Robin Hood Fanfic: if you are the rhyme and i the refrain
if you are the rhyme and i the refrain
They skid to a halt about fifteen minutes from the camp, the laughter finally becoming too much to contain and making it impossible to run any longer. The sun isn’t even up yet, although the air is slowly turning pearly green, the relative darkness of summer nights fleeing the approaching dawn.
“Did you-” Robin chokes out between wheezing gulps of air, “did you see their faces?”
“And then some!” Allan’s exclamation sets them all off again.
John is quietly amused, chuckling to himself as he hefts their spoils from one shoulder to another. Will is shaking with hilarity, him and Allan leaning against each other in a vain attempt to stay on their feet.
Djaq’s giggle rings like the bells in her cape as she once again shakes the wooden rattle, fluffing her many scarves. “I sense… Bad Magic!” She intones with same grave tones she used to scare the superstitious guardsmen out of their weapons. Not to mention their clothes.
The black exploding powder had gone long way in helping to convince everyone that they were in the presence of a powerful sorceress.
It was a shame they didn’t have any more of the stuff. Robin would have very much liked to investigate its potential uses further, but according to Djaq it was the last patch her father had brought from his travels in the East, and she didn’t know how to make more of it.
“Shut-” Allan’s struggling for breath, a fist clenched in Will’s shirt the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the ground. “Shut up! I’m - hic! - dying here, woman!”
They’re all giddy with success, coming back from another daring quest involving an obnoxious lord, ill-gained goods and an ingenious plan that worked until it suddenly didn’t.
Robin is grinning like a loon as he surveys his men, happy and carefree, if only for a while.
All but one.
Standing a bit away from the rest of the group is Much, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. He’s decidedly not laughing.
Nor is he complaining loudly, which is possibly even more alarming.
Robin catches John’s attention and inclines his head toward the camp. It only takes him a moment, eyes drifting between Much and Robin, to get the message.
“Come on then lads.” John nudges Djaq gently on the shoulder, directing her toward the barely visible path they’ve been following. He grabs Will and Allan by the scruff of their necks in passing and drags them along, still shaky and giggling.
In few seconds they’re all swallowed by the forest, green-grey and shimmering in the early dawn. Much and Robin are alone with nothing but the sound of leaves shifting in the breeze for company. It’s too early even for the birds.
“Sooo…” Robin drawls, unsure what’s wrong and somewhat reluctant to find out.
Much regards him silently, jaw set. Robin runs a frustrated hand through his hair, messing it up even further. “Much,” he sighs, “what is it? I can’t be expected to play this guessing game every time your feelings get hu--”
“Hurt!” The other man snaps and takes a quick step forward, fists clasping at empty air like he wants to hit something so bad that anything, anyone, will do. “I’ll tell you about hurt! Hurt is watching you take more and more risks! Hurt is not being allowed to come with you to guard your back! Hurt is knowing that you care more about getting your precious justice, than you do about your own life!”
He keeps coming, face like thunder, and Robin finds himself backing away, palms open and stretched in front of him in a placating gesture.
“Hurt,” Much all but spits, “is watching you jump down fifteen feet in the middle of sword wielding henchmen by yourself!” His breath is coming fast and hard, and not from the run either. “You could’ve waited for two seconds before pulling another stupid stunt. I was right behind you, Robin!”
Much must be truly upset to call him that, and Robin winces at the tone. Old habits die hard, and normally he likes it when Much forgets himself enough to drop the ever-present ‘Master’, but not when his name is hurled out like an accusation.
Even less when it’s a valid one. Robin swallows around the apology that wants to steal out unbidden, furious for feeling like he has to justify himself.
It’s not until his back actually collides with the trunk of an old oak tree that he realises he hasn’t stopped retreating. Much advances steadily, crowding right into his personal space, until Robin is forced to clutch the tree behind him simply to keep his balance. His eyes fly to Much's face, and he inhales sharply at what he sees there.
It’s a look that he hasn't seen for... How long now? Just over a year, his traitorous mind supplies, with accuracy and detail that should come as a surprise. It doesn't.
It’s a look that brings back memories. Grains of sand sticking to overheated skin. Much's hands, pressing him down, down, thumbs digging into his hips. Grief, blood, desperation. Bite of teeth, blinding like the noon sun.
Robin feels himself flush, blood rushing to the fore, senses suddenly on full alert. The world narrows to crystal clarity, like that moment of stillness between aiming and watching the arrow find its target.
He breathes in deeply, tasting smoke and sweat and surrender. Getting out of this situation, away from Much, would be laughably easy. He knows exactly how to escape, is in fact very good at it.
The problem is he doesn't want to.
Robin can see the exact moment Much realises that he’s not going to run, that he will let Much-there’s a split second pause, just enough to catch the dark satisfaction in the tilt of Much’s lips before they close over his, hard and demanding.
Robin's mind may still be playing catch-up but his body... His body remembers, hips canting up in silent invitation, mouth growing soft and pliant under Much's continued attack.
The kiss turns deep and all-consuming, almost violently so. Much’s tongue slides over his, chasing the small needy whimpers and capturing them against the roof of his mouth.
Robin's eyes stutter shut, nails digging into the rough bark under his hands. The air is heavy with the smell of rain, everything wet and clinging and somehow closer to the surface.
It's the same and not the same; the two of them, wrapped around each other during cold nights and early mornings, pale golden and warming up faster than the Sherwood dawn creeping through the foliage.
Much works broad hands under his tunic, fingers splayed across his ribcage like a benediction. Robin's head snaps against the trunk as Much drags thumbs over his nipples; once, twice, three times. He moans, low and desperate, the sound swallowed by Much's mouth and the damp forest that wraps its silence around them, tight and intimate.
There’s a sudden hard pressure at his groin as Much’s thigh slips between his legs, their hips aligning together like pieces of the same puzzle. He rocks forward helplessly.
Robin feels Much's fingers dip under his waistline, just enough to elicit a ragged gasp from him, before coming to rest against the leather cords of his trousers.
"Robin." The name comes out more like a command than a question, and Robin opens his eyes, unable to refuse him. Not this. Never this. He owes Much his life and more, and baring his soul is a small price to pay for never being alone.
Much's eyes are dark, pupils blown with need, and Robin can't stifle a sob of relief. After they returned to England, Much has not said or done anything even close to this, and Robin's never been good at asking, not when it's something he wants this badly.
The moment stretches for a few heartbeats, and then Robin nods, silent and breathless and free-falling.
Much never breaks eye contact, not when he unfastens Robin's vest and tunic, tugging them up and off, not when his fingers open the laces of Robin's trousers, mouth descending to Robin's bare chest, licking a wide path from collarbone to collarbone.
He arches toward the touch, shoulder blades curling around the trunk, the bark scraping the skin of his back raw. Much growls, the sound of it making Robin's legs buckle, and if it wasn't for the iron hard grip keeping him pinned to the tree, he'd be on the ground already.
As it is, he can only watch helplessly as Much sinks to his knees, nose buried in the curve of his hipbone. The first bite of teeth is sharp and bright, lacing through him like a blade. The tongue laving the bruised skin does nothing to soothe the fire in his belly.
"Please," he says, the word tumbling out like a broken promise.
Much looks up, mouth hovering tantalisingly close to the head of his cock, already hard and leaking. "Please what? Tell me."
But he can’t, he can’t. Not in words.
Robin’s hands drop down to Much’s hair of their own volition, fingers tangling in the strawberry blond strands, tugging him closer.
Much goes willingly, thumbs rubbing small circles on the top of Robin’s thighs while his tongue darts out to do the same to the underside of his cock.
The sensation is so intense that for a few seconds his whole nervous system overloads, unable to differentiate between pleasure and pain. Much never breaks eye contact, just swallows him to the root, and there’s no way it’s going to be anything but fast and dirty, no matter how much Robin wants this to last.
Much’s mouth is like a furnace and Robin remembers the first time they did this, scared and grateful and so, so alone, just the two of them, clinging to sanity and each other. Not so different from now.
There’s a sudden pressure behind his balls, Much’s finger pushing down hard, and Robin surges forward, all pretence of control gone. A flicker of tongue against the head and he’s coming, the orgasm crashing over him in white-hot waves.
Much pulls away quickly, cupping his hand to capture the pulsations. Even half-conscious Robin realises what that means and the knowledge makes him shudder once more before he slumps back, tension draining from his muscles like warm water, leaving him weak and light-headed.
He’s not given any time to recover. Much is on his feet in seconds, gathering Robin’s wrists into a one-handed grip, wrenching them up as he flips him around to face the trunk.
To struggle now would be futile, so he doesn’t. Because between the two of them Robin may be the faster and more agile one, but under the layers of shabby clothing Much is hiding some impressive upper-body strength, forged by years of fighting with a heavy blade and doing it with skill that never fails to catch his opponent off-guard.
Robin is no exception. Even though he knows what Much is capable of, there’s still a dark thrill of surprise coiling low in his stomach as he is all but slammed against the oak, a small tear of blood trickling down from where his cheekbone grazes the bark.
Much’s hand smoothes down his back, thumbs skimming the column of his spine, quick and light like rain drops. Robin wraps arms around the trunk and holds on.
Behind him Much is fumbling with the fastening of his trousers, his breath hot and loud in Robin’s ear. Then there is bare skin against his back, comeslick fingers slipping between his buttocks, over his opening and inside, sloppy and hardly thorough.
But Robin is done waiting, already pushing back against the blunt hardness, spearing himself on Much’s cock, reckless and greedy.
Much seizes his hips in a brutal grip, dirty fingernails cutting tiny sickle moons into his skin, a star map of love and fear and lust. There’ll be bruises tomorrow for sure, and the thought only makes Robin shove back harder, drawing out a groan, torn and thick with desire, from the both of them.
Much snakes an arm around his waist, fisting Robin’s cock in perfect counterpoint to their movements. He can feel himself grow hard again, straining and trapped between Much’s rough palm and the steady, relentless burn inside him. The air hissing through his clenched teeth tastes like copper.
It’s too soon and it hurts.
But that’s good, that’s fine, it’s what they need. Because Robin wakes up each morning expecting pain, and so does Much, so isn’t it better that it comes like this, from someone you love?
He stops fighting then, in his mind, and just lets go. Much bends him over, angling his hips just so until every back and forth motion drags his cock over that sweet spot inside, the heat spreading throughout his body, beads of sweat forming on every plane and valley of flesh.
It doesn’t take long before one of them breaks the rhythm, thrusts becoming shallow and erratic. Robin’s distantly aware of the sound of his own voice, begging, and the bite of Much’s teeth sinking into the nape of his neck, brutal and welcomed.
He looks down in time to see himself spill over Much’s fist, catches the obscene sight of white ropes splattering against the tree just before his eyes roll back and there’s only blackness and the scalding flood of Much coming inside him.
It’s like cheating death, like a bowstring snapping. The world shimmers back into focus around them, slow and unchanged. Robin leans his head back onto Much’s shoulder and waits for his heartbeat to calm down, blood like honey in his veins.
“Hurt,” Much’s voice is rough and broken, words barely audible, mouthed against the slick skin of Robin’s shoulder. “Hurt is only knowing how to touch you like every time is the last.”
There’s nothing he can say to that, nothing he can do to change it. This is the life he has chosen for them both, and it comes with a price.
Regret is a dull ache, throbbing deep in his bones, gradually filling the empty spaces that Much leaves behind as he pulls out. Robin catches his arms, wraps them around himself and doesn’t let go. Because, while he may wish things to be different, he never, not for one second, wishes them away.
They stay like that for a long time, breathing in sync, while all around them a new day steals across the land.
Fin.