Oo-De-Lally
A short doodle for Cyanni, who gave me the first sentence. Robin Hood tries to come to terms with his feelings for Little John...at least until Little John wakes up.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T READ IT. OTHERWISE, ENJOY!
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There once was a fox who lived in a forest, who loved a bear very much.
And then half of the sentence was obliterated by a splotch of black ink as it flew from the end of the quill that selfsame fox was using to pour his heart's secrets out onto paper.
"Maybe it's not even worth it," he muttered. What would be the use, if it only complicated things between him and his best friend? Why spoil the great thing they had, why even take the chance?
He watched the lake from the rock on which he was pretending to sun himself and relax, following the large rotund shadow with his eyes as it splashed about in the afternoon's setting sun. The same pang of impending doom threatened to turn his stomach upside-down as he thought about it for what seemed to be the millionth time: You can't keep this to yourself forever.
It would have to come out eventually, even if he didn't express it with physical actions. Partners in crime, if you could call it that, couldn't be partners with a giddy but immature crush in the middle of the scheming and planning and do-gooding in the name of vigilante justice.
The silhouette became larger as its owner moved into the shallows to dry off, which was accomplished by shaking his bulky body until the air was filled with rainbows, creating a dreamscape that only furthered the fox's fantastical imagination. Wishful thinking, and nothing but. And then he was up on the shore, nude to the world, and the vulpine was trying to avert his eyes. His nose more than made up for it, though. Bear, even wet bear, smelled good when it was that bear.
"Say, Rob, where'd you put the loot we swiped from that 'hidden' treasury this morning? I don't see it around." The fox put his feather back in his cap and plopped it atop his head, feigning a look away from the wonderfully round belly and the goodies tucked underneath it. Such base thoughts.
"You see, John, that's why I'm the leader of this here operation. I went and hid our booty, and not even you noticed where I put it." He ignored the bear's rolling eyes, relieved he was at least putting his tunic back on, and continued. "There's a willow tree about a quarter mile from the bunker we raided. Two trees beyond that is a felled log, all rotted out in the middle. Threw 'em in there."
A grin spread up the sides of John's broad muzzle, accentuating the crow's feet at the edges of his eyes. "You're a smart sumbitch, you know that?" He waggled one chubby digit the fox's way, completely unaware that the fox wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and suck that finger right to the back of his throat. John hunkered his big self down next to the bed of coals that had served as their campfire the previous night, and blew gently, trying to elicit even a small glow. Nothing. "Damn." The bear reached across the cold ashes to retrieve a flint.
Robin crumpled up the bit of scroll and tucked it behind the neck of his tunic. John would ask questions if he saw that, and John didn't stop asking until he got an answer. The fox would have to dispose of it somewhere down the line. Even the one sentence told more than enough story. Even so, he fought to look away as the bear struck a flame into a small pile of tinder set atop the coals. His sac glowed orange in the gathering firelight.
"This is the life." It was one of John's favorite sayings, one of which he never seemed to tire. Even after all this time, after a particularly successful raid or a night of heavy imbibing, the bear would get this look of sublime satisfaction and just...seem to melt into his surroundings. Whether it was a raucous inn or here in this clearing, naked as the day he was born, it was so easy for him to accept his existence where Robin had to justify his through his actions. It felt like he was always trying to prove he was who he was, to everyone including himself. John didn't seem to have that burden.
Though it was probably all in his head, the fox swallowed heavily in the tense air around the campfire. It was a good thing the bear's eyes were closed, because the great Prince of Thieves was wringing his paws, trying his best not to steal a look at his best friend's junk. Uncouth in the very least, and the worst thing was he was confined to looking and nothing more.
It had nothing to do with Marian, but everything to do with John. He was a jovial fellow, but when facing off against the Sheriff's men, he could be a downright beast. Robin didn't want to cross that side. The result would be not only the dissolution of a friendship, but perhaps a violent fight as well.
Still, there was no harm in looking, especially since the bear's breathing was becoming deeper as he sank further towards sleep, his great belly rising and falling in measure. He scratched at his balls lazily, rolling them around without so much as opening his eyes, and resumed his nap, unaware of the show he was unwittingly giving to the fox.
Pure torture was what it was. Robin plucked his hat from where it sat beside him and wrung it between his paws, back and forth. Just below the hem of his tunic, a pressure built slowly and involuntarily. A succession of fantastical images flashed through his mind, every one more lascivious than the last. Every one he'd used to spray his chest with seed late into the night, after John was asleep. Everything he wished he could do, with all his heart.
He looked down, only to realize his paw was already manipulating his member out of its sheath. He grunted at the sheer sensitivity of just those small actions, how little he had to do to send shivers out to the end of his tail. The lump in his throat was already too much to simply swallow back down.
What are you doing, fox? How long will it be before you realize just how crazy this whole thing is? But was it really that crazy? Feelings were feelings, and having them wasn't the crime. Acting on them was what mattered. The Sheriff and His Highness couldn't care less, but it was Little John he was worried about. What would a confession do to their relationship? More importantly, to their friendship?
"Dammit," Robin swore under his breath as he looked down. Three inches out. Fuck, it was bad. Gingerly, he pulled the end of his sheath down, feeling the skin pull taut and his balls bunch up before the knot popped free, and he didn't realize what a mistake that was until it had already been done. Now he was stuck outside until he did something about it. Hanging out below his tunic, and no way to explain it away to the bear who snoozed just feet from him.
John began to snore softly, one of the few people the fox knew who could sleep sitting up. It amazed Robin how comfortable he was with his body, but then again, the fox had always known the bear to be that kind of guy. It's what made him a great partner in crime, so to speak.
Soft, warm light cast long shadows from the clearing into the darkness around them, giving surreal texture to John's brown fur, every breath, every twitch of his plump sheath. Robin licked his lips, his eyes fixed on the black flesh right around the tip, practically willing it out with his mind. Of course, that wouldn't happen unless he was helped along or started to have a particularly pleasant dream.
Robin Hood was salivating, and so was his cock. He wondered how many times John had masturbated right beside him, after he'd fallen asleep.
"Ah, God..." The fox's pads grew slick with precum, a surprise since that wasn't something he usually did. His head grew fuzzy with the scent of his own musk. It did nothing but further him along. If he couldn't fuel his desires the way he wanted to, he could at least go halfway without risking anything major.
"Rob?" The fox almost didn't register John's voice, but when he finally focused his eyes and came back to his senses it was too late to hide anything at all. The bear hadn't moved one bit, hadn't changed his position, but now he was staring across the fire with an alarmingly neutral expression that scared Robin to his core. One thing it didn't do was make him soft, and now John was staring right at the fox's length, lewdly throbbing in the grip of his paw.
A part of Robin's mind wanted to play it off as some kind of "we're all guys here" thing. Another part wanted to convince the bear he was dreaming. Yet another part wanted to burst into tears and admit the whole sordid plethora of attraction and lust. But the fox's lips wouldn't move. He wasn't sure he would be safe doing anything until he knew how John would react.
And John did react. He sighed, and grinned. And fucking chuckled. And spread his legs, grabbing at his sheath, waggling it around like it was a bag of ill-gotten tax money from the Sheriff's personal stash. He wasn't hard, and he wasn't trying to make it hard. He was just being John.
But it was okay. Robin was okay.
Letting out a mixed sob and yip as he gripped his knot way too hard, the fox felt his entire lower body tighten up into one big ball of tension. He looked into the bear's dark, approving eyes, saw the almost imperceptible nod of permission, the grin never faltering, and bent over double to watch the ground in front of him become splattered with ropes of white. One, two barks later, and he was back down again, fully spent and heaving between his knees.
It was done, and he couldn't take it back. He didn't think he wanted to anymore. His balls tingled with the fresh loss of their seed, and all seemed right with the world. And damn the consequences.
Leaves rustled, and Robin heard the bear grunt as he stood up and walked over behind the log on which the fox sat, weakly. He felt massive, strong paws on each of his shoulders, and warm breath that smelled vaguely fishy, most likely from a freshly caught meal in the water. John's nosepad was cold and wet, healthy for him, and he left a trail of moisture when he nuzzled the edge of one vulpine ear. Then a set of knuckles dug into the top of his skull, painful and playful at the same time.
"You goofball," John said, and chuckled again. "Good night." Then he paced back from the fox and lay down on the bedroll they'd laid out earlier on a flat, softer piece of ground. Robin stared at the fire, watching the light flicker off the small puddles of semen soaking into the dirt between his feet. Presently, John did begin to snore, a regulated sound that was unmistakably deep sleep.
It wouldn't be long before Robin joined him, with no trouble at all.
12/23/09-1/9/10