Robin Hood: Much. 033. Taste.
Title: In this vast, depressing desert
Fandom: Robin Hood
Characters: Much/Robin
Prompt: 039. Taste.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 558
Summary: Robin tastes like honey, like the sweet golden combs they used to steal from the monks when they were boys.
Author’s Note: I wrote slash! Granted, it’s not graphic slash, but still. How exciting is that? This is not quite what I imagined it would be, but I hit a wall with this piece and decided to post it as is. Hopefully you'll enoy it.
Robin tastes like honey, like the sweet golden combs they used to steal from the monks when they were boys.
It is not that Much is shocked, or even disgusted, the first time Robin kisses him. He is surprised in a way that leaves him frozen as his master’s lips touch his, even though he thinks he would like to respond.
They have been away from home for over a year already and Much knows he is not the first man Robin has kissed. There have been others. Lords and Earls and Counts, men like Robin.
At first, Much could barely stand to look at his master. He walked into Robin’s tent once, only to find Robin locked in the embrace of another man, one Much did not recognize. Much hadn’t been seen and, choking down the bile rising in his throat, he had run from the tent, from the camp, until he was alone, able to cry and shout and lambaste God in a thousand different ways for having put such temptation in front of Robin.
The anger comes first. Then, weeks, maybe months later, the jealousy.
* * * * * *
His mouth forms a perfect O, gasping out in pleasure, and the expression is so familiar, so feminine, that Much doesn’t even think before pressing his lips down over Robin’s.
It is the first time he has initiated contact, and the shame and the excitement, the pleasure and the terror, only fuel his actions that night.
Robin stops visiting other tents after that.
* * * * * *
Like with all things, it is the beginning that is the most difficult for Much to handle, both emotionally and physically.
Why is he doing this? Why do I let him?
Where do I put my hands? Is this right?
Will we still be as we have always been? How can we be?
What if I do something wrong? Will I know? Will he?
What if someone finds out? Do I even care?
Will it hurt?
It does hurt. Emotionally and physically.
* * * * * *
Robin calls out her name as he lies in Much’s arms. Much doesn’t begrudge him that, how could he, when he too thinks of her white, rounded limbs, blushing cheeks, and soft red lips? Her and a dozen other girls, all distant memories of home and safety and normalcy.
Sometimes, Much wonders if, when they return, Robin will call his name when wrapped in her arms.
* * * * * *
They never become lovers in the romantic, emotional way that they do with women. But, somewhere amidst their sweaty embraces and fierce kisses, they grow to love each other. Respectively, not passionately. Enduringly, not ephemerally.
Much loves Robin’s weakness, his need to love and feel love. And there are things he hates, even loathes about the other man, but he can’t despise him for long, not with him curled against his side, pressing his lips to Much’s shoulder blade. In their tent at night, they are the only two people who matter, in this vast, depressing desert, in this overwhelming, terrifying world.
* * * * * *
Even though he is no longer certain that God exists, at least not a merciful, forgiving God, he prays every night for his soul, and for Robin’s.
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