waxing silver. The path was quiet, the woods peaceful. Doyle was almost home, for the last half-mile he had been following the tang of wood smoke from the village, and his own visions of a good pottage cooking over the manor fire, peppered and thick with mutton. It was wishful thinking, more likely there would be pork, and few spices, because the old man had been at home from London and his other travels this past month and it was what he preferred, but it didn’t hurt to hope just a little. Either way, the last harvest had been good and safely stored, and the loaves were still wholesome and plentiful - even if his meal was nothing but bread and pease or frumenty, it would fill his stomach, and that was all he wanted right now, that and a good bed.
It had been a long day, with no pause to eat since he’d broken fast on the edge of de Beaufor’s land, a bare handful of wizened nuts and fruits, and the last of the winter apples presented to him at the abbey the day before that. All in all, he reflected, walking with an eye to the woods around him, but more than half a mind to his thoughts, it had been a long week. It had turned out well, though, two local feuds quietened with the simple mention of his lord’s name, and the expected messages safely received, and sent north.
He was approaching the great beech trees that marked the corner of the demesne when he became aware of movement that was strange to the path. It was barely a sound, no more than some stranger’s breath shifting the air, someone else’s waiting, but it was there, and it didn’t belong. They’d call him a witch for that, perhaps, but he knew this land better than if he’d been born to it, and the man close by was no man of this place. He walked a few more paces without turning his head, feeling every sinew in his body stretched with awareness, until he was sure he had the direction, and then in a single smooth movement he whipped around, his bow dropping from his shoulder to his hand, arrow nocked and aimed.
“Show yourself,” he demanded.“You’re fast as well.” A voice spoke from the shadows he’d targeted, though it sounded amused rather than daunted, and then the shadows themselves moved, and a figure stepped clear of them, three paces onto the path.
A well-built man, cloaked, and a sword sheathed at his side, but he was making no move towards it, arms held peaceably out to the side. The moon was behind Doyle, and it shone brightly past him, illuminating the stranger. His clothes were finer than Doyle’s, good leather and wool, but not greatly so, and though his hair was cropped oddly close he could have been any man from any land between here and the city of London.
He could have been any man, and yet… Doyle’s gaze raked him from head to foot and back again, met eyes that he’d swear were dark blue as the dusk, though he knew he couldn’t see well enough to know it in the evening light, and was caught and held. For all that the man had been brought into the open, he felt pulled towards him still, his skin pricking with awareness of him, and - he swallowed - other stirrings too.
“As well as what?” he asked, to gain time, and his breath back, but the man ignored him, and instead gestured at Doyle’s bow, still solidly aimed.
“You could hurt someone with that,” he said instead. “I’m not brigand nor footpad - just a traveller, like yourself.”
Trouble was, that kind of traveller wasn’t someone the lord would want on his land either.
“Back from pilgrimage?” he asked sarcastically, nodding to the man’s sword. “Or was it a journey home to see your old mum?”
“You’ve got me.” The man’s lips stretched to a half smile. “She fed me milk and toastee, and sent me away with honey cake!”
Doyle’s stomach growled, despite himself, loud to his ears. Damn the man, he could have done without this tonight. “Where are you bound?” he asked again, more plainly.
The man shrugged - “Truthfully, I’ve no path set. I was lately paid off in Spain, and I thought I’d make my visits home before pledging again.”
A mercenary then, with no loyalty to anyone but his own gold. It was probably true, he had the look of a soldier, and the confidence of someone who’d survived more than one battle, and survived it well.
“I’m a little tired of the forest floor - I was hoping I might find a bed for the night.” The man’s gaze dropped, and this time it was he who looked Doyle up and down, slowly and with that same confidence, so that Doyle found himself taking a deep breath, was suddenly aware of the beat of his heart. “Do you know of one?”
“The manor gives relief,” he said, because it was true that no one who came to the door was turned away empty handed. The lord seemed to feel he had much to make up for. “And news from abroad is always welcome.”
“Will you shake on it?”
Doyle eyed him a moment more, feeling an edge of violence on the man, but no worse, he thought, than his own, and not set against him. He nodded abruptly, dropped his bow and slid the arrow away - though he let his hand return peacefully to his side by way of his knife, tucked solidly at his belt. The man followed his movement, gave an appreciative smile and a nod, then met his gaze again, held out his hand.
“Bodie,” he said. “Good meeting.”
“Raymond Doyle.” Doyle met his clasp, matched it, tried to ignore the shock of their skin coming together, though he saw Bodie raise an eyebrow. He’d felt it too, then. “Just Bodie?”
The man shrugged again, looking wryly at him. “There’s enough Williams in the world these days - I prefer to be remembered for myself.” He’d stepped closer to shake hands, and hadn’t moved back again, and Doyle could smell the woods on him, sharp and clean.
“I shouldn’t think that’s hard,” Doyle said, before he could stop himself. He looked away with a scowl, to cover it, but somehow he didn’t move away either.
“Nothing so hard, right now…” Bodie trailed off, started again. “You’ve a memorable look yourself - and I meant what I said, you were fast.”
“No point being slow…” he began, but then Bodie was smiling at him again, and he was distracted by the smooth planes of his cheeks, rising to those eyes, crinkled at the edges, long lashed, and…
Bodie was staring at his mouth now, as if mesmerised, and then the space between them was a bare breath, and then their lips were meeting, were kissing - he was kissing a stranger in the woods, and nothing else mattered, because all he wanted to do was stretch himself against the man’s body, feel their bare flesh together. Bodie let himself be pushed, his own arms around Doyle, hands stretched wide across Doyle’s arse, until they came up against a broad tree trunk, were stopped, one against the other, and still kissing.
This was madness, and it was worse than madness because Doyle knew it, he recognised it, and he had no intention of stopping, lord or no lord, duty or no duty. He wanted this man more than he’d wanted anything in all his years. He moved his hands from Bodie’s back, tugging the tunic away from his belt and sliding his hands upwards, over smooth skin, until they swept across Bodie’s nipples, and Bodie moaned into his mouth. Doyle smiled at that, even while he was being kissed, then let out his own moan as Bodie’s hands found their way down the back of his trews, pulled them even closer together, hard length against hard length.
It didn’t take anything more than that, then, just friction and kissing and such an ache in his chest, and all through his blood, and then he was coming, and Bodie was coming, and their mouths were torn apart by the need to breathe, and they were pressed together against the tree by the need just to rest, a split-second’s sleep, that little death…
When Doyle came to again, Bodie’s hand was on his back once more, stroking soothingly up and down, and Bodie’s breath was warm and damp against this neck. Doyle swallowed, sniffed, and then moved himself away, a bare step. If nothing else he wanted to prove to himself that he still could stand, on his own, because it hadn't left him, that tug towards Bodie was still there.
Bodie looked up at him through those lashes again. “Alright?”
Breathe. “Fine.” He nodded, and then he couldn’t help himself. “Good meeting.”
Bodie brought his head up then, grinning properly at him, wide and bright in the moonlight, their eyes meeting again. “I knew there was something about you,” he said. “Felt it as soon as I saw you. Shall we find a bed in the village for the night?”
Just the thought of it brought him to the rise again, and he grinned back, happier than he could remember being since he was a little boy. This was right, this was sent by God, it had to have been, this meeting of souls in the woods.
“Can do better than that - I’ve a bedchamber of my own at the manor. No one will think twice if I share it with an old friend chance-met on the road.” He paused, but he had a feeling about this, knew there was no mistake to it. “My lord is always on the look out for good men to enforce his law. He’s somewhat…” What was the best way to put it? “…unconventional in his life. You might find him interesting. He’s been abroad, as far as Jerusalem, he says. He used to soldier, like you, before he found himself on the right side of the king.”
He reached to straighten his bow and quiver, still slung across his back throughout it all - had it been no more than minutes? - tried not to hold his breath as he waited for Bodie to answer.
“Couldn’t hurt to meet the man.” Bodie nodded, tugging and smoothing at his own clothes. “I like what I’ve seen of his land so far. Very…” He was still smiling. “…promising.” He reached out an arm, nudging Doyle to turn him back onto the path, following close enough behind that Doyle felt him like a warmth.
He led the way, but Bodie stayed walking closely, their shoulders brushing now and then. It was a good warmth, a solid warmth. If Bodie would stay, they could work together, he was sure they could. And then… his body was still alive and humming with their coupling, the joy and the life of it rushing through him. He wanted Bodie to stay, and just as he’d known to kiss him back, he had a feeling that Bodie wanted to.
Somewhere above them in the trees an owl called into the evening, and its mate replied, the first he’d heard this spring. An omen, perhaps. “Come on then,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to my lord. He can be a mean old bastard, but you’ll like him. He’s a Scot. His name’s Cowley.”
How gorgeous is that picture? *vbg*
PS - my Pros Bingo Card! With a square filled in! The prompt was strangers *g*
| mercy | broken cups | Klansmen | handcuffs | pub crawl |
| jealousy | in the tree house | ghosts | Mixed Doubles | first times |
| angels in disguise | babysitting | WILD CARD | getting lost at night | getting found in the dark |
| Blackout |  |
wrong target | striptease | remember me |
| Queen and country and ducks | Private Madness Public Dangers | George doesn't know | George knows | the things we don't think about because they hurt |
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no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 06:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 06:43 pm (UTC)I like your picture :0)
no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 07:18 pm (UTC)Surnames (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_name) are a fairly recent invention, like most of our diet (http://www.bl.uk/learning/langlit/texts/cook/1500s2/1550s2.html) - I do tend to think of myself by surname, but I could probably live without it - But no chips, no jacket potatoes, no roasties, no mash - I couldn't live without that - frumenty or no frumenty - very much a potato person!
I'm not sure of the historical accuracy of your AU fantasy either, but it certainly has charm. And goes wonderfully with the tree pics you've been posting on and off lately. And lets face it the 1000s were not above a bit of romance/fantasy themselves - so I figure it's all good :0)
I could certainly picture the lads in this setting, and Cowley back home as Lord of the Manor.
I reckon this has 'series' written all over it...
no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 07:44 pm (UTC)Yes, and luckily they were rooted in roughly the period my story was set! There's a good article about Anglo-Norman names here at Geni (), and lists of various Anglo-Normal families here in this wiki (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Normans#Anglo-Norman_families). I did think about making him "de Oyle" or the like, which would have been closer to the sort of thing around that time, and some play on "Beau" for Bodie too, but to be honest the lads having different names in AUs bugs me, so I made a conscious decision not to go that far, cos when it's me I only go and do a search-and-find and change them all anyway (and I'm not the only one *g*)
The food etc. that I mention in the fic is historically accurate, and I had a background story for it all that didn't make it onto paper (but if anyone wants to ask, I can tell them why a Scot is sitting comfortably in an English manor in the late 1000s, despite Malcolm etc., for instance *g*), but it's often more what's left out that can give you away, I think - and little things like "they would only have eaten frumenty in autumn, and you've just said it's spring..." that's not mentioned in more general webpages, but need actual scholarship to know! *g* That said, I've got a Tudor recipe book lying around too, and I must get around to trying some of those recipes! I've been to a Viking feast before, which was consciously historically accurate, and the food was mostly delicious (okay, not the jellied eel, so much, but that's me - I don't like seafood either!) and quite a nice change from our current diet, so I can imagine adapting quite happily in the end (though yeah, potatoes... *vbg*)
The main thing, for me, is that you can picture the lads there and that you thought it was charming - so thanks for that, I'm glad! *g* I'd quite like to write more of them here too (there's a plot in my head from the background research I did!) but I did so much research just for this wee fic that I'm not sure I'd ever get there!
no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 08:36 pm (UTC)Oh, I knew you'd know all about surnames, if only 'cos of your interest in genealogy - but I thought the link was interesting anyway - it mentions the start of surnames from 'about the 11th century' - then I got distracted because elsewhere on wiki - Family & Surnames - they give the impression that English women have to take their husband's surname upon marriage - they shouldn't conflate all English speaking peoples like that.
(I get a bit annoyed with their genetics too - they regularly ignore Northern European features - 'all dark haired people have an olive complexion' and 'brown hair is coarser than fair' are two particular stand out niggles.)
I recognised all the potage etc. though - but like I said - no potatoes - I'm so glad I was born post-potato :0)
Research is difficult I think, it sits within that 'not explaining everything' category. Like a petticoat - it makes your story sit well, but shouldn't be seen. But then, like you say, you massage something for the story, or you say something that's against common wisdom because you actually know something about the subject, and then you think - should I explain that?
I prefer their names not to be mucked about with, although some agreeable exceptions stand out - and I can see the temptation if you're doing something historical. Although both Raymond and William wouldn't have been out of place in medieval times. But I don't go to the lengths of actually changing them back again. I just stayed peeved at the story!
It would make a good series though, it's such a plausible world - and we've only really met the three of them - so plenty of scope for Bodie's dodgy old mates to turn up - or some miscreant to run Doyle down with his horse! It's surprising how well their 20th century back stories fit the period.
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Date: 2016-03-26 12:14 am (UTC)Actually that's one thing I wouldn't say - 99% of the time, I'd say don't explain in a story! *g* But that said, I tend not to massage things (except for using the lads real names!) and I also tend to assume that people will check anything they think seems to go against what they know, and/or ask (which of course they don't, but hey-ho!) But generally, the less explanation in a story the better - let people know by showing them that something's true, not explaining! But your more likely to show them something's true and be believed if you actually do know what you're talking about, even if it's just the backstory in your head... and now I'm just doing sleepy-rambling really, so I'm going to stop replying to comments any minute now!
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 12:23 am (UTC)Good Night :0)
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Date: 2016-03-25 07:22 pm (UTC)BTW, mella68 did a great picture for me for my BB story with a similar Doyle. I happen to like Doyle with a bow and arrow!
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Date: 2016-03-25 07:47 pm (UTC)I can't for the life of me remember if I've caught up with your (last year's, I guess) BB story - they all come out at once, and I've never yet managed to read them all... *sighs*, but I do seem to remember seeing a pic of Doyle with a bow before. I think there are pics in various zines too, which I always like seeing. As you say, there's something about Doyle with a bow and arrow... *vbg*
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Date: 2016-03-26 08:08 am (UTC)Well said! That's what makes AUs so wonderful. Anything's possible *g*. Disbelief has already been suspended so the story can be set in the AU in the first place, so if it's a good story, told well, and the lads are recognisable, I for one am as happy as a wild pig in a wallow. :-)
Ooooh and mella68's artwork for your BB was stunningly beautiful!
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-25 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 12:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 03:09 pm (UTC)[and I am working on a story for the group bingo card - its going slowly...]
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 09:30 pm (UTC)And yeay working on a story! Shall look forward to seeing it... *vbg*
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 09:34 pm (UTC)Oh, but yeay! I must admit that medieval lads have been tugging at me today - and I'm about caught up with work, and it's all wet and grey outside for the rest of the long weekend, so... there could perhaps be more after all... *g*
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 09:03 pm (UTC)Oh, sweet and lush, thank you! And it goes so well with the fabulous pic too. Thank you both!
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Date: 2016-03-26 09:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-28 09:40 pm (UTC)I have a particular liking for fanfics set in the Middle Ages, a very intriguing historical era in most European countries. For example, in the Brokeback Mountain fandom,
I hope you one day can expand on this story premise, 'cause I think it has potential to become a multi-chapter story.
By the way, Doyle's canonical quicksilver temper and his penchant for fast action-reaction is one of the traits I love about him. His lightning fast draw of the gun with his left hand in Mixed Doubles is a joy to behold :)
Thank you :)
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Date: 2016-03-28 10:59 pm (UTC)I must admit making Brokeback Mountain believably medieval Norwegian would be pretty impressive... *g*
I'm actually quite pulled to write some more of this now that I've started, so maybe I might manage a multi-chapter story from it after all. Hmmn... *g* There's something about the lads that does seem to fit the era - at least in my head. *g* And yes! Doyle's speed and movement in all kinds of ways is a thing of beauty, isn't it! *g*
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Date: 2016-03-29 11:44 am (UTC)I think there's something archetypal about B/D that would fit a medieval setting indeed.
And I think you might quite enjoy the background historical research involved in this kind of project... :)
(PS If you're interested, here's the AO3 link (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1622714/chapters/3459725) to Saga. It was originally posted on
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Date: 2016-03-31 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-05-12 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-04-04 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-08-27 04:03 pm (UTC)