Robin Hood

They huddle in what remains of a border fort—three stories of lichen-bitten stonework stinking of the rain that never stops. Robin paces the upper chamber, a five-pace circuit broken only by a gap-toothed arrow slit and the crushed skeleton of a rook. His boots scuff at the drift of sodden feathers. Every hour or so, he peers through the slit and into the blur of trees, and every time it is the same: rain flayed sideways, saplings bent low as penitent monks, no sign of pursuit and even less of hope.

On the floor below, Tuc rustles in his den of old furs and stolen church tapestry, some prize from the last miserable winter campaign. The friar’s great carcass is mostly naked, glinting with sweat and the filth of a week without fire. He is sprawled on his belly, eyes shut, face down in the heap as if burrowing toward the center of the earth. His baldness has advanced over the years, an ever-expanding continent, but the beard remains: tangled, streaked with old soup and new blood, smelling faintly of honey and strongly of man.

“You’re wearing a trench in the stone,” says Tuc, voice flattened by the dust and by the realization that prayer has done nothing to fortify these walls.

Robin ignores him. He paces. He sets his shoulder against the window frame and breathes the weather, lets it fill his nose and mouth, anything to scald away the stink of defeat. There was a time when he would have relished this: two of them, outnumbered and cornered, a last stand in some godforsaken keep. Now there is nothing left of that but the ache in his thighs and the taste of copper on his tongue.

“They’re still at the bridge,” says Robin, not sure if he’s reporting to Tuc or to himself. “Sheriff’s men. I counted twelve this morning. Probably more now.” His English is so stripped of sentiment it comes out as a tally, an inventory of the things that want him dead.

Tuc grunts. “They don’t want you dead, Rob. They want you swinging.” He stretches, shifts, rolls over to look up the stairwell with watery, bloodshot eyes. “That’s the trick with the sheriff. He can’t just kill you. He’s got to wring a spectacle out of it, or else he might as well be just another noble’s bastard with too many teeth and not enough coin.”

Robin snorts. “You say that like it’s not true.”

Tuc’s smile is slow and ugly. “I say it because it is true. You’re too famous to die in a ditch like the rest of us. Even now, you’re a hero to every idiot with a wooden bow and a grudge against the tithe. They want you at the gallows, and not just dead—shitting yourself in front of half the shire, gasping and twitching while the mob fights for a bit of your bloody shirt. Like they did to John. Like they did to Will.”

Robin flinches. The memory is a burr in his guts. He pictures the last moment he saw John Little: the hands bound behind his back, the knees already buckling, the neck stretched like the string of a harp. Sheriff’s men laughing from the platform. The crowd was thick that day, as if every laborer and miller and alewife in the county needed to see the end with their own eyes.

He spits out the taste. “They won’t get the satisfaction.”

Tuc sits up, wipes a line of drool from his beard, and stretches his legs until the joints crack. His belly hangs over his groin like an old wineskin, puckered with scars and the faint memory of muscle. “You say that like you’ve got a plan.”

“Not a plan,” says Robin. “Just a preference. I’d rather take an arrow in the ribs or a dagger to the heart than end up with my trousers round my ankles, dancing on a rope for the king’s amusement.” His voice is too low to echo. “If it comes to that, I’ll do it myself.”

“Always the hero,” says Tuc. He picks at a scab on his forearm, flicks it away, then licks his finger for the taste of iron. “But what about me? You planning to leave me here to starve?”

Robin glances down the stairwell, studies the friar’s shape as if appraising an ox for slaughter. “If you want to die, you can do it whenever you like.”

“I’ll wait for you,” says Tuc. He smiles, all lips and canines. “Better odds that way.”

The wind in the tower sings a single, high note. Robin listens, waiting for the footfall, the whistle of a shaft, anything that might mean the sheriff has decided to stop waiting and storm the keep. But there is nothing. Only the endless scrape of rain, and Tuc’s breathing.

Robin leans back into the wall. He used to be beautiful. That’s how Marian put it, in the old days when she bothered to care: your beauty is your armor. Now it’s a shield battered to metal flakes. His shoulders are hunched from the constant bowstring, hair gone white at the temples, the nose flattened and then re-broken by a cudgel. Still, when he moves, there’s a grace to it, a knowledge of how to fit his body through any opening, how to waste nothing.

He can hear Tuc grunting behind him, the sound of flesh rearranging itself. “You ever regret it?” asks Robin, his voice so low it might be mistaken for the wind. “Staying with me, when you could have gone back to the priory?”

Tuc laughs so hard he chokes. “You think they’d want me back, after what I did to the abbot? I was a shit friar and a worse monk. Only good at two things: drinking and killing, and even the drinking’s gone soft.” He runs his hand up his thigh, scratching through the bramble of hair. “If you hadn’t found me, I’d be rotting in a ditch with the rest of the heretics. This is better.”

Robin closes his eyes. “This is nothing.”

The two men sit with the silence. Through the slit, the woods seem to breathe. Robin looks for the signs: a flick of red among the bracken, a movement too steady for wind. He counts three. Four. Then loses track as the rain thickens, blurring the world into a sheet of lead.

“You can’t hold out forever,” says Tuc, almost gently. “Eventually they’ll rush the place. Or just starve us out.”

Robin doesn’t answer. He’s thinking about Marian again. She’s probably fled to Wales by now, or else been taken by the king’s men and bent to their purpose. That’s how things end: not with a sword, but a whimper, a slow surrender to the inevitable.

He wonders if there’s a way out he hasn’t thought of. Wonders if dying on his feet, battered and bleeding in a ruined keep, is any better than choking in front of the mob. Wonders if maybe Tuc has the right of it, to take what pleasure there is before the end, no matter how ugly or squalid.

He shakes the thought loose. “You think the sheriff will come himself?”

Tuc squints up at the hole in the ceiling where Robin stands silhouetted. “No. He’ll send the idiots and cowards, see who survives. He’s not stupid, Rob. He knows you’d rather kill him than eat. And he’d rather watch you squirm.” He stands, rolling his shoulders, and pulls his old friar’s robe over his bulk. It barely fits; the seam at the armpit is split, and the fabric sags with damp and neglect.

Robin snorts. “Then we wait.”

Tuc plods up the steps, each tread a grunt of effort. “You ever think of just giving up?” He’s behind Robin now, close enough to smell the sourness of his breath. “Letting them take us, get it over with?”

Robin turns, meets the friar’s eyes. They’re not the same eyes as when they met in the greenwood, long ago; they’re smaller, rimmed with pink, but no less hungry. “Never.”

Tuc grins, teeth yellowed but sharp. “Good. I’d hate to be the last one in England who still gives a shit.” He claps Robin on the shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “We’ll wait, then. And when they come, we’ll show them what’s left of the legend.”

Robin says nothing. He leans into the cold stone and listens to the rain, every drop a heartbeat closer to the end.

The hours sluice away with the rain, which manages to find its way into the tower through seams in the stone and rifts in the ancient mortar. Robin loses count of how many times he’s circled the room, how many times he’s replayed the slaughter in the woods—each death a bead on a rosary of failure. His limbs twitch with a dog’s nervousness; his mind chews itself raw.

He wants to say something decisive, something with the clean edge of a knife. Instead he swears, sharp enough to make the crows nesting on the roof stir and mutter.

“Fuck it,” he says, almost spitting the words. “What’s the point, Tuc? We’re trapped, and they’re not coming for us until they’re bored of waiting.” He stops pacing, faces the friar, and holds out his arms as if offering them for manacles.

Tuc sits on the heap of furs, knees wide apart, hands folded in the pit of his belly. His eyes glisten like two black stones sunk in wet clay. “So do something about it. I’ve heard you talk about dying on your own terms—maybe it’s time.”

Robin squints at him, uncertain if he’s joking. “You want me to jump from the tower? Is that it?”

Tuc shrugs. “It’d make a mess. Less work for me after.”

Robin stares. “You’d rather I did it myself than let the sheriff have the pleasure?”

Tuc’s mouth twitches. “If you don’t, he’ll just catch us alive and make you dance at the rope, like all the others. But there’s another way.” He leans forward, elbows pressing his thighs apart, making the bulge of his belly loom. “You could let me do it.”

For a heartbeat, Robin doesn’t comprehend. “Do what?”

“Kill you.” Tuc’s voice is calm, even; there’s not a flicker of hesitation. “You wouldn’t have to beg. I could make it quick. Or not, if you wanted it another way.”

Robin snorts, but the sound catches in his throat. He remembers—can’t help remembering—the night in the woods when Tuc took down one of the sheriff’s men, throttling him with hands the size of shovels, holding him until the struggling went loose and then just a bit longer for the fun of it. The look on the friar’s face: not ecstasy, not rage, just a kind of satisfaction, a craftsman’s pleasure.

He says, “You always did like using those hands.”

Tuc grins, slow and wide. “And you always liked watching.”

The words are a slap, and Robin feels the flush crawl up his neck, hot even in the winter air. “You’re fucking sick,” he says, but it lacks conviction.

Tuc’s laugh is low, rumbling. “We’re both sick, Rob. We’re the only ones left because we’re the only ones who could be.” He shifts on the furs, spreading his knees even wider. “You want to go out like a legend, or like a rat?”

Robin starts to retort, but can’t. He remembers the times, after a raid or a night in the trees, when he and Tuc would drink until the rest of the men passed out, and then keep going. How sometimes it ended in violence: a punch to the jaw, a boot to the ribs, grappling in the mud with hands full of hair and teeth full of blood. Always, always, it was better than silence.

He says, “Maybe you’d like that. Maybe you want to strangle me.”

Tuc nods, not pretending otherwise. “Wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve always been a handful.”

Robin shakes his head, but the laughter that comes out of him is real and wet. “You’re a fucking monster, Tuc. A twisted, ugly bastard.”

Tuc’s teeth show through the beard. “Takes one to know one.”

The heat in the room is different now. The rain is no longer the only sound—there’s the friction of breath, the scrape of skin on fabric. Robin feels his hands clench and unclench at his sides, not sure what he’s preparing for.

He says, “Maybe I should do it to you. You’d probably get off on it.”

Tuc spreads his arms, as if inviting an embrace. “Go ahead. I wouldn’t stop you. But you won’t. You like it better when someone else takes control.”

Robin feels the words hit a nerve he didn’t know he had. He opens his mouth, closes it again, tries to summon an insult but comes up with nothing. Instead he spits on the stones and turns away, feigning interest in the window.

He waits for Tuc’s voice, which comes after a moment: “I could make it good for you, Rob. You know I could. You’d just have to ask.”

Robin slams his fist into the wall, hard enough to crack a knuckle. “Don’t talk to me like that. You’re disgusting.”

“Say what you want,” says Tuc. “But you’re the one standing there with your fists clenched and your breath shaking.” He laughs, deep and guttural. “You want it, you just don’t want to say it.”

Robin can feel the desire, black and shameful, curling in his gut. It was always there, if he’s honest; the need to be broken, to have his strength matched and then overmatched. The sheriff’s men could never do it. Not Marian, not any of the lovers or soldiers or enemies who tried. But Tuc—Tuc might.

He hears himself say, “You’re a fucking animal.”

Tuc smiles, slow and sure. “That’s why you love me.”

Robin doesn’t answer. He stands in the cold, watching the trees bend, and lets the want gnaw at him until it feels like a wound.

Robin stands at the slit until the rain sharpens to sleet and the sound of pursuit fades to nothing. The cold numbs his skin but leaves his insides boiling. He doesn’t hear Tuc until the man is right behind him, a damp presence, hot breath at the back of his neck.

“Can’t stop thinking, can you?” Tuc’s voice is soft, almost a caress. “Always did take things too seriously. All that brooding will give you ulcers, if the arrows don’t get you first.”

Robin braces both hands against the stone. “Fuck off.”

Tuc ignores the rebuke. He sets a paw on Robin’s shoulder and squeezes, the pressure more comforting than restraining. “You want to know what I think?” he asks.

Robin shrugs off the hand, but he’s shaking. “Not really.”

Tuc is undeterred. “I think you want to feel something before you go. Something real. Not just the end of a rope or a knife to the heart, but the way it used to be. The way you used to feel it when we were kings of the woods.” His other hand lands on Robin’s waist, heavy as a manacle. “You remember, don’t you?”

Robin bites the inside of his cheek. He does remember—the raids, the victories, the dark ecstasy that sometimes gripped them after a close escape, how the blood and sweat would ferment in the air, how it ended in violence or laughter or something else, something wordless.

Tuc laughs in his ear. “You can’t hide it. Never could.”

Robin wheels on him, fists balled, ready for a fight or a fuck or both. Instead, Tuc steps back, spreads his arms, and begins to undo the knot at his waist. The friar’s robe slides off his shoulders and puddles at his feet, leaving him completely naked except for the patchy fur of hair on his chest and limbs.

Robin can’t help but stare. Tuc’s body is obscene—thick with fat, but underpinned by slabs of muscle, his belly hanging low and proud, skin mottled with scars and the red bloom of old wounds. His cock dangles from a nest of grizzled hair, thick even at rest, the kind of weapon that could kill a man in the right circumstances.

Tuc sees the look and grins. “Impressive, isn’t it? You should see it when it’s angry.”

Robin shakes his head, fighting the urge to laugh or retch or do something, anything, to dispel the trance. “You’re a walking atrocity.”

“Thank you,” says Tuc. He steps closer, so the heat of his body radiates into Robin’s clothes, prickling his arms. “You want to know what happens next?”

“Not really,” Robin mutters, but it’s not true. His heart thuds so hard it’s all he can hear.

Tuc puts his hands on his hips, cocks his head. “You want me to spell it out?”

Robin looks away, but not before catching another glance at the friar’s cock, which has begun to swell and lift, a slow, inevitable blossoming. He flushes deeper, his own cock twitching traitorously in his trousers.

Tuc’s voice is low, almost kind. “I’m going to make you suck it, Robin. Then I’m going to bend you over, fuck you until you can’t walk, and when you come, I’m going to squeeze your neck until you black out. That’s how it ends. For both of us.”

Robin tries to laugh, but his mouth is dry. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” says Tuc. “But you’re still standing here, aren’t you? You could have thrown yourself out the tower window by now, if you really wanted it over. But you’re waiting. For me.”

Robin looks down at the floor, at the puddle where the sleet has started to melt. His boots are soaked, his hands numb, but the heat inside him is like a fever. “You think you’re the only one who ever wanted to feel something real?” he says, voice soft. “I’m still a man. Still the best shot in England. I don’t need to—”

Tuc interrupts. “Real men do what they want, not what they’re told. You want it, Robin. Always have.”

Robin shakes his head, but the resistance is a farce. He watches as Tuc takes his own cock in one hand, the other lazily stroking the length, coaxing it to full, monstrous hardness. It’s as thick as Robin’s wrist and as long as an arm, purple and veined and already leaking.

Tuc is breathing heavier, the effort making his chest heave and the fat roll in concentric rings around his belly. “Look at it, Rob. Tell me you don’t want to taste it. Tell me you don’t want to feel it inside you.”

Robin says nothing. He can’t stop watching, even as his mind shrieks at him to run, to jump, to end it some other way. But his body is already betraying him, cock stiff in his trousers, mouth watering with a shame that feels almost holy.

Tuc steps even closer, so close Robin can smell the salt and funk of his skin. “You’re going to do it, Robin. Not because I want you to, but because you do.”

Robin’s voice is a whisper. “You’re a monster.”

“And you’re my hero,” says Tuc.

Robin stands there, breath fogging the air, and lets the inevitable approach him in the form of a giant, naked, laughing friar.

The room feels colder with Tuc naked, as if his flesh draws the warmth from the air and holds it, a hoard of stolen heat. Robin stands rooted, every instinct in him screaming for motion—flight, fight, any option but this. But there’s no way out, and so he watches as Tuc approaches, massive and slow, belly swinging with each step, cock rising between his thighs like a threat.

Tuc doesn’t bother with words. He plants his hands on Robin’s shoulders, fingers digging deep, and turns him so they face each other, close enough that their noses nearly touch. He smells of sweat, old ale, and the faint incense that never quite leaves his skin. The friar works the laces of Robin’s shirt with rough expertise, splitting it down the chest and peeling it away. The shirt falls, sodden, and Tuc’s hands go next for Robin’s breeches, popping the ties and dragging them down in a single motion.

Robin shivers, not from cold. He doesn’t resist as Tuc strips him to the skin. He knows, with a sudden clarity, that the resistance would be worse—that to fight now would be like wrestling the river in flood, doomed from the start and only likely to make him drown faster.

Tuc surveys Robin’s body. He’s still strong, but not the golden athlete of legend; scars cross his ribs and thighs, and his skin is splotched with old bruises and the beginnings of age. Still, there is pride in him. He stands straight, shoulders back, refusing to cower.

Tuc cups Robin’s face in one palm, rough thumb scraping over his cheekbone. “You ever think it’d come to this?” His breath is thick with the promise of violence and absolution.

Robin clenches his jaw. “Not like this.”

“Like what, then? Thought you’d die in battle? Thought you’d just fade away?” Tuc laughs, then shoves Robin down, palms on his shoulders, until Robin is kneeling in the dirt and straw, face level with the friar’s crotch.

Robin looks up, eyes meeting Tuc’s. The cock looms between them, obscene and majestic, head swollen and glistening, veins standing out like battle lines.

“If I do this,” Robin says, voice flat, “I’m not a man anymore.”

Tuc leans down, lips close to Robin’s ear. “You’re more of a man than any of them. Takes balls to do what you want, not what you’re told.” He grabs a fistful of Robin’s hair, jerks his head back, and then guides the cock to Robin’s lips.

Robin hesitates, pride and shame warring inside him. He tastes salt and skin, a memory of campfires and wet grass, and for a moment he thinks of Marian—how she used to touch him, how he was always the one in control. Now he opens his mouth, slow and deliberate, and lets the head press past his lips.

The taste is bitter, overwhelming. Tuc’s hand at the back of his head is insistent, not cruel but inexorable, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Robin closes his eyes and takes more, the thick shaft filling his mouth and stretching his jaw wide. He gags, but Tuc eases off, strokes his hair with surprising tenderness.

“That’s it, Rob. Good lad. Take it all in.”

Robin breathes through his nose, fighting the urge to choke, and focuses on the rhythm—forward, back, the pulse of Tuc’s blood in the flesh between his teeth. His own cock is hard, pressed against his thigh, and the shame of that arousal makes him suck harder, more desperate, as if by submitting he can punish himself enough to earn absolution.

Tuc’s hand tightens at Robin’s neck, thumb digging into the hinge of his jaw. “You’re a fucking marvel,” Tuc mutters. “Bet you never sucked a cock in your life, but here you are, putting the rest of Nottingham to shame.”

Robin doesn’t answer. He can’t. He works his tongue around the head, lets it scrape the roof of his mouth, tries to ignore the tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

Tuc begins to thrust, slow at first, then with more force. Robin feels the tip batter the back of his throat, the salt and heat overwhelming every sense. His world shrinks to this—kneeling in filth, throat stuffed full, hands clenched uselessly at his sides.

Tuc groans, a deep sound from the pit of his belly. “Never figured you for a cocksucker, Rob. But you wear it well.”

Robin opens his eyes, looks up, and sees the hunger in Tuc’s face—the same hunger he’s seen after every brawl, every victory, every near-death in the forest. It’s as if the friar has been waiting years for this, and now that it’s happening, he means to savor every second.

“Open wider,” Tuc orders, and Robin obeys, jaw aching. Tuc fucks his mouth in earnest, balls slapping Robin’s chin, and Robin forces himself to breathe, to relax, to accept the fullness. He’s crying now, tears slicking his cheeks, but he keeps sucking, keeps swallowing, determined not to give Tuc the satisfaction of resistance.

At last Tuc pulls out, cock wet and glistening, a string of spit trailing from Robin’s lip. He hauls Robin up by the arm, spins him around, and bends him over the heap of furs.

Robin doesn’t fight. He plants his hands in the straw, spreads his legs, and waits.

Tuc stands behind him, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other stroking Robin’s ass. “You ready for this?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer.

Robin hears the spit, feels the fingers working him open. The pain is sharp, but he grits his teeth and bears it, refusing to give Tuc the pleasure of a scream. The cock follows, thicker than any wound, splitting him open in a single, brutal thrust.

Robin’s breath leaves him. He’s aware, distantly, of Tuc’s hand around his neck again, squeezing just enough to make the world go gray at the edges.

Tuc fucks him, slow and deep, every thrust driving the air from Robin’s lungs. He can feel his own cock straining, desperate for friction, for any release. The pressure in his chest builds, the world narrowing to a tunnel of pain and pleasure.

“You feel that?” Tuc growls. “That’s what you wanted. All those years, all that running. You just wanted someone to catch you.”

Robin gasps, tries to speak, but the hand at his throat cuts off the words.

Tuc pounds him harder, the rhythm savage, until Robin is moaning with each thrust. He’s never felt so helpless, so degraded, and yet every nerve in his body screams for more.

The hand tightens, and the world starts to fade. Robin claws at the straw, desperate for air, desperate for anything. Tuc’s cock swells inside him, and then with a grunt and a shudder, he floods Robin’s guts with heat.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing, the rain, and the slow return of color to the edges of Robin’s vision.

Tuc loosens his grip, lets Robin collapse onto the furs, and stands over him, cock still slick and half-hard.

Robin lies there, broken, used, but somehow more alive than he’s felt in years. Then the world disappears.

Robin wakes to the stink of sex and the clench of cold air against his sweat. He lies facedown on the heap of furs, ass burning, throat raw. Tuc stands over him, cock already hard again, hands kneading the rolls of his own belly with priestly calm.

“Up,” Tuc orders. “On your knees.”

Robin obeys, though every muscle protests. He kneels, palms splayed on the damp straw, head hanging in submission. Tuc circles him, savoring the view.

“Look at you,” Tuc murmurs. “Best shot in England, now just another bitch in heat.”

Robin growls, but the sound is hollow. He feels the heat of his own shame burning in his cheeks, in his belly, in his cock, which—despite everything—hangs heavy between his legs, already hardening in anticipation.

“You want it?” Tuc asks.

Robin nods.

“Say it.”

“Fuck me again,” Robin whispers. “Do it. No mercy.”

Tuc smiles, slow and satisfied. He grips Robin’s hips, lines himself up, and drives in with a single, punishing thrust. Robin grunts, the pain electric and clean, burning away thought and memory until there is only the rhythm: Tuc’s belly slapping against his ass, the slap of skin on skin, the hand tangled in his hair or tight around his neck.

Tuc fucks him like an animal, like he’s trying to drive him through the floor, each stroke harder than the last. Robin’s eyes water, breath coming in ragged gasps, but he pushes back into every thrust, desperate for more.

“You like this,” Tuc says. “You always did. Just needed someone to teach you how.”

Robin bares his teeth. “Fuck you.”

Tuc laughs, and the sound is almost gentle. “Already doing that.”

The world narrows to sensation: the stretch, the burn, the endless pounding. Robin is aware, dimly, that he’s moaning, that his own cock is leaking onto the straw, that his whole body is tight with the need for release.

He tries to hold back, but the pressure builds too fast. The pain and humiliation become pleasure, sharp and blinding, and he comes with a shout, fists digging furrows in the floor.

Even as he shudders, Tuc keeps going. The friar’s stamina is inhuman, his cock a battering ram that never tires. He pulls Robin up by the hair, bends him back, and whispers in his ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

Robin hesitates, and Tuc tightens his grip.

“Say it.”

Robin’s voice is a broken rasp. “I’m yours.”

Tuc grins, bares his teeth, and drives in to the root, cock swelling. Robin feels the heat spill inside him, the rush of spunk filling his guts, and he sags in Tuc’s grip, spent and trembling.

But Tuc isn’t finished. He shoves Robin forward, pins him with one hand, and with the other reaches under, fondling Robin’s balls with rough, callused fingers.

“You want me to break you?” Tuc asks. “You want to really lose it?”

Robin, wild-eyed, nods. “Do it.”

Tuc squeezes, gentle at first, then harder. The pain is different now, sharp and twisting, but Robin moans and presses into it. Tuc wraps his fist around both balls and crushes, the agony spiking like white fire through Robin’s body. He screams, loud enough to startle the birds from the roof.

“Not a man anymore,” Robin gasps. “Fucking do it, you bastard.”

Tuc laughs, shakes his head, but keeps squeezing, rolling the balls in his fist, crushing until Robin can’t think, can’t breathe, can only scream and collapse to the floor, writhing.

Tuc looms over him, still hard, and rams his cock back in, driving Robin down into the filth. Robin sobs, but there’s no resistance left, only surrender.

Tuc fucks him like that, relentless, until Robin’s cries fade to hoarse whimpers and his body is nothing but pain and emptiness and the faint, traitorous pulse of desire.

When at last it’s over, Robin lies face down in the straw, twitching, tears and snot pooling beneath his cheek. Tuc wipes his cock on Robin’s back and sits beside him, humming a hymn under his breath.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Inside, Robin shivers, broken open and hollow, waiting for the end.

Tuc waits for Robin’s shuddering to subside, then drags him up by the hair, one last time. Robin’s head lolls, neck already bruised from the prior abuse, but the eyes are open, dazed, no longer seeing anything that matters.

Tuc forces Robin onto all fours again. The cock is ready, harder than ever, glistening with spit and blood and old semen. Robin’s ass is raw, leaking, gaped wide and twitching.

Tuc positions himself, lines up, and begins to thrust—not slow, not tender, but savage, as if he can drive all the brokenness and humiliation deeper with each stroke. Robin moans, but the sound is thin, almost grateful. The hands on Robin’s hips are bruising, the rhythm relentless. With each thrust, Tuc’s breath grows louder, harsher.

As Tuc approaches his own climax, he leans forward and wraps both hands around Robin’s neck. The grip is firm at first, then tightens by slow increments, as if savoring the gradual constriction.

“Here’s how it ends,” Tuc growls, breath hot against Robin’s ear. “You get what you want, and I get to end the fucking legend.”

Robin tries to gasp, but Tuc’s thumbs dig into the windpipe, cutting off the air. The edges of the world turn black and shimmery, but the pain at his neck is more vivid than any wound.

Tuc fucks him harder, balls slapping, hands squeezing. “You’re a whore,” he says. “A fucking cocksucker, begging to die like a bitch.” He spits the words in rhythm with the thrusts.

Robin’s face purples. The world tunnels in. He feels, distantly, his own cock spasming, leaking onto the floor. His vision dims, then explodes with white points of light.

Tuc cums, deep and violent, hips jerking, and at the peak of it he tightens his hands even more, throttling the last breath from Robin’s lungs. Robin gags, eyes rolling, piss streaming from his cock onto the floor in a wide, hot puddle.

Tuc keeps squeezing, past the point of necessity, until he hears something give in the throat. Then he lets go, and Robin collapses to the ground, twitching, then still.

For a moment there is only the sound of rain, and the thin hiss of urine spreading under Robin’s corpse.

Tuc stands, breathes deep, and rolls Robin onto his back. The mouth gapes, lips stained with spit and blood and still open as if in mid-curse. Tuc straddles the chest, positions his own cock over the face, and lets loose a stream of piss, filling Robin’s mouth and splashing across his cheeks and brow.

He watches the yellow foam collect in the slack lips, dribble down the chin. He waits for the mouth to overflow, for the legend to be reduced to nothing but a ruined hole.

When he’s finished, he stands and looks down at Robin’s body—famous, beloved, broken and used up—and spits once more for good measure.

“That’s for the sheriff,” he says, and sits down on the cold stone, humming softly to himself, waiting for the dogs to arrive.

HOMEPAGE	RACCONTI	STORIES	CUENTOS
MATERIALI/ MATERIALS	GALLERIA/ GALLERY	CHATS	LINKS