Unpleasant stuff so read at your peril. Contains explicit descriptions of rape and violence.
1.
The matter is of utmost confidentiality and so Athos, alone, has been entrusted to deliver the message to the Duke's envoys. He’ll return to the garrison afterwards where Porthos and Aramis will doubtless be waiting for him. They'll have a night out at their favourite alehouse, during which time he'll get drunk, fall to the floor and wait for his friends to pick him up. They'll laugh at his condition and then help him back to his lodgings. This is how the day is supposed to progress.
It does not go this way. Athos meets the men, black cloaked and dressed in Spanish livery, but immediately he knows something's not right: there are more than he's expecting, the accents are wrong, and for some reason they're offended by the very presence of a King's Musketeer. Huguenots perhaps. Criminals who've been imprisoned by them in the past -- by him even.
Closing in, the men mask their faces with bandanas, surrounding him before he has time to evade capture. When they draw him from his horse he's ready with pistol and sword, wounding one with a shot to the belly and at least three more with his blade. It's not enough, of course, and as he's dragged to the ground and disarmed, it's with his friends' names on his lips. He's never had comrades before, brothers for whom he would lay down his life, or trust completely with his own. For once, through no fault of their own, they're not here to help him.
Athos is strong; two years of training with the King's own regiment has made him this way and he doesn't succumb easily, but with him alone against at least seven opponents he has no chance of escape. Drawn swiftly, his dagger wounds one more fellow, but the slice to the collarbone only causes anger. A vicious knee to his genitals is proof of that and he's further winded by a fist to his solar plexus.
"What say we have some proper fun with our Musketeer?" says a voice, icy cold and ready to cause trouble.
Athos knows he is indeed in deep trouble. Their meeting spot is a quiet junction of roads to the north east of Paris: a clearing within a thicket of trees, the nearby river gushing past to mask the sound of any cries for help. He only hopes his death will be swift.
"Strip him."
The doublet is ripped from him, buttons flying off, seams tearing, as two of the brutes hold him down and another makes short shrift of the remainder of his clothing. Even his underthings are removed. Perhaps the humiliation of leaving him naked and bloody will be enough for them. He doubts it though and prays again for death.
The ring leader squats next to him, a blade pressed against Athos's throat as he gives out orders. "Fuck that noble French face of his," he says to one man. The point of the dagger jabs into soft skin. "And you, soldier. Bite him and you die."
The chosen man sits astride Athos’s chest, his breeches open, a hand working furiously at his prick to rouse its interest. When that erection thrusts inside Athos’s mouth he snaps his jaws shut, blood running into his throat, and he has the small satisfaction of hearing the man scream in agony. He clamps tighter as the dagger point draws a thin line down the side of his neck. Kill me, is all he can think. You promised. Kill me and throw me in the river.
"You pestilent piece of shit," sobs his victim.
Choking, Athos releases the man and spits out a mouthful of blood. "Damn you to hell."
"There's no place for me in your Papist purgatory," sneers the leader as the barrel of his pistol is forced between Athos's lips. "Shall I blow his brains out?" he says in a strange, sing-song voice. "No. I think we'll have some fun first. Fucking a corpse is always so disappointing. Turn him over, boys."
Manhandled into a prone position Athos closes his eyes then buries his face in the sweet smelling grass as he remembers the creak of a branch and blue petals drifting on the breeze.
Something cold and vicious hammers its way inside him. The hilt of a dagger? The barrel of a pistol? He's split in two and the pain is so intense that his brain is awash with its own narcotic relief. Wetness runs onto his thighs, trickling hot over his skin. He will not cry. He will not beg. He'll only wait for death.
"That'll ease the path," laughs the leader and his voice is thick with pleasure and so close to Athos that he can feel huffs of excitement on his bare skin.
A heavy weight compresses him until he's struggling to breathe, leaves and loam pushing into his mouth and nose. He's mounted like a bitch. Pounding thrusts damage his torn insides, the spill of salt an extra agony to bear. Another man takes him. Another. Another. Yet another.
"He's too wet," complains a voice.
"Roll him over and use his mouth then."
"Not after what he did to Besnard earlier. I'll have to fuck him harder is all."
The two laugh together and Athos wonders what it is that turns men into monsters.
Held by the hair, head yanked back, he's taken again and again, brutalised until he's blessed with a loss of consciousness. He wakes to a final act of humiliation as they surround him, letting loose streams of urine that sting his eyes and flood his mouth and nose until he's drowning in piss.
The leader crouches, dark eyes staring at him from above the bandana. "I won't kill you, Musketeer and I won't leave you a weapon to kill yourself, but thank you for the evening's entertainment. It was indeed a pleasure to have you. Pass on my gratitude to Captain Treville."
Mounting up, they ride in circles around him, jeering him as they go. "Remember, what I said," shouts the leader as he spurs his horse on and leads his band of men away.
Curling into a foetal position Athos is left alone to lick his wounds: naked, bleeding and torn to shreds. All things but dead.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: By Design 1/? TW rape, pissing, violence
Date: 2014-05-21 12:09 pm (UTC)1.
The matter is of utmost confidentiality and so Athos, alone, has been entrusted to deliver the message to the Duke's envoys. He’ll return to the garrison afterwards where Porthos and Aramis will doubtless be waiting for him. They'll have a night out at their favourite alehouse, during which time he'll get drunk, fall to the floor and wait for his friends to pick him up. They'll laugh at his condition and then help him back to his lodgings. This is how the day is supposed to progress.
It does not go this way. Athos meets the men, black cloaked and dressed in Spanish livery, but immediately he knows something's not right: there are more than he's expecting, the accents are wrong, and for some reason they're offended by the very presence of a King's Musketeer. Huguenots perhaps. Criminals who've been imprisoned by them in the past -- by him even.
Closing in, the men mask their faces with bandanas, surrounding him before he has time to evade capture. When they draw him from his horse he's ready with pistol and sword, wounding one with a shot to the belly and at least three more with his blade. It's not enough, of course, and as he's dragged to the ground and disarmed, it's with his friends' names on his lips. He's never had comrades before, brothers for whom he would lay down his life, or trust completely with his own. For once, through no fault of their own, they're not here to help him.
Athos is strong; two years of training with the King's own regiment has made him this way and he doesn't succumb easily, but with him alone against at least seven opponents he has no chance of escape. Drawn swiftly, his dagger wounds one more fellow, but the slice to the collarbone only causes anger. A vicious knee to his genitals is proof of that and he's further winded by a fist to his solar plexus.
"What say we have some proper fun with our Musketeer?" says a voice, icy cold and ready to cause trouble.
Athos knows he is indeed in deep trouble. Their meeting spot is a quiet junction of roads to the north east of Paris: a clearing within a thicket of trees, the nearby river gushing past to mask the sound of any cries for help. He only hopes his death will be swift.
"Strip him."
The doublet is ripped from him, buttons flying off, seams tearing, as two of the brutes hold him down and another makes short shrift of the remainder of his clothing. Even his underthings are removed. Perhaps the humiliation of leaving him naked and bloody will be enough for them. He doubts it though and prays again for death.
The ring leader squats next to him, a blade pressed against Athos's throat as he gives out orders. "Fuck that noble French face of his," he says to one man. The point of the dagger jabs into soft skin. "And you, soldier. Bite him and you die."
The chosen man sits astride Athos’s chest, his breeches open, a hand working furiously at his prick to rouse its interest. When that erection thrusts inside Athos’s mouth he snaps his jaws shut, blood running into his throat, and he has the small satisfaction of hearing the man scream in agony. He clamps tighter as the dagger point draws a thin line down the side of his neck. Kill me, is all he can think. You promised. Kill me and throw me in the river.
"You pestilent piece of shit," sobs his victim.
Choking, Athos releases the man and spits out a mouthful of blood. "Damn you to hell."
"There's no place for me in your Papist purgatory," sneers the leader as the barrel of his pistol is forced between Athos's lips. "Shall I blow his brains out?" he says in a strange, sing-song voice. "No. I think we'll have some fun first. Fucking a corpse is always so disappointing. Turn him over, boys."
Manhandled into a prone position Athos closes his eyes then buries his face in the sweet smelling grass as he remembers the creak of a branch and blue petals drifting on the breeze.
Something cold and vicious hammers its way inside him. The hilt of a dagger? The barrel of a pistol? He's split in two and the pain is so intense that his brain is awash with its own narcotic relief. Wetness runs onto his thighs, trickling hot over his skin. He will not cry. He will not beg. He'll only wait for death.
"That'll ease the path," laughs the leader and his voice is thick with pleasure and so close to Athos that he can feel huffs of excitement on his bare skin.
A heavy weight compresses him until he's struggling to breathe, leaves and loam pushing into his mouth and nose. He's mounted like a bitch. Pounding thrusts damage his torn insides, the spill of salt an extra agony to bear. Another man takes him. Another. Another. Yet another.
"He's too wet," complains a voice.
"Roll him over and use his mouth then."
"Not after what he did to Besnard earlier. I'll have to fuck him harder is all."
The two laugh together and Athos wonders what it is that turns men into monsters.
Held by the hair, head yanked back, he's taken again and again, brutalised until he's blessed with a loss of consciousness. He wakes to a final act of humiliation as they surround him, letting loose streams of urine that sting his eyes and flood his mouth and nose until he's drowning in piss.
The leader crouches, dark eyes staring at him from above the bandana. "I won't kill you, Musketeer and I won't leave you a weapon to kill yourself, but thank you for the evening's entertainment. It was indeed a pleasure to have you. Pass on my gratitude to Captain Treville."
Mounting up, they ride in circles around him, jeering him as they go. "Remember, what I said," shouts the leader as he spurs his horse on and leads his band of men away.
Curling into a foetal position Athos is left alone to lick his wounds: naked, bleeding and torn to shreds. All things but dead.
tbc