[personal profile] bbcmusketeerskink
So, this is, as a test, the first free-for all prompt post. The place for people to post their more extreme kink requests or any prompts that they have been made too uncomfortable to post on the regular prompt post due to the large amount of requests for trigger warnings.

I am also, as a test as well, going to copy prompts from the other prompt posts that have to be screened due to lack of warnings, but don't break the rules, into this post since no one has ever reposted a screened prompt and it was mentioned in the discussion of this idea that it might be because people were afraid to/put-off.

I, as mod, am all kinds of supportive of people who have triggers, but the meme needs to be a place for everyone and I can't just protect one side and keep the other feeling uncomfortable.

There will be no mandatory trigger warnings on this post. I cannot possibly stress this enough. This does not mean that people aren't allowed to use them if they want to, or as a courtesy, but they are not required.

So I implore you, if you have triggers, are easily triggered, please tread carefully and maybe avoid this post all together. Because there will also not be any trigger warning requests or screening for triggers on this post. If you look through it anyway, that is your own responsibility.

The rules of the other prompt posts, which are as follows, still apply.

No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
As lenient as we'll be on this post, prompts containing people under the age of 16 in sexual situations will still not be accepted.
The mod is not your babysitter
Keep the discussions on the prompt post to a minimum and use the discussion post instead.

Announcement: A blanket spoiler warning is necessary for prompts pertaining to season 2. Just season 2 Spoilers in the subject line will do.

Fill: By Design 3/? TW rape, pissing, violence

Date: 2014-05-24 10:08 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
“You’re angry with me,” says Treville, cocking his head to one side. “And you have every right to be. I should have learned by now that even the simplest of missions can always turn out to be a hazard.”

“Get me out of this damn bath,” says Athos, leaning forward in the tub and grimacing at the pain. He’s not angry with Treville; he’s angry at everyone. Except perhaps Porthos and Aramis and, of course, Mme Bonacieux who hurries in a with a fresh bucket of hot water.

“No, you don’t. Soak a while longer,” she says, tipping it into the bath. “It’ll do you good, make a change from soaking yourself in all that wine.” With tenderness in her eyes she examines the cuts and bite marks that cover Athos’s upper torso. “I have some liniment for these. I’ll be back in a while; I’ll bring it with me then.”

“Your landlady is a gift from Heaven,” says Treville as he watches her go.

“She is,” agrees Athos, but once again this is not what’s uppermost in his mind. After today’s events he’s worried for the safety of his fellow Musketeers. “Captain, you know these men. I can tell that the name Besnard means something to you. Whatever revenge they intend to mete out then this is only the start of it. What is this about?”

He’s suffered in every way possible; he has the right to know what reasons lay behind his assault.

Treville steeples his hands and begins to talk. “Besnard is the henchman of a soldier named Vallion, both former Musketeers who were members of this regiment long before you three were commissioned.

There was a series of brutal attacks on Catholics in the area, but for months no one could find out who was responsible. Finally I caught Vallion and his men in the act, setting fire to a convent and razing it to the ground. There was hearsay that the nuns had been tortured and worse, but no survivors lived to tell of what actually happened. The men were dishonourably discharged from the regiment then convicted of arson and grievous assault, but there was not enough evidence to hang them for their crimes.”

Treville rubs a weary hand across his eyes. “Athos, I’m sorry. If I’d been forewarned that these men were to be released from prison then I would have been extra vigilant.” He looks up, concern written clear on his face. “There will be justice, I promise, but for now I need you to take time and recover from this as best you can so you can resume active service as soon as possible.”

Athos feels cold at the thought of returning to his duties. He’s empty of everything besides hate. He cannot be a Musketeer.

“I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll be here for you every step of the way,” says Treville, correctly assessing Athos’s thoughts on the subject. "After all, where would I be without my lieutenant by my side as a voice of reason?"

By now Athos's skin is turning pruned and he looks to Treville for help in getting him out of the water. It’s a difficult task and, in the end, Mme Bonacieux is required as a prop whilst the captain partially lifts him from the tub. Finally, after a few precarious moments, he’s standing on the rag rug by the fire and drying off with a towel.

“The bleeding appears to have stopped for now,” says Treville as Athos suffers the indignity of a cursory examination whilst Mme Bonacieux dresses the worst of his wounds.

“You’ll be black and blue tomorrow,” she says, painting the majority of his body with strong smelling ointment. “They’ve worked you over good and proper, my dear.”

Athos is overwhelmed by her kindness and her practical nature. “Thank you,” he says in a monotone.

“No need for words,” says the lady. “You can thank me in two ways: firstly, by getting better and secondly by calling me Constance rather than Madame.” She hands him a pile of clothes. “Here, I think these will fit. Just mended garments that haven’t been collected by their owners. They’ll do until I repair your uniform. Captain, you’ll help him get dressed and back upstairs to bed.”

It’s an order rather than a request and both men are far too used to military discipline to do anything other than obey her.

Dressing is taxing enough on its own, but the staircase, afterwards, is a mountain to climb. The extreme pain from every part of his body is too much to bear and, at the halfway point, Athos slumps helpless against Treville.

“What’s happened here?” comes a booming voice from the hallway that can only belong to Porthos.

“I’d blame the usual culprit,” says Aramis, racing up the stairs two at a time, “but I can see from those cuts and bruises and the shiner of an eye that wine is not the cause of this.” He takes one side and Porthos the other, leaving the captain, exhausted from lugging a lifeless man about for the past few hours, to help them negotiate doorways and assist in getting Athos between clean sheets. Despite the humiliation it's an utter relief to have his friends here as support.

Once they’ve chivvied him into his bed the conversation turns serious. “What went wrong?” growls Porthos. “I thought it was supposed to be an easy errand job. Don’t look like one to me.”

“It was a trap,” explains Treville ruefully. “Some former Musketeers with an eye for vengeance. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, but in the meantime keep vigilant. These men are killers.”

“They’ve half killed you, my friend,” says Aramis, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking Athos over. “Dear God, that’s a bite mark,” he says, staring in horror at Athos’s left shoulder. “What kind of animals are these people?”

“Unpleasant ones,” drawls Athos, and if he were well enough he’d run. “Pass me that brandy, would you.”

Without question Treville hands him the bottle and Athos takes it, unable to mask the grimace of pain as he moves to a more upright position.

"Let me see to your injuries," says Aramis. "I'm sure Madame has some medical supplies I can make use of."

"He's been looked after," says Treville brusquely.

"No!" says Athos at the same time and the vehemence of both these statements cause Aramis and Porthos to stare at them in confusion. Athos chews his lower lip and then takes a long pull from the bottle. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

"He's in safe hands, Captain," says Aramis to Treville. "Feel free to leave if you have other matters to attend to."

Aramis must think he’ll have more chance of weeding out the truth when it's just the three of them present. In any other instance he'd be correct, but for many reasons Athos needs to keep today's events as private as possible, most importantly for the sake of his friends who, if they found out, would endanger their own lives in the name of revenge.

"I'll stay," says Treville curtly. "I have nowhere else to be."

From: (Anonymous)
You know who here again.

Saw this was here a couple of hours ago but was about to go out to eat so let it until I could savour it properly.

I'm so lucky Constance' s calm practicality in this and wondering how quickly the others will work it out.

Treville makes a very good mother hen as well!

Loving this so bloody much.
From: (Anonymous)
::beams:: Thank you!

Sorry it's taken a while to continue. I wrote myself into a hole a few chapters on and had to thrash my way out of it.

Mother hen is very apt. :D
From: (Anonymous)
I'm loving this fill. The way they close ranks around him and despite his earlier alarm at being seen in his condition he doesn't send them away. Beautiful.
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you so much. Glad you're enjoying.

From: (Anonymous)
The plot thickens! I want to lock all the doors against the bad guys. Be careful, Musketeers!
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you so much for reading and commenting.

Trouble is afoot. :)
From: (Anonymous)
What a brilliant read! Absolutely loving it. Excellent characterisation and just the best hurt before comfort.
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you so very much for the lovely comment. :)

From: (Anonymous)
Poor Athos. At least he has his friends to look after him.
From: (Anonymous)
He is a very poor Athos indeed. :( Thank you for reading and commenting. :)


Fill: By Design 4/? TW rape, pissing, violence

Date: 2014-05-28 12:13 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
The brandy helps Athos sink into a fitful sleep: one that's filled with horrifying dreams in which he's raped repeatedly until there's nothing left of him but a bloody mess that soaks into barren ground. He's lost everything; his previous life has stolen away any chance of a wife and family and now this has destroyed all other hope of companionship. He is desolate.

With eyes open, the emptiness of his future seems all too real. When they're closed he's flooded with images: jeering faces that stare down at him as he's fucked by every implement to hand. At first the tears fall without him even being aware of them, but then he's torn apart by great wracking sobs that leave him choking and breathless, yet still unable to stop crying. Chest heaving in soundless, helpless waves he curls onto his side and submits to his anguish.

The warm hand on his shoulder frightens him at first, but when it lays still, taking the greatest of care not to hurt him, he relaxes into its touch.

"That's it, my lad, cry it out. You'll feel better for it afterwards."

When the sobbing eventually subsides, Athos turns with difficulty to see the outline of Treville seated next to him. He has no idea what the hour is, but there's a glimmer of light through the window so it seems the captain has stayed with him throughout the night.

After helping Athos with a chamber pot Treville sees him back into bed. "Sleep again if you can. I'll be here with you."

Athos falls silent and still, exhausted from crying and yet unable to drift off--a would-be corpse waiting for death--but then Treville's hand returns to his shoulder and it’s a thing of comfort in an otherwise empty world.

"I would sooner have died myself than had this happen to you, my dearest man." The words are a low whisper, barely audible above the sounds of life coming from outside as dawn breaks and the world wakes with it, but Athos hears them and believes them.


The next time he opens his eyes it's to the sound of footsteps and the clanking of dishes. Mme Bonacieux is hurrying into the room, armed with enough food for the entire regiment as she places the tray on a nearby table.

"Really, I'm not hungry," says Athos, sitting up as much as he can manage and biting back a hiss of pain.

"You'll never recover if you don't eat," says Mme Bonacieux. “So, do as you’re told.”

"Yes, Madame."

She looks at Athos, her arms folded across her chest.

"Yes, Constance," he says, amending his mistake. "Maybe some bread and milk." Not to put too fine a point on it, what goes in must come out and he's truly dreading that part.

"We won't let you starve yourself," says Treville with a knowing look. "Not for any reason." Getting to his feet and stretching aching limbs he collects his hat from the top of the chest of drawers. "I have some regimental matters to deal with, but I'll be back later to help you bathe." He places a hand carefully on Athos's shoulder. "Now eat up and do as Mme Bonacieux says."

Athos stares at his hands and almost manages a smile. He has a definite feeling that this is what family life is supposed to be like: something he never experienced personally, with his mother away at court and his father, an ambassador for the King, living in England. He and Thomas saw them occasionally and even spent time in London as children. It was exciting, but not what you'd call familial.

"I'll make certain he behaves, Captain, don't you worry," says Constance, her arms still folded in that customary pose, and both men exchange a glance, knowing that it would be a brave man who'd ever cross her.

Once alone, Athos eats a few mouthfuls and then pushes the tray aside. There's time enough for food when he's recovered. Wary of sleeping, terrified he might wake in another fit of hysterics, he props himself up in the bed and plans his revenge. Hours pass, how many of them he's not sure, and then he hears two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway.

"How's our patient today?" says Aramis, breezing into the room with Porthos a few paces behind.

"Better, I think," says Athos. It's not entirely truthful; he's still ripped to shreds and is suffering a low grade fever, but he doesn't long for death quite as much as he did yesterday.

"Good to hear," says Aramis, his mouth thinning into a line. "Although you look a little flushed for that to be fact."

"I noticed your weapons were missing," says Porthos. "So I did a hunt around and came up with these." He places a rapier, parrying dagger and brace of pistols on the scratched surface of the chest of drawers. "Good job you weren't carrying that with you." His eyes dart to the Francis I sword that's mounted on the wall.

"Thank you, my friend." Athos is grateful--he'd felt vulnerable without them--however Musketeers are not rich men and he has an idea Porthos may have temporarily returned to light fingered ways in order to replenish his weapon stocks.

"You're welcome. Can't be a soldier without arms." Porthos gazes at the array of food on the table. "You finished with this?" he asks and, after receiving a nod from Athos, immediately begins to pick away at the breakfast tray.

Aramis has other things on his mind as he sits at Athos's bedside, worry etched deep as he leans forwards and speaks softly. "Just from looking at you I can see you're in a tremendous amount of pain. You're running a fever, the bite on your neck needs cleaning and, if the bruises on your body are as livid as the ones I can see on your arms, then you may well be suffering internal injuries."

Athos stares at him, willing him to stop speaking, but Aramis carries on.

"I must examine you to make sure there’s nothing urgent enough for a surgeon to be called. Treville is a good captain but no medic."

"I've seen a physician," says Athos stubbornly.

"Fine words but a lie nonetheless," says Aramis. "Now, strip off and roll over onto your belly so I can tend to you. If you continue to be difficult I'll have to employ Porthos's skill as anaesthetist and he's never that delicate with his punches."

Athos will not have them knowing his business. Huddling into the corner with the bedclothes pulled around him he glares at Aramis -- a wounded animal in distress. "I told you I'd been seen to. Now get out of here and leave me alone."

"Athos! Stop being a fool and let Aramis look after you." Porthos spreads butter onto a huge doorstep of bread and sprinkles it with salt.

"Go," says Athos again, that simmering rage coming to the fore. He's shaking: furious that no one will allow him any control over his own life.

Aramis rests a gentling hand on Athos's arm. "You're not in your right mind at present and it has nothing to do with brandy or fever. We'll leave you alone for now, but know this and do not forget it; you will always be our friend and a thousand angry words will not alter that."

Before they leave Aramis opens his leather satchel and takes out a glass vial and a small ceramic pot which he places on the table along with a wad of bandage. "The tincture will bring down the fever. The salve will help heal any open wounds so tell Treville to use it on you as often as possible."

Athos is expecting, at very least, a disappointed look from Porthos, but instead both men depart for the garrison with nothing but a tangible air of concern about them. Bitterness and regret welling up inside him Athos chokes back the need to scream, to vomit, to destroy the few things left in his small and hopeless world.

He loves Porthos and Aramis with all his heart. The two men are closer than a couple: so close it's hard to ascertain, at times, where one begins and the other ends. They're comfortable in their love with a bond that will never be broken, and for a while now Athos has been of the impression that they'd like him to join them in their bed. Before Vallion it was something he'd considered many times over -- most often at night in the privacy of his rooms. How good would it feel to be loved by two such men?

The truth of the matter is that he’ll never now know. Not because of his earlier temper tantrum--he’ll always be forgiven such aberrations--but because they are overwhelming and he is more broken than ever.

From: (Anonymous)
Oh, poor Athos! I just love the fact that you are having him just put on Stoic Face and wait it out. I love the crazy love from Aramis and Porthos and Treville. O, Treville has been freaking awesome in this! And the little glimmer of OT3 hope on the horizon? I dig it.
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you very much. :)

Fill: By Design 5/? TW rape, pissing, violence

Date: 2014-05-29 03:44 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
"I've seen neither Porthos nor Aramis for days," says Athos as he rests back in the chair.

"Keep still, man. This is hard enough to manage without you talking at the same time. I'm no barber." Treville leans over him, brushing off the trimmings of beard that have been cut away then lathering up Athos's face. He wields the cut-throat in his hand. "Do you want your nose to remain in one piece?"

"You don't have to do it."

"I'm sick and tired of talking to that forest of hair when I come to visit." Treville smiles; it's mellow with warmth and just for Athos -- a league away from their working relationship as captain and lieutenant. "Besides, I like to look after you."

He's barely spent a night away from Athos's side except when he's been called away on soldiering business. Constance has brought in an old armchair so that he can rest more easily and he has his own set of blankets. She laughs merrily and calls him Mother Hen.

Athos takes a swig of that ever present brandy when it dawns on him that he must, eventually, be left to his own devices.

"Enough of that." Treville steals the bottle from his hand and leans in, once again, to glide the razor across Athos's skin, stripping away the excess hair and washing the instrument clean in a bowl of warm water. "I vowed to look after you until you were better and so I will." He pauses, blade raised symbolically. "I also promised you justice. Vallion has gone to ground for now, but he will surface soon and Porthos and Aramis are on his trail."

Athos's eyes widen with concern for his friends.

"They'll be safe," says Treville, understanding without need for words. He shapes the beard with careful strokes of the cut-throat. "They have a dozen good men with them and they’ll report back here before taking any action. I won't risk their safety after what happened to you."

Athos is grateful for every care Treville shows and every kind act he does; he'll be forever in his debt. Wiping his face clean with a damp towel he strokes a palm over the neat beard and smooth skin and feels almost human again.

"Now to your wounds," says Treville. "Lie on the bed so I can see to the ones on your back."

Athos does as he's told with no fear in his heart at being in such a vulnerable position with another man. It's taken a while for his anxiety to subside, even with the captain.

"These are healing up nicely," says Treville as he rubs the salve in. "How are your other parts?"

Athos smirks at the captain's unexpected delicacy over this matter. It's been three weeks and he is, as far as he can tell, back to normal. "Well," he answers truthfully.

"I believe then, my lad, it's time for you to get back to the training yard," says Treville, "We can't have you lazing about forever."

"Not yet." Several times Athos has looked at the outside world from his window and sees the city as he never did before: dirty and full of danger with rottenness at its core.

"Aramis and Porthos returned from duty this morning," says Treville. "Surely you trust them enough to get you back to fitness?"

Athos says nothing. How can he tell his commander that he's too frightened to make the short journey from home to the garrison?


Dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a shopping basket Athos scowls at the world and everyone in it. At least he can content himself with the comforting rattle of weapons strapped to his person.

"Take that miserable look off your face," says Constance, deliberately bashing into him with her own basket of goods. "Just some vegetables to buy and then we're done for the day."

She and Treville are in cahoots. It's the only explanation. Why else would he be dragged around Paris, acting as packhorse for his landlady who appears to have no concern at all for his welfare?

"There, that's it," she says as she loads pounds of beans and potatoes into Athos's already overladen basket and they trudge back to the house, avoiding the filth that's streaming down the middle of the road.

Apparently, he's not off the hook yet. Woman's work, he thinks with a disgruntled sigh as he sits at the kitchen table, peeling the vegetables badly with a paring knife, ready to go into the pot.

"Drat!" exclaims Constance as she wipes her hands dry on her apron. "I forgot the neck of mutton. Be a dear and go and get some from the butchers for me. Bonacieux will have my guts for garters if I don't get these garments finished."

The world is conspiring against him, thinks Athos darkly as, once again, he leaves for the market.


When Athos first puts on his uniform after a month in civvies it feels ill fitting and wrong. Taking several deep gulps of wine he straps on weapons and accoutrements and finally tops it off with his hat -- a new one made to the same design as his old which had been lost that day.

That day. Sometimes it feels as if nothing before then even existed: not his noble upbringing nor the dreaded hanging of his wife. Nor either the Musketeer regiment with its camaraderie and moral compass that guides him through life.

"Here's our Athos," says Constance, a wide smile on her face as she watches, hands on hips, as he clanks and creaks his way down the stairs. "I haven't seen you in a while, Monsieur."

"Am I ready for this?" he asks as if she's his oracle and not just his friend.

"You are," she says simply, reaching up to kiss him on both cheeks then stripping the bottle of wine from his hand. "But you'll not be needing this."

He completes the short walk in record time, wanting to be free of the city streets, but realises what a mistake this was when he steps through the garrison threshold and into a world that seems alien. Not long ago this was his place of contentment.

Looking to his left he sees Aramis and Porthos sparring with each other and a swift glance upward reveals Treville, who's leaning on the rail and surveying all from the walkway. These sights relax him a little and he's almost back to his old, less than friendly self when he’s surrounded by a host of familiar faces who greet him with joy, thankful for his safe return.

"Athos, good to have you back," says Porthos, handing him his training jacket. "Ready to be put through your paces? We'll go easy on you for the first ten minutes."

"Well, five at least," says Aramis with a grin and, sword in hand, he waits as Athos takes off his doublet and straps on the padded jerkin.

He's happy fighting with the rapier. True to his word Aramis works him hard, but swordsmanship is a long learned skill that's not easily forgotten and his only problem is a distinct lack of energy. The hand to hand combat is another matter entirely. It might be Porthos barrelling towards him, but every so often Athos's eyes deceive him and he's left crawling backwards, frozen in fear with Porthos quietly reassuring him that everything is fine.

"Back to work," orders Treville when the breaks in between sparring sessions grow too long.

By the time the day has ended Athos is suffering from exhaustion and aching all over. Aramis, never a one to hold back, is furious with his commander and is treated to a private dressing down for his outspoken behaviour. Athos doesn't know what passed between them, nor does he wish to find out. What he does know is that the next few days of training are equally as hard going and Aramis no longer has any word of complaint.

From: (Anonymous)
I love Treville and Constance mother-henning Athos and totally pretending not to.
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you! I'd love them to pair up and look after me tbh.

From: (Anonymous)
Me again! Finding two parts this morning was an amazing treat!

I love the double act of Treville and Constance, both conspiring against Athos, and the way they gradually get him back to going out.

And Treville's moment of unaccustomed delicacy was great! *g*
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you so much for still reading! I'm really enjoying writing it; the prompt was brilliant.

I can't wait to post properly so I can fix errors and continuity mistakes ARGH!

Fill: By Design 6/? TW rape, pissing, violence

Date: 2014-06-01 04:33 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Slowly Athos is growing used to his new self and where he fits within the world. His confidence is on the up and up; no longer fearful of stepping over the Bonacieux doorstep he wears his Musketeer uniform with pride.

After another intensive training session he's on his way to join Aramis and Porthos, who have just returned from the Palace, for a night of card playing and drinking when there comes a voice from the shadows.

"You look well, Musketeer. It obviously suited you having my cock up your arse. Perhaps you'd like it there again?"

Athos reacts instantly, his elbow slamming back and winding Vallion as he turns, dagger in hand, to shove the man against the wall ready to slice him from ear to ear. His actions are automatic, but his mind is a mess; sick with terror, he's close to vomiting at having the man so close to him.

The echoing blast of an explosion is a distraction. For a second Athos loses his momentum and Vallion wrests free as a discord of fire bells ring out loud through the streets.

"What could that be?" he says in that strange storyteller's voice. "Could it be the sound of your dear Captain Treville burning to death."

He disappears the way he came, back into the shadows, and Athos is torn apart. He should chase Vallion down, but he can't make that choice and instead races for the garrison, furious at himself for losing his grip in all ways and letting Vallion escape, but more than that, terrified that the man may have already enacted his revenge.

The streets are clouded with thick, dark smoke. Water is drawn from the Seine and carried by cartload to the garrison which is flickering orange in the half light. There's a sea of frantic activity as chains of men douse the flames with buckets and others operate hand pumps to stem the ferocity of the fire.

Athos holds his scarf to his face and pushes through the crowd until he's inside the fortified building, checking through the dozens of burned soldiers that are being tended to by comrades, but not finding Treville amongst their number. Avoiding the stampede of horses that have been freed from the stables he searches the garrison, fear building by the second.

Aramis and Porthos arrive minutes after he does. "The captain?" asks Aramis breathlessly.

Athos shakes his head and looks at what's left of Treville's quarters. He's about to fight his way to the upper level when the support structure for the steps collapses and the three men stumble backwards, avoiding a cloud of burning embers that fill the air.

"I'm fine," shouts an angry voice from behind them. "Stop standing around spectating and get to work putting this fire out, or we'll be left with nothing to repair."

Athos's heart misses a beat in relief. The captain is blackened from soot, his shirt is singed and there’s a nasty looking burn to his chest and upper arm which will need attention, but he's white hot with anger and bristling with life. Not dead by Vallion's hand.

"Get to it, man," shouts Treville to Athos who, unlike Porthos and Aramis, is frozen to the spot, doing nothing to help in the battle to save the garrison.

"Yes, Sir." Athos joins a chain of soldiers, passing buckets forward along the line relentlessly until, after a full night's work, they've reduced the blaze to a smoulder. The framework of the building is still standing; there is a chance of repair.


"I'm going to rename this boarding house The Bonacieux Home for Wounded Soldiers," says Constance as she carries a bowl of cool, boiled water up to Athos's room.

Treville is now bathed and lying supine on Athos's bed with Aramis leaning over him, cleaning the debris from the burn on his chest. "Stop fussing,” he says with a glower, “I've had worse injuries and carried on fighting."

“But we’re not at war, Sir,” says Porthos helpfully.

"And the only reason I fuss is to stop that wound festering and prevent it from becoming worse," says Aramis as he picks out the final splinters of charred material then washes it out with water then spirit. Applying some salve he dresses the burn with bandage and pats the captain on the shoulder. "All done. You can fight on now."

Treville sits up with a sigh of relief and pulls on a borrowed undershirt and some breeches. Constance's supply of spare clothing is depleting by the second. "We cannot assume this was anything other than an accident," he says wearily. "A stray spark in the powder store is the most likely culprit."

Athos has been staring out of the window since they got here, his eyes fixed firmly on the streets below. They’re being watched; he can sense it. "It was Vallion."

"You can't know that for certain," says Treville.

Athos turns to look at them, cold and calm. "I can. He approached me in the street moments before the garrison blew up." His anger returns tenfold. "I had him and I let him get away." He imagines himself slicing the man across the throat, blood from the severed jugular spraying over him.

"What happened?" says Porthos.

"He knew the explosion was coming and was ready to make his escape." Athos can taste that blood, metallic on his tongue. "He's closing in on us."

"Not for long," says Treville, his eyes livid. "It's time for us to turn the tables on M Vallion. Paris is our city: if he's still here then we'll sniff him out and strike first. Use every contact available: clergy, criminals. I don't care who we have to threaten to get the information, but we'll damn well find him before he hurts anyone else."

As tiredness overwhelms them the mood grows ever more sombre. Aramis and Porthos depart for some much needed rest and Athos returns to his look out position at the window.

"I've filled a fresh bath for you, Athos," says Constance from the doorway. "I won't have you sleeping between my sheets looking as if you've crawled out from the hearth."

"Treville will have the bed tonight," says Athos in a monotone. "He needs it more than I."

"Not the point," says Constance. "I've gone to the trouble so at least be civil and make use of it."

Somehow, at her most bossy, she always manages to raise Athos's spirits. "Yes, Madame,” says. “Right away, Madame."

"And less of the cheek or I'll cuff you round the ear," she adds, squeezing his hand as he passes rather than inflicting punishment.

"You do know I'm at least ten years your senior," he says in wry amusement.

"Well try and act like it."

One day he'll get the last word, but that time has not yet arrived and, conceding defeat, he takes the stairs two at a time and strips off his grimy clothes. The bath water is hellish hot, but a joy to soak in, and with his injuries fully healed he can finally enjoy its restorative powers. If only Vallion would leave him alone for a minute or two to relax.

When he returns to his room, dressed only in small clothes, Treville is sitting up in bed, demolishing hunks of fresh bread and cheese from a well laden tray.

"Your landlady spoils us," he says, pouring Athos a cup of wine.

"She does indeed," agrees Athos, "but she worries too much; I must find new accommodation soon." He will regret leaving this place, but he will not have Constance wringing her hands with fear every time he's late to the dinner table. She will, no doubt, find an alternative lodger to fret over soon enough.

Treville nods. He understands a soldier's need for detachment. This is why they don't marry during service and often live like pack animals at the barracks. "I suppose I’ll also need rooms while we're rebuilding." He offers Athos a plate of food. "Eat up, lad."

Athos picks at the meal but his mind is not on it. Instead he harks back to Vallion's cruel words and is filled with despair. However much he wishes to kill the bastard he replays his moment of panicked hesitation and wonders if next time they meet each other he will actually run away. Out of the blue he's awash with emotion, all of it ugly and hard.

Treville pats the bed next to him. "Come sit with me."

Athos does as he's bid, though his eyes still remain fixed on the window. Taking a long draught of wine he replaces the cup on the tray and leans into Treville's touch.

"Where have you gone?"

The question confuses Athos and he turns to look askance at the captain.

"You're here, but you may as well not be." Treville takes possession of his hand.

"I thought you were dead."

"But you know now I’m alive so that's not the reason for your reticence.” His voice is low and tender. “Did Vallion...?"

Athos shakes his head and tries to think of a way to explain that doesn't make him seem so weak, but there is none. "I'm afraid of him," he says honestly.

"As you have every reason to be."

"I know we have to confront him, but I don't think I can."

"Do you want my opinion?" says Treville.


"Then, you can and you must do it," says Treville. "For the sake of closure." He raises Athos's hand to his lips and kisses the taut skin across the knuckles. "Know that I will keep you out of harm's way."

Athos may agree with Treville and he may trust him with his life and, but that doesn't make this any easier to bear. He shivers from apprehension as he imagines what it will be like to be, once again, in the presence of all the men who raped him.

"You're cold. Lie with me," says Treville. "We both need some rest."

"You're hurt."

"Hardly at all. Now come here."

Treville pulls him in and, unable to resist the draw of the man, Athos stretches out along the length of the bed, careful not to cause discomfort. "I thought you were dead," he says again and searching Treville's face he presses a firm, chaste kiss to his mouth before turning away quickly.

"I'm here." Treville folds an arm around Athos, keeping him safe, back pressed against chest, and providing Athos with the comfort he's been needing for months. Years perhaps.

From: (Anonymous)
OP here!

Wow, the plot is really thickening now. Vallion is a nasty piece of work but he's got a definite case of psychological domination over Athos that's going to be hard to break.

And I adore the growing closeness between Athos and Treville. That chaste kiss was rather gloriously sexy! *happy sigh*
From: (Anonymous)
Thank you, my darling.

I think I've finally finished it. It's the fic with every trope thrown in. :)

I'm glad you like the boys. You know who's fault it is that I love them so.


Fill: By Design 7/10 TW rape, pissing, violence

Date: 2014-06-03 08:38 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Treville has taken up temporary residence in ground floor rooms on the Rue Allent, a narrow, rather squalid street that's only advantage lies in the fact that it's a stone's throw away from the garrison.

"Serviceable, I suppose," says Athos, seating himself in familiar fashion on the corner of Treville's desk. The piece of furniture has been damaged in the move and tips awkwardly allowing the papers to fly off in all directions. Treville hurriedly bends down to collect them and Athos kneels to assist, but there's something in the captain's rushed manner which causes Athos to look more carefully at the listed orders and bills of receipt than perhaps he would have done ordinarily.

A small unfurled scroll stands out from the everyday nature of the rest and Athos pinches it from between Treville's fingers, the crude drawing of an arquebus catching his attention. Opening it fully he reads the words: you're dead, scrawled in crude lettering beneath the gun.

"This was delivered here?" He waves the message under Treville's nose.

Both men stand, shoulders set in confrontation and Treville nods. "Yesterday. I haven't had time to deal with it yet."

"And yet you didn't consider it important enough to tell me." Athos is furious. "Is this the first death threat you've received from Vallion?"

Treville nods again and Athos continues to tell him off. "Did you think to mention it to Aramis or Porthos this morning before you sent them off on another wild goose chase?"

"You're acting above your station." Treville fronts up to him. "What I choose to do with my company of men is none of your business. You're here to carry out my orders without question."

What happens next is entirely unexpected. A touchpaper of a different kind is lit and the two men slam into each other, mouths open, teeth clashing in a biting kiss that turns out to be ferociously hard. Drawing back for a moment Athos studies Treville's face for any second thoughts then searches himself for the same. There are none and he kisses Treville again, softer this time, his tongue sliding into the man's mouth, his breath coming in rapid bursts as blood thunders inside.

It's no more than a few strides to Treville's bed chamber and, hard and wanting for the first time since he was assaulted, Athos is filled with the kind of physical desperation he's never experienced before. The sound of familiar voices as a group of Musketeers pass by the open window brings about a return to reason and, startled by events, the two men pull apart.

"We'll sort this out later," promises Treville, his hand reaching up for the briefest of moments to touch Athos's cheek.


Later, by dint of its character, never arrives as Aramis and Porthos return that afternoon with news that Vallion and his diminishing squad of men have taken over a warehouse in Le Havre, two days ride away.

"We even have plans of the building," says Porthos, pleased as punch as he lays out the drawings on Treville's desk and weighs them down with a brass inkstand and an ugly paper knife. "An old sea captain friend of mine has come up trumps."

Athos has a strong suspicion that the captain may be more of a buccaneer than a merchant navy man, but at least he won't be following an ideology like these blasted Calvinists.

Their assault on Vallion's bolt hole is detailed down to precise minutiae and all four men are filled with frustrated rage when they eventually arrive, with a troop of soldiers, at the wharf building in Le Havre to discover not a shred of evidence that Vallion has even set foot in there.

"I'll string that miserable bastard up from the mizzen mast of his ship when I see him next." Porthos mounts his horse ready for the long ride back home, disgruntled and disappointed that all their efforts have, once again, been in vain.

They break their journey at a shabby coaching inn on the main route to Paris. The hostelry is bursting at the seams with travellers, most of them farmers heading to the monthly market at Les Halles, and with only one basic room left spare the four men lay out their bedrolls on the floor and share a scanty meal.

“What next?” asks Aramis, taking an unusually large swig of wine from the bottle. “He’s outsmarting us at every turn.”

"He's cunning and he's twisted and he's out for vengeance," says Treville, his lips thinning into a grim line. "He's also enjoying leading us a cat and mouse chase."

"Who's the cat and who's the mouse?" says Aramis despondently.

"Don't think that way," snaps Treville. "What will that sort of negativity ever achieve?"

"So far he's beaten Athos to within an inch of his life, destroyed our barracks and had us running in frantic circles around France. How are we supposed to gain anything positive from this?" answers Aramis wearily.

The remainder of the food is eaten in silence. Probably a good thing, thinks Athos as they're too close to accusing each other of things that would be of much regret when viewed by the harsh light of day. He himself is resigned, slowly gaining an insight into the workings of Vallion's mind. Calculating and cruel the man is manipulating them with ease: divide and conquer being his current methodology.

One by one the candles gutter and fail and as the room is enveloped in darkness Athos listens to an expanding chorus of snores. Comforted by the close proximity of his friends he is at the same time anxious that he might disturb them and, having rejected the idea of sleep, he lies on his back, waiting for morning to arrive. To pass the time he contemplates Vallion and his future plans, trying his level best not to relive that kiss he shared with Treville which has been on his mind--the impression of it warm on his lips--ever since it happened.

Rest--or in Athos’s case, none--does little to raise their spirits and the final leg of the journey to Paris continues in silence and at haste.

The four men stable their horses at the livery yard they’ve been using since the fire and, exhausted and downhearted they split up, Treville off to the garrison to see how the carpenters are doing, with Aramis and Porthos sloping off to lick their wounds and probably bed each other into a better mood.

Athos, himself, is happy to return to the quiet comfort of the Bonacieux household and consider Vallion's next play. He can still feel eyes on him at all times and is almost certain it's not paranoia.

The instant she sees him appear in the kitchen Constance pours out wine for them both. "How was the day?" she asks, passing him a cup and then dishing up a plate of broth from the pot.

"A pointless exercise for us," Athos says wearily. "Less so for our opponent."

"I thought Porthos was certain of his information?"

"All we can be certain of is that Vallion is well funded from some quarter and can pay well to put into the rumour mill whatever he wishes us to take out of it." Athos sighs. If the King were more popular amongst his people then the Musketeers would have an easier time. Huguenot families who, decades since, were forced to flee France for other corners of the continent will happily be providing the coin. They don't give a damn about the less than savoury methods that Vallion employs.

"What in Heaven's name?" Constance jumps to her feet, fingers closing around the bone handle of a knife at the sound of the door being smashed to smithereens.

In contrast, Athos doesn't bat an eyelid. "Tell Treville that I've been expecting this and to plan things out accordingly,” he says quickly. “Tell him also the number of men here. It won't be all of them, but will at least give him something to work with."

Wood splinters into shards and the room is filled with thugs, masked once again with bandanas. The lack of surprise doesn't stem that surge of fear as Athos is seized, pinned to the table and disarmed.

"Don't worry," he says, fixing his eyes on Constance to calm her as Vallion approaches, kerchief bunched at his throat. She's spitting with rage and the last thing he wants is for her to put herself in harm's way for his sake. The carving knife is torn from her hand and she’s pushed backwards into a chair then restrained by one of the men.

"Wrong," crows Vallion, his arm casually braced around Athos's neck. "Worry is indeed what you should be doing, my little bird, but only after you've run along to Captain Treville to tell him that, once again, we have his pet Musketeer." He strokes his fingers through Athos's hair. "He really should look after him better."

Fingertips slide down his neck, greasing a slimy trail over him, but however disgusted he feels Athos will not show anything other than indifference. When he’s hauled to his feet with two men securing him and Vallion draped against his back he continues to keep his eyes on Constance to reassure her that all is not lost. This is how he expected things to progress. So far so good.

"We'll be taking him to l'eglise St Martin," continues Vallion as they leave and Athos is dragged with them. "Go now, pretty thing. Inform the captain."

Thrown unceremoniously into the back of a covered wagon Athos automatically examines every escape route possible, but Vallion is at his side all the way, dagger digging into whichever body part he fancies threatening at the time and, anyway, Athos needs to be on the inside for his long shot of a plan to work out.

"I would make you suck my cock, but I have no wish to be castrated by those sharp little teeth of yours," Vallion says in that bizarre manner which sends Athos's stomach crawling upwards into his throat. "It took Besnard a long time to recover after you chomped down on him. I do so admire your spirit." The dagger trails lazily down Athos's doublet and breeches then traces the lie of his prick.

Damping down his emotions Athos concentrates instead on the route they're taking out of Paris, calculating where this particular church could be and why Vallion has chosen it as a venue. The name is unfamiliar; Treville has been over and over their history trying to predetermine Vallion's moves and motives and St Martin has never been mentioned.

"You're quiet, Musketeer, disappointingly so in fact," croons Vallion. "I could fuck you bloody and make you scream right here." Athos tenses. "But that would only spoil the show for later."


Re: Fill: By Design 7/10 TW rape, pissing, violence

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-06-03 10:23 pm (UTC) - Expand

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Fill: By Design 10/10 + epilogue TW rape, pissing, violence

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Fill: By Design - Epilogue. TW rape, pissing, violence

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From: (Anonymous)
Original anon again!

*bounces very happily*

God, he's so beautifully broken in this. I love the way Treville stayed with him during the night, and the brusque but caring way the other two have with him.

I am enjoying this story so bloody much!! It's perfect in every way. Thank you!
From: (Anonymous)
Broken Athos is a joy to write. :)

You're an angel. Thank you so much for reading and commenting.




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