The ropes bite painfully into Guy's wrists as he walks, and he curses inwardly. He can't fathom how he's gotten himself into this situation a second time—inevitability or stupidity, it's truly impossible to say—but his head is fuzzy, recent memory fractured. A blow to the head, then, most likely. With every step, the forest grows sharper around him.
He resists the urge to ask questions of the man skulking behind him like a storm cloud. He doesn't ask where Locksley is taking him. That, at least, he will learn soon enough, and now is not an opportune moment for questions. It's not yet time to rile his captor. A better opportunity will surely arise if he is but patient.
The absence of Locksley's insufferable servant is a notable oddity, but Guy doesn't waste energy pondering it. This endless march through the forest would surely have ended by now if Locksley were not alone.
Guy spares a glance over his shoulder, careful of his footing as he takes his attention off the uneven ground. He finds Locksley watching him with a grim expression, something dark and vicious glinting in his eyes. Unmistakable hate. Guy recognizes hate easily, even in the eyes of a supposedly righteous man.
He knew well enough that there was darkness in Robin Hood, but it still lodges a smug feeling of victory in his chest. The sensation persists, despite his current position, and Guy returns his focus to the forest before him in order to prevent Locksley seeing the lopsided smirk that breaks across his face.
There is no such thing as a 'Good Man'. There are only men with the luxury to pretend.
By the time the sun hangs low to the west, Robin still hasn't worked out what he actually intends to do with his captive.
The voice of his darker instincts chants a steady mantra of 'Kill him, kill him, kill him.' Here is his missed opportunity—his chance to steal back justice for his distant king—justice circumstance alone denied him the last time. This has nothing to do with Robin's own petty grievances, or Gisborne's stubborn attention to the woman Robin adores.
This has nothing to do with the hundred wrongs Gisborne has done him.
But for some reason Robin can't quite bring himself to heed the chorus in his head calling for his enemy's death. Perhaps it is fear of what Marian will say if she learns the truth. She thinks Robin better than he is, and he finds himself loathe to disappoint her.
But his reluctance to kill Gisborne now does nothing to quiet the rage coursing beneath his skin—the angry need for action—that he tells himself is merely the call of justice.
Later, he will perhaps acknowledge that the vicious, roiling instincts in his gut are not justice at all. But tonight he is alone in the woods with a man he wants desperately to destroy, and he will not try to be the better man.
- — - — - — - — -
If he's going to be completely honest, he's surprised to still be breathing. After all, what was the purpose of marching him a full day into unfamiliar forest, if not to remove him so far that no one will find his body?
"Here what?" Guy asks. "Here you'll finally run me through? Here you'll cut my throat and leave me to die?"
"Here we make camp," Locksley informs him coolly, raw contempt in his eyes.
It's a reprieve, if a temporary one. Guy knows he should leave well enough alone; in the interests of survival, he should keep his mouth shut. Instead he feels the smirk cross his face unbidden, catches the wide flash of Locksley's anger at the sight.
"What's wrong?" Guy asks, voice pitched low, tone rumbling with taunting gravel. "Suddenly squeamish? Now that you've got me, can't bring yourself to finish the job?"
Locksley snarls and lunges for him, fists grasping in the fabric of Guy's tunic and dragging him forward in an awkward stumble. Guy catches his balance, braces himself against Locksley's hold and straightens—discovers they are standing far, far too close. His own eyes are adjusting to the falling darkness, even as a full moon creeps above the tree line, and there is unmasked rage in Locksley's face. Guy smirks wider when Locksley's fingers tighten in the leather already stretched tight across his chest.
Something shifts in Locksley's eyes, a violent snap of dark emotion, and then his jaw sets in renewed determination. There is unreadable purpose in the way he stands completely still, staring at Guy with unwonted weight.
One of Locksley's hands loosens from Guy's tunic, and an instant later comes the unmistakable snick of a blade being drawn.
"So you've got it in you after all," Guy murmurs. His grim smile fades, but skepticism must still be flashing in his face, even as he feels the nudge of cool metal against the side of his throat.
"On your knees," Locksley hisses. He's still too close, and Guy feels every syllable as a warm puff of air across his chin.
"I'd just as soon die on my feet."
"I have no intention of killing you," Locksley retorts. "Not unless you really irritate me." From his tone, Guy intuits that he is already pushing his luck. He slowly, as cautiously as he can without hands free to steady him, drops to his knees in the shallow foliage. Locksley lets go of his shirt to allow this obedience, but Guy is all too aware of the blade that follows him down, hovering close to his speeding pulse.
For all his bravado, Guy does not want to die. He will face the end bravely if it comes to that—he is no coward—but he would just as soon that time not be now.
He glances up, surprised at the way his breath catches to find Locksley staring down at him, purpose unclear and eyes wide with something very near surprise. Insubordinate questions die on Guy's tongue. For a long moment all is stillness, and all he can do is stare back.
- — - — - — - — -
He was not expecting this. His own responses are startling, a fire in twisting counterpoint to the lurking rage of his thoughts. Until right this moment, Robin has never thought to want what he is about to take. But he wants it now, with a force that surprises him. He wants with a desire more like anger than ardor, but he doesn't care. He will have this regardless.
He wonders in the last, mad moment of stillness, if Gisborne can read his intentions in his eyes.
It's all Robin can do to keep his blade steady at Gisborne's throat as he unlaces his own leggings. The effort is awkward and inefficient with only one hand, but he has the satisfaction of seeing revelation dawn across Gisborne's face. Wide eyes and furious disbelief clear in the moonlight, then a half-hearted smirk. He thinks Robin is bluffing.
He will learn otherwise.
Robin's cock is not hard as he nudges his leggings down his hips and bares himself to the cool forest air. But even the feel of his own hand on his flesh is nearly overwhelming, and his head spins as his blood begins pooling abruptly south. His skin flushes warmly, his jaw setting with hungry intent, and the half-smirk falls from Gisborne's face.
Robin offers no verbal commands. He doesn't need to.
Gisborne is staring up at him as though he still can't credit that this is happening. His breath comes uneven, his mouth agape with incredulity as he holds unblinking eyes on Robin's face.
Robin nudges the edge of his blade a little harder, a little more threatening against the soft flesh beneath Gisborne's ear. He knows the instant his message is heard and believed.
"Do it," Robin snarls, letting go of his cock and reaching to fist his fingers in the dark chaos of Gisborne's hair. His touch is rough, his meaning clear, but he doesn't force Gisborne forward just yet. He waits, curious to see what the man will do.
He does not wait long. A dark expression seethes across Gisborne's face, but he leans closer of his own volition. He has to duck his head awkwardly to take the head of Robin's cock into his mouth, but there is no scrape of teeth as he adjusts his balance and draws Robin deeper. There is only wet, sucking heat that makes Robin groan—makes it difficult to hold his eyes open and his blade steady.
Gisborne is still watching him, glaring as he bobs lower along Robin's cock, then draws smoothly back.
The sight of him, his mouth—those lips Robin knows in so many variations of smug insolence—wrapped grudgingly around his shaft, servicing him with unwilling skill... Robin cannot breathe for all the things he suddenly wants. His rage is barely recognizable through the vicious hunger in his blood; it has transformed into something darker, something eager and selfish and unforgivable.
He tugs Gisborne forward with the hand he still has tangled in dark hair, thrilling at the choked sound Gisborne makes as the head of Robin's cock nudges deeper. Robin is hard now—blindingly, shockingly, wrathfully hard—and he wants to know what it feels like to slide his full length down Gisborne's throat. He wants to know what sounds his enemy will make then.
He barely recognizes his own voice when he says, "If you do not take it willingly, you will have the whole length of it by force. It is your choice."
A muscle in Gisborne's cheek spasms, but his jaw drops wider and he shifts as though for balance, and then Robin is cursing aloud as his cock slips deeper, drawing a long, low groan from Robin's chest.
The first drops of rain barely register through the haze of pleasure, and Robin does not stop as they fall from bare drizzle to heavier rainfall. He is soaked through by the time Gisborne draws back to breathe, and he stares down to confirm that Gisborne is likewise drenched, hair falling in miserable, sodden strands around his face, cheeks glistening wet as Robin forces him forward again. Not tears—he cannot picture Gisborne crying, no matter how he strains his imagination—but the illusion is almost as satisfying.
Gisborne's mouth offers the perfect suction, maddening heat and pressure as he ignores the press of Robin's hand and settles into a rhythm all his own. There is the occasional spasm as he gags, but he does not try to retreat. He accepts this treatment with the same stubborn insolence that is his constant shield.
He works Robin closer and closer to the cresting edge of orgasm, and it is only at the last moment that Robin tightens his fingers brutally in Gisborne's hair and forces him to stop.
He will not let it be that easy.
- — - — - — - — -
His throat aches and his face feels hot. He should not want to lean back in and finish the job—that would be a flavor of madness he can't fathom—but it is difficult just the same, to raise his eyes and meet the heavy darkness in Locksley's gaze.
"What's the matter?" Guy hears himself taunt, though his voice sounds wrong—fucked-out and ragged—and it's all he can do to plant the familiar smirk in place. "Worried what Marian will think when she discovers your infidelity?"
Locksley growls and abruptly releases him, shoving at Guy's shoulder so that he falls to the sodden ground. His bound wrists cannot stop his fall, and he lands on his back with his hands pinned beneath him. The rain lightens, some of the clouds dissipating, and as a corner of the moon reappears it becomes easier to see. But even so he can't decipher the expression on Locksley's face.
"You will not speak her name," Locksley says, venom in his voice as he moves closer, surprising grace in the movements, something predatory in his steps.
"Marian's name?" Guy checks, grinning his most irritating grin. "Why? Feeling threatened by the man you've got tied up in the woods?" Then, grin fading deliberately, eyes flashing with anger of his own, "My mouth is good enough for your cock, but not for the name of the woman I love?"
Locksley snarls an inarticulate noise and drops to his knees. He lands astride Guy's thighs, and an instant later there is again the cold, metal edge of Locksley's blade at his throat. It is all Guy can do not to laugh.
"So quickly you resort to petty threats," he murmurs. His voice is still rough, throat still tired from Locksley's cruel use, and perhaps Locksley notices because he draws the blade away—then, shockingly, sets it aside entirely.
It's almost worse, because suddenly there is no weapon between them. There is only the quiet of the forest and the alarming proximity—the weight of Locksley across his thighs and the knowledge of his captor's naked cock, still unspent, perhaps with further purpose.
Guy's own cock should not stir at the thought.
He doesn't know if Locksley notices the sudden swell of interest, but he dislikes the shuttered control that closes off his expression, as the last of the rain stops and the moon again glows freely in the sky. There is fresh determination in Locksley's look, in his posture, and he leans forward over Guy, bracing one arm against the ground.
"You're right. The threat of violence has never been enough to master you. There must be some other way. Something more effective."
"What in God's name are you on about?" Guy growls, but he doesn't move. Even if Locksley is no longer brandishing an obvious weapon, he is never truly unarmed, and Guy is at every disadvantage until he can get his hands free.
Then he gasps, unable to conceal his response as deft fingers attack his sodden leather lacings, careless of his far-too-interested cock. Locksley is unlacing his leggings with fierce concentration, and Guy cannot find enough voice to order him to stop.
Or perhaps he does not want to protest only to be ignored.
Any cleverer retort he might have come up with evaporates when Locksley's hand wraps firmly around his shaft and gives a single stroke. There's nothing tentative in the touch, and Guy's shame is not enough to keep him from throwing his head back on a startled moan, eyes falling closed as pleasure assaults his senses.
He does not want to feel this—not at Robin Hood's hand. He pictures other, softer hands. The image shatters when Locksley strokes him again, tugging him from his rain-drenched leggings and working him efficiently to the flushed pinnacle of arousal.
Then Locksley takes his hand away entirely, and Guy shouts a colorful string of curses. He suddenly does not care if the pleasure comes from Locksley's hand, so long as it comes.
But he does not say so aloud. He has his pride.
"If you ask nicely, I might finish you quickly," Locksley says. His tone is light, but it's deliberate—calculated—and beneath the words runs an undercurrent of threat. Locksley wants him to ask. He wants to claim such a victory over Guy, and clearly has other plans if he does not get what he wants.
But Guy sets his jaw stubbornly. Locksley will have no such satisfaction from him.
"Surely you know me better than that," he bites out as evenly as he can, flexing his aching wrists within their bonds. "When have I ever asked for what I want?"
It's the wrong thing to say. It ignites the banked fire of rage in Locksley's eyes, makes him lean closer, violence in every line of his body. One corner of Guy's mouth curls high with mocking disdain.
"Perhaps I do not want you to ask after all," Locksley says, voice almost animal in its ire. "Perhaps I want you to beg."
"I've never begged for anything in my life," Guy announces coldly.
"Then you will have to learn."
Guy has no time to retort before he finds himself disoriented and on his stomach, face squashed into the wet foliage. The cool, damp press of grass and leaves is torture on his straining cock, and he groans, not even thinking to resist as Locksley peels his rain-drenched leggings down his thighs, baring his ass to the cool night. Locksley manhandles him, bossy and entitled, and Guy doesn't resist as he is maneuvered onto his knees, shoulders still pressed uncomfortably into the wet ground, body taut with anticipation.
There is the shift and rustle of Locksley moving behind him, a line of warmth where his leg presses against Guy's thigh. Guy is already bracing himself for pain; he knows what Locksley intends to do. There is more movement behind him, more rustling of fabric. Frustration mounts, and Guy has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at Locksley to hurry up and do it if he really means to.
He is not afraid. Guy is no stranger to pain, and while his gut twists at the intimate liberties Locksley has taken, he has every intention of enduring this with dignity.
He startles, then, shocked beyond coherent thought, when instead of the violent pain of violation, he feels slick warmth sliding into the cleft of his ass. Then something far too pleasant to be Locksley's cock slides smoothly into him.
Guy squeezes his eyes shut and gasps, his senses spinning, unable to process at first—unmistakable pleasure when he was braced so firmly against inevitable pain. It takes him a long moment to decipher the sensation: Locksley's fingers, slick with oil, sliding deeper even as Guy struggles to breathe.
He wants to snap something vicious, but words fail him. He can only feel.
Then Locksley's fingers twist inside him, curling deep, stroking deliberately—touching him somewhere that sends violent sparks of pleasure racing up his spine. Guy gasps aloud. His shoulders tighten, his eyes flying open as his traitorous body arches into the touch. He finds he cannot picture the look on Locksley's face as the gesture is repeated, igniting molten heat in Guy's belly, making his neglected cock throb with a need that nearly overwhelms him.
Locksley's fingers withdraw entirely, and more oil slicks the way as he thrusts them in again, more roughly this time, twisting deeper. There is discomfort now, but it is pale, and nothing at all to the heated pleasure making Guy curse against the ground.
In that moment, he hates Robin of Locksley more than he ever thought possible.
- — - — - — - — -
But he is still not begging. Robin feels the raging need for conquest in his blood, he needs more than the physical surrender of Gisborne's body.
He can't explain even to himself why it matters, but he needs more.
When he withdraws his fingers for the final time, he does so without care, abrupt movement drawing a grunt of surprise from Gisborne's throat. Even that grunt is heavy with gravel, low and needy, and Robin's blood rushes in his ears. He slicks his cock with one hand, braces the other hand on Gisborne's thigh, tries to school himself to patience—
And instead fucks forward in a single thrust, burying himself in tight, impossible heat. Gisborne shouts as he is violated, a choked cry that sears the night and fills the clearing. The sound ricochets down to Robin's bones. He is alight with the rush of power, and it is all he can do not to rush on with greedy thrusts, to find his release with violent speed.
It takes every ounce of questionable willpower to hold himself still, but he doesn't move. He feels Gisborne shaking beneath his hands, around his cock, and he thrills at the complete control he has over this vile, maddening man.
"Why are you stopping?" Gisborne gasps, then bites his lip so hard it's a surprise he doesn't draw blood.
Robin grins, a little bit madly, because the question is almost a surrender. Gisborne clearly did not mean to ask it, is silently berating himself now, and Robin finds it is no longer so difficult to hold himself motionless. All he needed was the proper motivation.
"You know why I am stopping," he murmurs, vicious satisfaction twisting in his chest. He reaches forward to stroke a cruel hand along Gisborne's flank, a gentle touch that can only throw the man even further off balance. Robin grins darkly even though Gisborne will not see it.
Gisborne groans, hips trembling, but his voice is cutting when he says, "You will get no such satisfaction from me."
"Won't I?" Robin murmurs. Then he leans forward, draping himself along Gisborne's back, bracing his hand in the wet grass. His other hand slides past Gisborne's hip, around to the front, and he nudges Gisborne's shirt up, baring the damp, cool skin to his taunting touch. In this too, he is gentle; he is coming to understand his enemy's weaknesses more intimately than he would ever have expected.
"I told you," Gisborne says, though this time it sounds more like a groan. "I have never begged in my life."
"It's never too late to start," Robin hisses, lips brushing Gisborne's ear as his hand slips lower and curls around Gisborne's cock. He strokes once, then stills at the base, gripping firmly enough to hold any threat of orgasm at bay.
"Fuck you," Gisborne breathes, and the syllables are shaky with strain. Even if Robin could not hear the mounting need in that voice, he can feel the almost violent trembling of Gisborne's body beneath his, around him. He knows he will win this.
"Say it," Robin snarls. "Or I will tie you to a tree and leave you unsatisfied."
A ragged exhale that might have been 'no,' but Robin can't tell for sure, and then he strokes again, deliberately rough. Gisborne curses, shudders beneath him, and Robin stills his hand. A pause, a moment's consideration, and then he rocks his hips, pulling out only to rut back in—a single movement that nearly undoes Robin himself, frantic as he is for his own release. But he is desperate for this one victory that has come to matter more than anything.
His blood is aflame, and he is suddenly so tightly wound that he almost misses the soft, shattered "Please" that reaches his ears.
But the word is unmistakable, and Robin's chest tightens hungrily, his body blanketing Gisborne more heavily as his hips thrust again.
"Say it again." He squeezes his hand tighter around Gisborne's cock.
A pause, long and almost painful, but at last Gisborne repeats, "Please, Locksley. For God's sake, please."
"Please what," Robin snarls, accompanying the question with a harsh stroke that leaves Gisborne gasping.
"Please fuck me," Gisborne groans. "Please finish it."
And God help him, Robin does.
- — - — - — - — -
The fact is immaterial. Guy nears his own orgasm just as surely as if the most skillful hand were pleasuring him. His pulse is chaos beneath his skin as Locksley thrusts and thrusts, as he ruts into Guy like some kind of animal, nothing at all like the Robin Hood of gossip and growing legend.
And then Guy is cresting the final wave, rising to the very edge and coming to pieces. He makes sounds he will be ashamed for later. He groans and shakes and spills his seed on the empty ground.
Locksley is far from finished, it seems, and his grunts and moans and violent thrusts continue long after Guy has come down from the rush of his own orgasm. He lasts ten more thrusts, twenty. Perhaps he will never stop.
But eventually his rhythm falls erratic, his thrusts shallow as his breathing staggers—
He is deep in Guy's body when he comes, and Guy grimaces at the slick sensation filling him, the sense of being claimed so deeply he will never be free again.
- — - — - — - — -
This is not justice. He doesn't know what it is.
Come morning he realizes there is no point to this. He has nowhere to take Gisborne. He has no vengeance to demand after what he has already taken, and Gisborne is right (is always right): Robin will not kill him.
So he cuts Gisborne free just as the sun crests the tree line. He refuses to acknowledge the look of surprise on Gisborne's face.
"Pick a direction and go," he says. "I will not follow."
"After all this." Gisborne looks at him like he's gone mad. "You intend to simply let me walk away."
"Yes." Robin glares. "I would warn you to tell no one, but we both know you won't. For one thing, you could never bear to admit I bested you." Had you, he means. "For another, who would believe you?"
Gisborne is glaring back with the same furious malice, but he doesn't protest either point.
"I do have one warning, though," Robin amends before Gisborne can turn away.
"Do you indeed?" There it is, the familiar smirk, shadowed around the edges but sneering and unmistakable.
"You should be more cautious when meddling in my affairs," Robin says. With his people, he means. He needs Gisborne to stay away from those under Robin's protection. "If you cross me again, you will strongly regret it. I know you now, Gisborne. I can take you apart."
"You can try," Gisborne sneers, the expression cooling into something sharp and dangerous. Then, with a nod, he turns on his heel, tossing one last jibe over his shoulder. "Until next time, Locksley."
Robin's heart jolts in his chest as he registers the challenge in those words—not an offer, not even a little—and realizes that there will be a next time.
As he realizes just how badly he wants it.