The Used - Bert/Quinn - Table 9 - 01. The Middle Ages
TITLE: Evening Festivities
AUTHOR: pimprevster
FANDOM: The Used
PAIRING: Bert/Quinn
GENRE: Slash
TABLE: 9 - Historical
PROMPT: 01. The Middle Ages
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2335
SUMMARY: Lord Alleman makes a late-night call for his steward to assist him with taxes for the manor. He ends up helping out with something else instead.
NOTES: I know that Quinn's last name is actually spelled 'Allman'. I changed it to make it seem more Middle Age-ish.
Constructive criticism is always welcome. Also, I tried my best to make this realistic for the time period without using super boring dialogue, but I'm no expert. So if you catch anything that doesn't seem to fit, please let me know! I would really appreciate it. ^^
There's a good chance I will add a second part to this.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters and I am not using them for profit, but for practice.
The candle at the edge of Lord Alleman’s desk flickered, threatening to melt into an ungainly puddle of wax and finally extinguish. His entire evening had been spent sorting out taxes and other finances for the manor. All the stress and monotony had built up over four hours into stiff joints and an aching backside. He stretched his lithe arms above his head and tried to relax, but the wooden chair beneath him was much too hard for his liking.
A servant entered the room and stood respectfully by the door. “It’s midnight, my lord. Do you plan on working still?”
Lord Alleman sighed. Better to get it done now than later. “Yes. Could you send the steward up here?”
“I’ll have to wake him, my lord.”
“That’s fine. Just get him up here.”
The servant scuttled away, shutting the heavy door behind him. His footsteps could he heard all the way down the stairwell. “Damn architects need to improve their designs,” Alleman muttered, standing up to get his legs stretched out as well.
As he paced, it occurred to him that he did not send for the steward because he needed mathematical help, but because he appreciated the steward’s company. This seemed to happen every time taxes were due. He would call the steward in and, instead of working numbers like he had originally intended, they would laze around the room and make small talk.
Lord Alleman knew numbers perfectly well. It was the organization part that killed him, and you could see that by the state of his room if you walked in anytime that the maids hadn’t beheld it in the past hour.
A knock on the door and the same servant’s quivering voice pulled the tired brunette out of his thoughts. “Come in.”
All of his servants had been instructed to knock before bringing a visitor in, but Lord Alleman was so familiar with his steward by now that he was considering putting in an exception later.
The door swung open with a long, grating creak. In sauntered a long-haired, lightly stubbled, and slightly shorter man in his bedclothes. Slippers and all. He yawned as he traveled the perimeter of the room to the end of Lord Alleman’s bed and fell backwards onto the sprucely made layers of fabric. In most cases, this would be considered extremely disrespectful, but regular manor etiquette was another thing that the steward seemed to be exempt from.
“What now, Quinnifer? Can’t figure out two plus two?” the steward mumbled, rolling over and smashing his face into the sheets.
When the servant turned to the leave, he was given another instruction. “You’re off-duty until tomorrow evening if you make certain that we are not disturbed. I don’t want to hear a single foot trip across the bottom stair while I’m trying to concentrate.” With a grateful nod in response, the servant was gone. Lord Alleman locked his door.
“Oh, how uncharacteristically sweet. My Good Lord Quickly Angered doesn’t want anyone to disturb us! Is dinner planned?”
“You have more nicknames for me than Jepharee Howard has for his whores.”
“Don’t be envious because you don’t get as much action as lil ol’ Jepharee down the street. All you have to do is act like a lady and you’ll pick up just as many ladies as he does.”
“I’m not interested in picking up ladies,” Quinn responded, sitting back down. He immediately regretted it thanks to how hard the seat collided with his aching bum.
The steward thought that he had been given the perfect opportunity to take a shot at the lord’s sexuality. He judged that it wasn’t worth the argument that would undoubtedly result from his mockery while the lord had so many bags under his eyes.
After a minute of gloomy silence, the steward asked, “Well, what do you need from me?”
“Company,” Quinn responded, scratching away at the papers on his desk. He was more productive now - with the most disrespectful, bothersome, and unnecessarily silly employee of the entire estate laying on his bed - than he had been all night.
“You woke me up and made me stumble all the way over to this hellhole so that I could sit here and look pretty?”
Quinn decided to ignore the ‘hellhole’ comment. His steward seemed to have something against oversized houses. “That is exactly what I did. Now sit quietly while I finish this.”
“Huh. Unlike you,” commented the steward, who liked to be known as Bert. “When I come here, you usually devour your pantry and rant about other rich people you don’t like and don’t get any work done until the sun comes up.”
“And whose fault is that?” Lord Alleman paused his work. “You’re supposed to be doing this anyway. Lucky I’d rather do it myself than to find out you didn’t and get kicked out of my own castle.”
“See, I know how to do it, but if I did it, you would never have need to call me over here.”
Quinn stared suspiciously at the grungy man sprawled along the side of his bed, blue eyes bright and mischievous in the unsteady candlelight. Then he regressed and rubbed his own glossy brown eyes, setting the pen down.
“It’d be lonely around here if I never got to visit my lord for a midnight chat. You’re the highlight of my employment here.”
The lord chuckled dryly. “Please don’t try to compliment me. I have enough workers that kiss arse around here, I don’t want you to be one of them.”
“I’ll only compliment you if I mean it. Just as I’ll embarrass you if I find it necessary. For example, your collar’s crooked.”
Lord Alleman looked down to see that one side of his collar was sticking up further than the other, causing one sleeve to bunch up to an awkward consistency as well. He flushed and adjusted it quickly. The lord was not accustomed to being caught in embarrassing situations. Ever.
“You might as well take that off. You’re going to rest soon.”
“You constantly astound me with how unprofessional you are,” Quinn snapped back. Nevertheless he began to unbutton the gilded blue silk vest layered over his white dress shirt.
“So how come you haven’t sacked me yet?”
The shirt came off after the vest, and both articles of clothing were draped over the back of his chair. He stood up and laid on the side of the bed that Bert was not already occupying and folded his hands over his bare stomach, closing his eyes.
“So?”
“Because despite all your annoyances and absolute ridiculousness, I see my inspiration in you.”
Bert turned so that he was facing the other man, and his eyes ran over the bare-chested and trouser-clad body with a degree of fascination. He hadn’t expected for Lord Alleman to actually remove half of his clothing in front of him, let alone lay in the same bed as him afterward. Not that it meant anything. Bert didn’t think that it meant anything. He decided that he liked to look at Quinn, but that was nothing new. Before he had just liked looking at Quinn’s face. He had a pretty face. Feminine.
“What?” Bert said simply, after no further explanation was offered.
“It’s easier to work when you’re around, which doesn’t make sense considering how many distractions you cause. I am...inspired when I see you. I think clearer, I feel more clever, any physical wear on my body is attenuated. And as soon as you leave, the effects are gone.” He opened his eyes. “Are you a witch?”
“So now I’m a woman?” Bert quipped. “Does that mean you’ll take me out to dinner?”
“Not if you’re a witch. I wouldn’t want those stuck-up bastards with their over-expensive wine to burn you at the stake.”
“There’s the late night Quinnipoop I’m familiar with! Almost thought I’d lost him.”
The lord glanced at his steward with affectionate disdain, and then closed his eyes and reverted back to the state of quiet relaxation he had been in.
It frustrated Bert. It frustrated him how Quinn was so nonchalant, always so lax and unconcerned with anything Bert said or did when most people of this generation would faint from witnessing half of those things. It wasn’t the freedom or lack of consequence that frustrated him - that part was great, actually - it was the fact that he could never extract an emotional response. He wanted to know what Quinn was thinking. Hell, he’d just been informed outright, but he couldn’t figure out what it meant because the thoughts had been stated like cold, hard facts. And this pitiful attempt to understand was the most progress he’d ever made in breaking through Lord Alleman’s unreadable exterior.
“Quinn,” he mumbled, wanting his frustration to be clear in his voice but it came out soft, because...well, he was talking to Quinn.
“Hm?” was the response. One syllable, and it still sounded so hard, so emotionless.
“Do you want men?”
For a few seconds, Bert believed that even a daring question like that, directed at someone of high social status, would have no effect. Then the lord began twiddling his thumbs. There was a rise and fall in his throat; a swallow. Progress.
“Why are you asking me this?”
Where are your clever words now, my lord? Bert thought, feeling triumphant for a split second. After that second passed, he instinctively expected a flurry of clever words. He couldn’t be triumphant; he’d already proven that impossible countless times before. Quinn was unbreakable.
He asked anyway. “Earlier you said you’re not interested in picking up ladies. Does that mean you want men instead?”
“Perhaps.”
Bert laid on his back, accepting defeat. Then his mind processed the word. Perhaps. He sat up suddenly. Did he say perhaps?
“But only one. Otherwise ladies are just fine for me, but I have better things to do than strut around the neighborhood like Jepharee Howard and blow kisses at dirty broads.”
Once again, Bert was at a loss for words. He braced himself and once more blurted, “What?”
“I hope you heard me because I’m not repeating myself. Also, new rule: This conversation stays right here, in this night, on this bed. Understood?”
Bert nodded, but his throat was dry. For once he didn’t feel the need to make any silly comments or ostentatiously break the rules. Namely because he couldn’t think of any. He could hardly think at all. Every time he tried to think it was just Quinn. Quinn. Quinn. That had happened before, but not like this. Not while he was sitting right next to him, half-naked.
“Who’s the one?”
Quinn unclasped his hands and put a single finger up near his face, gesturing for Bert to come closer. “I think I’ll tell you, but we have to make sure no one hears.”
“There’s no one else here, Quinn, and no one’s listening,” Bert replied, but he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to get closer. He leaned over to Quinn’s shoulder, where it’d be easy to whisper back and forth.
“No. Over here. Your greasy hair is in my mouth. When’s the last time you washed? We’re rich, you know.”
Bert chuckled and had to move one hand to the other side of Quinn’s face in order to position himself where the finger indicated, right in front of Quinn’s nose. His hair hung down like a set of tangled black curtains on either side of their faces, now physically blocking anyone else from the conversation that took place inside.
“There we go. Now we can speak, but feel free to get comfortable first. Having your body bent that way doesn’t look natural.”
An affectionate hand guided Bert’s hips to a central position, where his knees were on either side of Quinn’s body. Suddenly he felt himself tremble and hoped the lord hadn’t felt it as well. Damn it all! he thought, forcing himself to breathe even as gazed into two confident brown eyes that were barely visible in the shadows of his own face. What is this? A trick? He’s unbreakable!
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the one who inspires me,” Quinn murmured matter-of-factly, though Bert had to read his lips to understand. It was probably his own mind making the words sound indecipherable because he could hardly believe them.
He also liked looking at Quinn’s lips.
Being the qualified mathematician, Bert calculated that this moment was going to become stale very soon if he didn’t find a way to unlock his limbs, dammit, and do something because Quinn was just laying there with this horribly cute, sly, and expectant look on his face that indicated that he wasn’t going to move a muscle.
Then he forced his head downward to meet Quinn’s lips, and it was an almost mechanical motion because he couldn’t get himself to move otherwise. He wasn’t thinking either, because what medieval man would kiss a lord on the lips without written consent? He could be hanged for this, probably. Not that he didn’t think it was worth it.
Once he was there though, with his mouth pressed to Quinn’s and eyes just barely open because honestly he was frightened of the lord’s reaction, he figured that anything was worth this moment of happiness, of feeling like he belonged somewhere and that all the childish admiration he’d built up for this man since meeting him hadn’t been for nothing.
After they broke contact, Quinn muttered, “Not bad.”
“Not bad?”
“Not bad at all.” His hand roamed up Bert’s chest and then clutched the collar of his nightgown. “Take this ridiculous sheet off.”
Bert sat up and pulled his one article of clothing off over his head. Then he leaned back down to Quinn’s level, a smirk spreading across his previously hesitant face, and responded in a sing-song tone, “Of course, my lord. Shall we begin the evening festivities?”
AUTHOR: pimprevster
FANDOM: The Used
PAIRING: Bert/Quinn
GENRE: Slash
TABLE: 9 - Historical
PROMPT: 01. The Middle Ages
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2335
SUMMARY: Lord Alleman makes a late-night call for his steward to assist him with taxes for the manor. He ends up helping out with something else instead.
NOTES: I know that Quinn's last name is actually spelled 'Allman'. I changed it to make it seem more Middle Age-ish.
Constructive criticism is always welcome. Also, I tried my best to make this realistic for the time period without using super boring dialogue, but I'm no expert. So if you catch anything that doesn't seem to fit, please let me know! I would really appreciate it. ^^
There's a good chance I will add a second part to this.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters and I am not using them for profit, but for practice.
The candle at the edge of Lord Alleman’s desk flickered, threatening to melt into an ungainly puddle of wax and finally extinguish. His entire evening had been spent sorting out taxes and other finances for the manor. All the stress and monotony had built up over four hours into stiff joints and an aching backside. He stretched his lithe arms above his head and tried to relax, but the wooden chair beneath him was much too hard for his liking.
A servant entered the room and stood respectfully by the door. “It’s midnight, my lord. Do you plan on working still?”
Lord Alleman sighed. Better to get it done now than later. “Yes. Could you send the steward up here?”
“I’ll have to wake him, my lord.”
“That’s fine. Just get him up here.”
The servant scuttled away, shutting the heavy door behind him. His footsteps could he heard all the way down the stairwell. “Damn architects need to improve their designs,” Alleman muttered, standing up to get his legs stretched out as well.
As he paced, it occurred to him that he did not send for the steward because he needed mathematical help, but because he appreciated the steward’s company. This seemed to happen every time taxes were due. He would call the steward in and, instead of working numbers like he had originally intended, they would laze around the room and make small talk.
Lord Alleman knew numbers perfectly well. It was the organization part that killed him, and you could see that by the state of his room if you walked in anytime that the maids hadn’t beheld it in the past hour.
A knock on the door and the same servant’s quivering voice pulled the tired brunette out of his thoughts. “Come in.”
All of his servants had been instructed to knock before bringing a visitor in, but Lord Alleman was so familiar with his steward by now that he was considering putting in an exception later.
The door swung open with a long, grating creak. In sauntered a long-haired, lightly stubbled, and slightly shorter man in his bedclothes. Slippers and all. He yawned as he traveled the perimeter of the room to the end of Lord Alleman’s bed and fell backwards onto the sprucely made layers of fabric. In most cases, this would be considered extremely disrespectful, but regular manor etiquette was another thing that the steward seemed to be exempt from.
“What now, Quinnifer? Can’t figure out two plus two?” the steward mumbled, rolling over and smashing his face into the sheets.
When the servant turned to the leave, he was given another instruction. “You’re off-duty until tomorrow evening if you make certain that we are not disturbed. I don’t want to hear a single foot trip across the bottom stair while I’m trying to concentrate.” With a grateful nod in response, the servant was gone. Lord Alleman locked his door.
“Oh, how uncharacteristically sweet. My Good Lord Quickly Angered doesn’t want anyone to disturb us! Is dinner planned?”
“You have more nicknames for me than Jepharee Howard has for his whores.”
“Don’t be envious because you don’t get as much action as lil ol’ Jepharee down the street. All you have to do is act like a lady and you’ll pick up just as many ladies as he does.”
“I’m not interested in picking up ladies,” Quinn responded, sitting back down. He immediately regretted it thanks to how hard the seat collided with his aching bum.
The steward thought that he had been given the perfect opportunity to take a shot at the lord’s sexuality. He judged that it wasn’t worth the argument that would undoubtedly result from his mockery while the lord had so many bags under his eyes.
After a minute of gloomy silence, the steward asked, “Well, what do you need from me?”
“Company,” Quinn responded, scratching away at the papers on his desk. He was more productive now - with the most disrespectful, bothersome, and unnecessarily silly employee of the entire estate laying on his bed - than he had been all night.
“You woke me up and made me stumble all the way over to this hellhole so that I could sit here and look pretty?”
Quinn decided to ignore the ‘hellhole’ comment. His steward seemed to have something against oversized houses. “That is exactly what I did. Now sit quietly while I finish this.”
“Huh. Unlike you,” commented the steward, who liked to be known as Bert. “When I come here, you usually devour your pantry and rant about other rich people you don’t like and don’t get any work done until the sun comes up.”
“And whose fault is that?” Lord Alleman paused his work. “You’re supposed to be doing this anyway. Lucky I’d rather do it myself than to find out you didn’t and get kicked out of my own castle.”
“See, I know how to do it, but if I did it, you would never have need to call me over here.”
Quinn stared suspiciously at the grungy man sprawled along the side of his bed, blue eyes bright and mischievous in the unsteady candlelight. Then he regressed and rubbed his own glossy brown eyes, setting the pen down.
“It’d be lonely around here if I never got to visit my lord for a midnight chat. You’re the highlight of my employment here.”
The lord chuckled dryly. “Please don’t try to compliment me. I have enough workers that kiss arse around here, I don’t want you to be one of them.”
“I’ll only compliment you if I mean it. Just as I’ll embarrass you if I find it necessary. For example, your collar’s crooked.”
Lord Alleman looked down to see that one side of his collar was sticking up further than the other, causing one sleeve to bunch up to an awkward consistency as well. He flushed and adjusted it quickly. The lord was not accustomed to being caught in embarrassing situations. Ever.
“You might as well take that off. You’re going to rest soon.”
“You constantly astound me with how unprofessional you are,” Quinn snapped back. Nevertheless he began to unbutton the gilded blue silk vest layered over his white dress shirt.
“So how come you haven’t sacked me yet?”
The shirt came off after the vest, and both articles of clothing were draped over the back of his chair. He stood up and laid on the side of the bed that Bert was not already occupying and folded his hands over his bare stomach, closing his eyes.
“So?”
“Because despite all your annoyances and absolute ridiculousness, I see my inspiration in you.”
Bert turned so that he was facing the other man, and his eyes ran over the bare-chested and trouser-clad body with a degree of fascination. He hadn’t expected for Lord Alleman to actually remove half of his clothing in front of him, let alone lay in the same bed as him afterward. Not that it meant anything. Bert didn’t think that it meant anything. He decided that he liked to look at Quinn, but that was nothing new. Before he had just liked looking at Quinn’s face. He had a pretty face. Feminine.
“What?” Bert said simply, after no further explanation was offered.
“It’s easier to work when you’re around, which doesn’t make sense considering how many distractions you cause. I am...inspired when I see you. I think clearer, I feel more clever, any physical wear on my body is attenuated. And as soon as you leave, the effects are gone.” He opened his eyes. “Are you a witch?”
“So now I’m a woman?” Bert quipped. “Does that mean you’ll take me out to dinner?”
“Not if you’re a witch. I wouldn’t want those stuck-up bastards with their over-expensive wine to burn you at the stake.”
“There’s the late night Quinnipoop I’m familiar with! Almost thought I’d lost him.”
The lord glanced at his steward with affectionate disdain, and then closed his eyes and reverted back to the state of quiet relaxation he had been in.
It frustrated Bert. It frustrated him how Quinn was so nonchalant, always so lax and unconcerned with anything Bert said or did when most people of this generation would faint from witnessing half of those things. It wasn’t the freedom or lack of consequence that frustrated him - that part was great, actually - it was the fact that he could never extract an emotional response. He wanted to know what Quinn was thinking. Hell, he’d just been informed outright, but he couldn’t figure out what it meant because the thoughts had been stated like cold, hard facts. And this pitiful attempt to understand was the most progress he’d ever made in breaking through Lord Alleman’s unreadable exterior.
“Quinn,” he mumbled, wanting his frustration to be clear in his voice but it came out soft, because...well, he was talking to Quinn.
“Hm?” was the response. One syllable, and it still sounded so hard, so emotionless.
“Do you want men?”
For a few seconds, Bert believed that even a daring question like that, directed at someone of high social status, would have no effect. Then the lord began twiddling his thumbs. There was a rise and fall in his throat; a swallow. Progress.
“Why are you asking me this?”
Where are your clever words now, my lord? Bert thought, feeling triumphant for a split second. After that second passed, he instinctively expected a flurry of clever words. He couldn’t be triumphant; he’d already proven that impossible countless times before. Quinn was unbreakable.
He asked anyway. “Earlier you said you’re not interested in picking up ladies. Does that mean you want men instead?”
“Perhaps.”
Bert laid on his back, accepting defeat. Then his mind processed the word. Perhaps. He sat up suddenly. Did he say perhaps?
“But only one. Otherwise ladies are just fine for me, but I have better things to do than strut around the neighborhood like Jepharee Howard and blow kisses at dirty broads.”
Once again, Bert was at a loss for words. He braced himself and once more blurted, “What?”
“I hope you heard me because I’m not repeating myself. Also, new rule: This conversation stays right here, in this night, on this bed. Understood?”
Bert nodded, but his throat was dry. For once he didn’t feel the need to make any silly comments or ostentatiously break the rules. Namely because he couldn’t think of any. He could hardly think at all. Every time he tried to think it was just Quinn. Quinn. Quinn. That had happened before, but not like this. Not while he was sitting right next to him, half-naked.
“Who’s the one?”
Quinn unclasped his hands and put a single finger up near his face, gesturing for Bert to come closer. “I think I’ll tell you, but we have to make sure no one hears.”
“There’s no one else here, Quinn, and no one’s listening,” Bert replied, but he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to get closer. He leaned over to Quinn’s shoulder, where it’d be easy to whisper back and forth.
“No. Over here. Your greasy hair is in my mouth. When’s the last time you washed? We’re rich, you know.”
Bert chuckled and had to move one hand to the other side of Quinn’s face in order to position himself where the finger indicated, right in front of Quinn’s nose. His hair hung down like a set of tangled black curtains on either side of their faces, now physically blocking anyone else from the conversation that took place inside.
“There we go. Now we can speak, but feel free to get comfortable first. Having your body bent that way doesn’t look natural.”
An affectionate hand guided Bert’s hips to a central position, where his knees were on either side of Quinn’s body. Suddenly he felt himself tremble and hoped the lord hadn’t felt it as well. Damn it all! he thought, forcing himself to breathe even as gazed into two confident brown eyes that were barely visible in the shadows of his own face. What is this? A trick? He’s unbreakable!
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the one who inspires me,” Quinn murmured matter-of-factly, though Bert had to read his lips to understand. It was probably his own mind making the words sound indecipherable because he could hardly believe them.
He also liked looking at Quinn’s lips.
Being the qualified mathematician, Bert calculated that this moment was going to become stale very soon if he didn’t find a way to unlock his limbs, dammit, and do something because Quinn was just laying there with this horribly cute, sly, and expectant look on his face that indicated that he wasn’t going to move a muscle.
Then he forced his head downward to meet Quinn’s lips, and it was an almost mechanical motion because he couldn’t get himself to move otherwise. He wasn’t thinking either, because what medieval man would kiss a lord on the lips without written consent? He could be hanged for this, probably. Not that he didn’t think it was worth it.
Once he was there though, with his mouth pressed to Quinn’s and eyes just barely open because honestly he was frightened of the lord’s reaction, he figured that anything was worth this moment of happiness, of feeling like he belonged somewhere and that all the childish admiration he’d built up for this man since meeting him hadn’t been for nothing.
After they broke contact, Quinn muttered, “Not bad.”
“Not bad?”
“Not bad at all.” His hand roamed up Bert’s chest and then clutched the collar of his nightgown. “Take this ridiculous sheet off.”
Bert sat up and pulled his one article of clothing off over his head. Then he leaned back down to Quinn’s level, a smirk spreading across his previously hesitant face, and responded in a sing-song tone, “Of course, my lord. Shall we begin the evening festivities?”