Weekend at Vasey's, Chapter One
Warning: This fanfic contains very silly humor, along with some sexual content, so I’m rating it T with the possibility of going to M in later chapters.
I don’t own Robin Hood BBC or the characters (except for Phillip, an original character); those belong to Tiger Aspect and BBC.
Chapter One
Bollocks. Guy really wished he could be spending a nice quiet evening at Locksley; maybe Marian would even pop in for another visit, and maybe this time they could even both be topless. These and other pleasant thoughts were interrupted just then by the Sheriff, who was barking yet another order at him from across the table.
“More wine! Yes, that’s the stuff! I want to celebrate tonight!” Vasey lifted his cup and waited for Guy to refill it from the bronze pitcher at his elbow.
“Here you are, my lord,” said Guy in as civil a tone as he could muster as he refilled the Sheriff’s goblet. “Though I don’t know why you’re so cheerful. It’s not like it was King Richard who died.”
“Oh, happy thought, indeed, Gisborne, happy thought! But a dead Archbishop is still a very good thing, especially when I can seize all his property, and maybe try on some of his fancy going-to-church clothes, too. What do you say, eh, Gisborne? How would I look with one of those pointy hats with the gold trim?”
Guy, trying to suppress this mental image, poured himself another cup of wine. This was going to be a very long night. Then, despite himself, he pictured the Sheriff dressed as the Pope, grinningly granting dispensations with a missing tooth. Then he thought about Marian topless again, and he gulped down the wine.
***********************************************************************
After about an hour of this forced revelry, the Sheriff was totally soused, and Guy was getting a good buzz on, himself. He was hoping Vasey would pass out soon so that he could go to bed and be alone with his very impure thoughts of Marian and possibly Allan if she was into that kind of thing. Maybe.
The Sheriff, however, was not yet ready to pass out, but rather was starting to reach the “let’s get naked and dance on the tables” stage of drunkenness. Fortunately, he was no longer coordinated enough to be able to remove his heavy robes, which were so necessary on a frosty night like this one, so Guy was spared that, at least. However, he was just agile enough to stand up and wobble over to the fireplace and pick up the poker. Vasey waved the object around like a papal scepter, if the Pope were a raging alcoholic. “Gisborne! Don’t . . . you want to . . . resheive my holy blesssshing?”
Guy stood up, fearing that the Sheriff would set himself on fire and then he’d have to forget about any chance of “being alone with his thoughts” that night. He tried to coax the drunken little man into putting down the poker. “My lord, you will do yourself harm if you continue in this way - ”
“Enough of your insholensh, Ghhhiizzy!” The Sheriff made a half-playful swing a his master-at-arms. “Kneel before meee . . .” Luckily for Guy, Vasey took a step forward and stumbled, falling to the floor in a fit of what can only be described as girly giggles. If the aforementioned girls were raging alcoholics, that is.
Guy helped the Sheriff to his unsteady feet, then walked him over to his bed, then tucked him in, while the Sheriff tried to convince Guy to read him a bedtime story. “Jusshhht one shhhtorry . . . Then I’ll go . . . to . . . shhhleeep.” Guy was just trying to remember a particularly funny one about a peasant who sets himself on fire, then burns down the entire village, all except the sheep, who . . . oh, never mind, it’s not important, let’s just say it doesn’t end well for the sheep, either, okay? Anyway, Guy was trying to remember the ending to the story when he became aware that Vasey had finally fallen asleep.
“Now for some sexy alone time,” he mumbled in his throatiest baritone. He put out the torches, except for the one he carried with him, and went to his own bedroom, thinking about his lady love, Marian. And Allan, if she was into that kind of thing. Maybe. Probably.
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Guy was just about to finish his . . . thoughts, when he was prematurely cut off from them by a terrific uproar coming from the hallway outside. He groaned in frustration, threw on a tunic and some very uncomfortable leather trousers, since those were the only clothes he owned, grabbed his sword, and then rushed outside to find out what was making all the racket.
Upon opening the door, he recognized the Sheriff’s voice and the strong smell of alcohol. Vasey had evidently gotten back out of bed and started the party back up again. He was wearing a pair of trousers on his head, evidently in lieu of the Archbishop’s hat, and was just finishing up performing a lovely wedding ceremony between a tapestry and a wall sconce. “You may kisshh the bride,” he proclaimed loudly, then wiped away a tear.
At that moment, Marian came out of her chambers, pulling on a heavy robe over her thin nightgown. “What is going on? Are we being invaded? Is Robin Hood here?” Guy scowled at the mention of his most hated enemy. (Besides the Nightwatchman, of course - he really hated that villain, and besides, why did his costume allow for an ample bosom and womanly hips? It made no sense. Yeah, he couldn’t stand that guy, or Robin Hood, either.)
“Go back to bed, Marian; I have this under control,” he muttered, capturing a mental image for later of her in her nightgown, in case he ever got to go back to bed tonight and finish thinking his thoughts.
“Want me to do you, too? I can . . . lovely sheremony . . . Jusht give me thhhhe ring . . .” the Sheriff said in a very loud voice that echoed through the corridor.
“What? We aren’t getting married!” Marian protested.
“You don’t have to sound so averse to the idea!” shouted Guy, wondering why he bothered to be annoyed when he knew very well that the special wedding vows, which he had written for just such an occasion, were inconveniently tucked away in a box at Locksley.
“I do not want to be married in my nightclothes by a drunken priest!”
“Archbishop!” corrected the Sheriff, who was right then “sprinkling” the tapestry with something that was most definitely not holy water.
“Archbishop, then!” cried Marian passionately. “I feel as though you don’t even know me at all.”
“Marian . . .” grumbled Guy forcefully, “go back to your room!”
“How can I marry you if I’m forced to go back to my room?” she yelled.
“Just go! I’ll deal with you later,” Guy shouted, his patience at an end.
Allan chose this moment to peek out from behind his bedroom door. “What’s happening? The Final Day o’ Judgment an’ all that? ‘Cause if it is, I’m going back to sleep. Tell Jesus to wake me when he’s done with all the other poor slobs, yeah?”
“Allan! Come over here now and help me with the Sheriff!” Guy yelled.
Marian stood in the hallway, looking anxious and wondering whether she would have time to put on her Nightwatchman costume, although she wasn’t sure why, except that for some reason, being around Guy always made her want to put on some leather outfit with a mask.
Unfortunately, nobody was looking at the Sheriff, and just as he was about to give the best part of his sermon, too (oh, right, he was giving a sermon now).
“Ye ssshall, in the Final Daaay of Judgment . . . when Shaaatan callssh you home to resssht . . . and the lion shhhall lie down with the . . . other lion . . . and . . . oh, sod it . . .” Taking a moment to recollect his thoughts on this solemn topic, he took a step backwards and lost his balance, his robes flew open, thus engraving an image the other three in the hallway would never be able to erase from their memories, now matter how much bad tavern wine they consumed, and he tumbled backwards down the staircase.
Guy, Allan and Marian ran after him, racing down the steps. Guy brought the torch closer to where the Sheriff now lay, sprawled about ten steps from the top of the staircase, the trousers still on his head, but with a little bit of blood trickling down from the crotch. “My lord! Are you all right?” Guy shouted, pulling him into a sitting position and patting his cheeks, expecting the Sheriff make some lewd joke about the way that Guy was now standing straddled over him. No such jest came, however; the Sheriff of Nottingham was dead.
Chapter Two
I don’t own Robin Hood BBC or the characters (except for Phillip, an original character); those belong to Tiger Aspect and BBC.
Chapter One
Bollocks. Guy really wished he could be spending a nice quiet evening at Locksley; maybe Marian would even pop in for another visit, and maybe this time they could even both be topless. These and other pleasant thoughts were interrupted just then by the Sheriff, who was barking yet another order at him from across the table.
“More wine! Yes, that’s the stuff! I want to celebrate tonight!” Vasey lifted his cup and waited for Guy to refill it from the bronze pitcher at his elbow.
“Here you are, my lord,” said Guy in as civil a tone as he could muster as he refilled the Sheriff’s goblet. “Though I don’t know why you’re so cheerful. It’s not like it was King Richard who died.”
“Oh, happy thought, indeed, Gisborne, happy thought! But a dead Archbishop is still a very good thing, especially when I can seize all his property, and maybe try on some of his fancy going-to-church clothes, too. What do you say, eh, Gisborne? How would I look with one of those pointy hats with the gold trim?”
Guy, trying to suppress this mental image, poured himself another cup of wine. This was going to be a very long night. Then, despite himself, he pictured the Sheriff dressed as the Pope, grinningly granting dispensations with a missing tooth. Then he thought about Marian topless again, and he gulped down the wine.
***********************************************************************
After about an hour of this forced revelry, the Sheriff was totally soused, and Guy was getting a good buzz on, himself. He was hoping Vasey would pass out soon so that he could go to bed and be alone with his very impure thoughts of Marian and possibly Allan if she was into that kind of thing. Maybe.
The Sheriff, however, was not yet ready to pass out, but rather was starting to reach the “let’s get naked and dance on the tables” stage of drunkenness. Fortunately, he was no longer coordinated enough to be able to remove his heavy robes, which were so necessary on a frosty night like this one, so Guy was spared that, at least. However, he was just agile enough to stand up and wobble over to the fireplace and pick up the poker. Vasey waved the object around like a papal scepter, if the Pope were a raging alcoholic. “Gisborne! Don’t . . . you want to . . . resheive my holy blesssshing?”
Guy stood up, fearing that the Sheriff would set himself on fire and then he’d have to forget about any chance of “being alone with his thoughts” that night. He tried to coax the drunken little man into putting down the poker. “My lord, you will do yourself harm if you continue in this way - ”
“Enough of your insholensh, Ghhhiizzy!” The Sheriff made a half-playful swing a his master-at-arms. “Kneel before meee . . .” Luckily for Guy, Vasey took a step forward and stumbled, falling to the floor in a fit of what can only be described as girly giggles. If the aforementioned girls were raging alcoholics, that is.
Guy helped the Sheriff to his unsteady feet, then walked him over to his bed, then tucked him in, while the Sheriff tried to convince Guy to read him a bedtime story. “Jusshhht one shhhtorry . . . Then I’ll go . . . to . . . shhhleeep.” Guy was just trying to remember a particularly funny one about a peasant who sets himself on fire, then burns down the entire village, all except the sheep, who . . . oh, never mind, it’s not important, let’s just say it doesn’t end well for the sheep, either, okay? Anyway, Guy was trying to remember the ending to the story when he became aware that Vasey had finally fallen asleep.
“Now for some sexy alone time,” he mumbled in his throatiest baritone. He put out the torches, except for the one he carried with him, and went to his own bedroom, thinking about his lady love, Marian. And Allan, if she was into that kind of thing. Maybe. Probably.
************************************************************************
Guy was just about to finish his . . . thoughts, when he was prematurely cut off from them by a terrific uproar coming from the hallway outside. He groaned in frustration, threw on a tunic and some very uncomfortable leather trousers, since those were the only clothes he owned, grabbed his sword, and then rushed outside to find out what was making all the racket.
Upon opening the door, he recognized the Sheriff’s voice and the strong smell of alcohol. Vasey had evidently gotten back out of bed and started the party back up again. He was wearing a pair of trousers on his head, evidently in lieu of the Archbishop’s hat, and was just finishing up performing a lovely wedding ceremony between a tapestry and a wall sconce. “You may kisshh the bride,” he proclaimed loudly, then wiped away a tear.
At that moment, Marian came out of her chambers, pulling on a heavy robe over her thin nightgown. “What is going on? Are we being invaded? Is Robin Hood here?” Guy scowled at the mention of his most hated enemy. (Besides the Nightwatchman, of course - he really hated that villain, and besides, why did his costume allow for an ample bosom and womanly hips? It made no sense. Yeah, he couldn’t stand that guy, or Robin Hood, either.)
“Go back to bed, Marian; I have this under control,” he muttered, capturing a mental image for later of her in her nightgown, in case he ever got to go back to bed tonight and finish thinking his thoughts.
“Want me to do you, too? I can . . . lovely sheremony . . . Jusht give me thhhhe ring . . .” the Sheriff said in a very loud voice that echoed through the corridor.
“What? We aren’t getting married!” Marian protested.
“You don’t have to sound so averse to the idea!” shouted Guy, wondering why he bothered to be annoyed when he knew very well that the special wedding vows, which he had written for just such an occasion, were inconveniently tucked away in a box at Locksley.
“I do not want to be married in my nightclothes by a drunken priest!”
“Archbishop!” corrected the Sheriff, who was right then “sprinkling” the tapestry with something that was most definitely not holy water.
“Archbishop, then!” cried Marian passionately. “I feel as though you don’t even know me at all.”
“Marian . . .” grumbled Guy forcefully, “go back to your room!”
“How can I marry you if I’m forced to go back to my room?” she yelled.
“Just go! I’ll deal with you later,” Guy shouted, his patience at an end.
Allan chose this moment to peek out from behind his bedroom door. “What’s happening? The Final Day o’ Judgment an’ all that? ‘Cause if it is, I’m going back to sleep. Tell Jesus to wake me when he’s done with all the other poor slobs, yeah?”
“Allan! Come over here now and help me with the Sheriff!” Guy yelled.
Marian stood in the hallway, looking anxious and wondering whether she would have time to put on her Nightwatchman costume, although she wasn’t sure why, except that for some reason, being around Guy always made her want to put on some leather outfit with a mask.
Unfortunately, nobody was looking at the Sheriff, and just as he was about to give the best part of his sermon, too (oh, right, he was giving a sermon now).
“Ye ssshall, in the Final Daaay of Judgment . . . when Shaaatan callssh you home to resssht . . . and the lion shhhall lie down with the . . . other lion . . . and . . . oh, sod it . . .” Taking a moment to recollect his thoughts on this solemn topic, he took a step backwards and lost his balance, his robes flew open, thus engraving an image the other three in the hallway would never be able to erase from their memories, now matter how much bad tavern wine they consumed, and he tumbled backwards down the staircase.
Guy, Allan and Marian ran after him, racing down the steps. Guy brought the torch closer to where the Sheriff now lay, sprawled about ten steps from the top of the staircase, the trousers still on his head, but with a little bit of blood trickling down from the crotch. “My lord! Are you all right?” Guy shouted, pulling him into a sitting position and patting his cheeks, expecting the Sheriff make some lewd joke about the way that Guy was now standing straddled over him. No such jest came, however; the Sheriff of Nottingham was dead.
Chapter Two