Fic: The Particulars of an Adventure of Marie Michon
This year has just begun, and already I welcome you to Vagina Town! Had to be done.
Title: The Particulars of an Adventure of Marie Michon
Rating: R
Pairing: Athos/Chevreuse
Warnings: Oh dear, HET! Hints of non-con. Definitely blasphemy, though not my fault this time, any of it, I'm just following Dumas' canon!
Summary: Raoul is conceived. God have mercy on him.
Time line: Before "There's No Accounting For Taste" and "Noisy-Le-Sec"
The Particulars of an Adventure of Marie Michon
Roche-L’Abeille. What the devil was he doing in Roche-L’Abeille? The night was miserable, and despite his significantly hefty cloak and the considerable amount of wine inside his gullet, Athos felt the insistent October mist chilling him to the bone. Of course, just his luck that this little armpit of France would also have no inn, and to even imagine a château in such environs was preposterous. The peasant houses, if you could call those shit-hovels “houses,” made his skin itch at the very implication of spending the night there, no matter his level of inebriation. He would rather sleep on horseback. He would rather not sleep at all. What difference would another night of not sleeping make, in the grand scheme of his entirely pointless quest to find a man who did not wish to be found? And how on earth did he even get as far as this god-forsaken village?
He decided to forego stopping entirely, just when he caught a light out of the corner of his eye. He dismissed his initial thought to praise God as redundant, considering what stood before him was apparently a vicarage of sorts. Besides, as of Aramis’ departure, he and God were no longer on speaking terms. Nevertheless, this was a better option than any other to spend the night, and he had to admit that he desperately needed the rest, having ridden all day, and possibly the entire previous night. He was no longer certain.
His relief was considerable when the elderly abbé, who had so kindly invited him in, was called away to attend to the last rights of a dying man in another village. He noted to himself the deep injustice in his own feelings, absentmindedly picking at the vestiges of the prelate’s dinner. A man apparently had to die in order for him to find some peace and solitude, and of all places, in this curate, closer to Spain than to Paris. Athos refilled his cup with some, surprisingly decent, wine and silently toasted the dying man. His host had also availed him the use of his own bedroom, so he supposed he must still have the look of an honest gentleman, despite feeling like the basest dregs of society. And that ridiculous line he had fed the abbé, about being “on an important mission” - oh, hah! It wasn’t a lie, exactly; his mission was quite an important one, as he could think of nothing more important than finding Aramis and rearranging his face.
“Look at the lengths you’ve driven me to,” he mumbled to the ghost of his lost love, yet addressing his rapidly emptying drinking vessel. Indeed, there were times he did not know himself anymore, for neither Athos nor the comte de La Fère would have taken advantage of their best friend’s affections in order to fill a gaping lustful want left by another. He had betrayed d’Artagnan, he had betrayed himself, and no amount of wine could wash this self-disgust off his repellant soul. But that certainly would not stop him from trying.
For a while, he contemplated taking the rest of the wine to the bedroom with him, but, thinking better of it, and not wishing to spill it all over his selfless host’s bed, he stumbled off to sleep bottle-less. “And when I find you,” he mumbled to himself, tugging his boots off slowly and methodically, one at a time, “I’m going to…” What? Kiss you. “Kill you,” he concluded.
There was a tentative knock on the door and he cursed his fate once again. Rolling his eyes, he called out from the bed for whoever was there to come in. He was definitely not getting up for anyone at that point. The young man who poked his head in through the door, and charmingly begged hospitality for the night, was surprisingly pretty. What difference would it really make to him, in his current state, if he could no longer have the luxury of solitude to add to his unexpected comfort? He told the young man that he could have the rest of his dinner and wine (if there is any, he snickered to himself), and offered him the other half of his room, surprising himself as those words slipped out of his mouth. He heard quiet conferring, most likely between the cavalier and his valet, followed by laughter that was almost feminine in its youthful giggles. Did I just offer him to share my bed? Athos let out a little self-directed groan.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Curate, I accept,” rang out the young voice from the other room.
“Then get your supper, and make as little noise as you can,” he quickly grumbled. “I have been riding all day, and would not be sorry to sleep tonight.”
He closed his eyes, praying that sleep would descend upon him before the unexpected guest made reappearance. The wine was making his head spin and he could feel that irritating ache in his legs that indicated he was probably too tired to sleep. This was his body’s final insult, and he shut his eyes against everything, willing his mind into stillness.
He felt the balance of the bed shift, as obviously another body had descended onto the mattress and climbed quietly under the coverlet. He kept his eyes shut, but he could swear that he felt the young cavalier’s face hovering above his own, he felt the soft brush of another’s breath against the back of his neck. This closeness was followed by the tentative brush of a hand along his arm, sliding slowly down to caress his thigh through the thick covers. Wonderful, exactly what I needed.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” he heard whispered against the back of his neck, the stranger’s hand snaking its way under the coverlet, resting softly against his abdomen.
“I absolve you. Go to sleep,” he half-pleaded, refusing to open his eyes. He felt the young man laugh soundlessly. Warm lips pressed to the base of his neck. “No,” he moaned, feebly, “No more sinning.”
“But, father,” the hand slid down and found his sex. “I simply cannot find the strength in myself to stop. I have such a fondness for members of the clergy.”
I can relate.
“Undoubtedly, but..,” he was prevented from speaking further by the sensation that the young man’s hand was bringing to bear upon him.
“But?” the soft whisper against his lips.
He gasped a bit and inhaled as soft long tresses fell over his face. He detected something that smelled vaguely of lavender. Why do you persecute me like this? He dismissed that as an unwelcome hallucination. Soft lips, far too soft, even for a young man, brushed against his own. You really are a very… pretty… boy. He kissed back, giving in to this temptation meant for another. He was surrendering to his mounting desire to grasp, crush and claim, and he reached his hand out and ran in along the young man’s flank, letting it settle without any shyness or gentleness on his impromptu companion’s ass, bring forth a surprised gasp.
“Oh father…”
He simply moaned encouragement into the young man’s mouth and pulled him closer to himself. Oh to hell with it, he thought, the sooner I have my way with him, the sooner I can sleep. He felt his way up the silky chemise, noting the likelihood of his companion’s highly aristocratic origins, and deliberately yanked the impeding bit of cloth over the lad’s head, eliciting another giggle. In the dark, like this, he could pretend anything. He could pretend anyone. He reached out again, to pull his startling prey into his surprisingly ravenous clutches, when his hand landed on something unanticipated.
“What the hell is that?!” he shot up in bed, his hand still holding on to the bewildering object, which his brain was starting to recognize as…
“My breast, father,” the voice responded, followed by the usual giggle.
“Of course… right.” Athos wanted to leap out of the bed.
“Oh, father, don’t tell me you’re changing your mind,” the girl… the woman, laughed again, tossing her long tresses.
“Um… I… it’s just… it’s been a while… since I’ve done that,” he stammered. With a woman.
“Well, yes, I would expect nothing less from a pious man such as yourself.” Her hand closed over his hand, pressing his fingers around the supple curves of the breast he had been holding.
“Do you often dress as a man to seduce priests?”
She laughed again, pressing her lips back to his.
“Only truly handsome ones, such as yourself.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the curates.”
“I’m sure you will absolve us both,” she straddled his hips, pushing him back into the depths of the bed.
This night could not possibly get any worse, he began to suspect. Nonetheless, his original plan still seemed valid: bed the wench, then get to sleep. Sleep was the goal, sleep was attainable. Just close your eyes and think of sleep. And Aramis.
Her hands had resumed their previous ministrations, quickly reassuring him that exceptional skill knew no gender, and, after all, why should he not take what was being so generously proffered to him. She wants to seduce me, fine, I’m just going to stay right here, and let her. He was ready, and he had convinced himself that he actually almost wanted this. His hands, both of them this time, were sliding back up her soft abdomen to cup her breasts, to feel the unfamiliar heaviness of them in his palms. She had let out a little moan and threw her head back, he hair spilling like a cape around her shoulders. He almost wished he could see her, he imagined she was beautiful, she had, after all, been a very pretty boy. He felt himself enveloped by the warm moistness between her thighs and he thrust up inside her, in an all too familiar way. He was perfectly amenable as her nails dug into the flesh of his chest, her face close to his face, hair covering both of them, as she rode him like an amicable stallion until she had cried out her own pleasure.
Judging by his own flaccid state, he knew that had spent himself as well. Finally, he would be able to sleep. Her arm was draped over his chest and he sneered at the presumed familiarity.
“Father, you were magnificent,” he heard her whisper and felt her tongue lathe a trail along his neck, lapping at his sweat.
“I know,” he responded and rolled away, as sleep, blessed sleep, finally overtook him.
He woke with the first rays of dawn, shooting out of the bed as if it was on fire. With trembling hands, he pulled on his trousers, still not daring to turn around, to see what was sleeping in the bed behind him. He smoothed his hair away from his face, leaning his forehead on the cool window. He could barely make out her features reflected in the glass. Finally, bracing himself, he turned and approached his sleeping companion.
He had to admit, she was lovely.
Not allowing himself any further reflection, he hastily dressed himself, rebuckled his sword, and left the bedroom as noiselessly as he could. In the front room, the person whom he had earlier presumed to be the valet was asleep in the arm chair, her own head thrown back in her repose. He was about to leave the vicarage, but something in the features of the sleeping maid caught his eyes, something familiar, something… He approached the armchair to have a closer look, when it all came crashing back to him.
D’Artagnan. Milady. Kitty.
Aramis.
Oh Lord, have mercy…
Lavender.
His feet propelled him back to the bedroom to stand over the bed, staring down at the sleeping form completely unaware of him. He was terrified of touching her, irrationally aware of the fact that touching her now would be making absolutely nothing worse of what he had already done. So, this was she. His rival. Marie de Rohan, the duchess de Chevreuse. They had never spoken her name between the two of them, but then again, there were many things that went unspoken with Aramis. He had to admit, he could find no flaws now with his friend’s taste. She was lying there, her lithe neck exposed, impossibly within reach, and all he had to do was squeeze.
He suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. He had to get out of there. He needed… something… oh God… of all the women in the world… He was never drinking again.
He mounted his steed and galloped as fast as he could in the opposite direction from where he was originally headed. Is there no place I can hide from this, my personal Hell? There was only one person in the world that he knew he could still turn to for a semblance of sanity; one friendship, which he had somehow not managed to muck up in all his sodden despair. And that was Porthos.
Title: The Particulars of an Adventure of Marie Michon
Rating: R
Pairing: Athos/Chevreuse
Warnings: Oh dear, HET! Hints of non-con. Definitely blasphemy, though not my fault this time, any of it, I'm just following Dumas' canon!
Summary: Raoul is conceived. God have mercy on him.
Time line: Before "There's No Accounting For Taste" and "Noisy-Le-Sec"
The Particulars of an Adventure of Marie Michon
Roche-L’Abeille. What the devil was he doing in Roche-L’Abeille? The night was miserable, and despite his significantly hefty cloak and the considerable amount of wine inside his gullet, Athos felt the insistent October mist chilling him to the bone. Of course, just his luck that this little armpit of France would also have no inn, and to even imagine a château in such environs was preposterous. The peasant houses, if you could call those shit-hovels “houses,” made his skin itch at the very implication of spending the night there, no matter his level of inebriation. He would rather sleep on horseback. He would rather not sleep at all. What difference would another night of not sleeping make, in the grand scheme of his entirely pointless quest to find a man who did not wish to be found? And how on earth did he even get as far as this god-forsaken village?
He decided to forego stopping entirely, just when he caught a light out of the corner of his eye. He dismissed his initial thought to praise God as redundant, considering what stood before him was apparently a vicarage of sorts. Besides, as of Aramis’ departure, he and God were no longer on speaking terms. Nevertheless, this was a better option than any other to spend the night, and he had to admit that he desperately needed the rest, having ridden all day, and possibly the entire previous night. He was no longer certain.
His relief was considerable when the elderly abbé, who had so kindly invited him in, was called away to attend to the last rights of a dying man in another village. He noted to himself the deep injustice in his own feelings, absentmindedly picking at the vestiges of the prelate’s dinner. A man apparently had to die in order for him to find some peace and solitude, and of all places, in this curate, closer to Spain than to Paris. Athos refilled his cup with some, surprisingly decent, wine and silently toasted the dying man. His host had also availed him the use of his own bedroom, so he supposed he must still have the look of an honest gentleman, despite feeling like the basest dregs of society. And that ridiculous line he had fed the abbé, about being “on an important mission” - oh, hah! It wasn’t a lie, exactly; his mission was quite an important one, as he could think of nothing more important than finding Aramis and rearranging his face.
“Look at the lengths you’ve driven me to,” he mumbled to the ghost of his lost love, yet addressing his rapidly emptying drinking vessel. Indeed, there were times he did not know himself anymore, for neither Athos nor the comte de La Fère would have taken advantage of their best friend’s affections in order to fill a gaping lustful want left by another. He had betrayed d’Artagnan, he had betrayed himself, and no amount of wine could wash this self-disgust off his repellant soul. But that certainly would not stop him from trying.
For a while, he contemplated taking the rest of the wine to the bedroom with him, but, thinking better of it, and not wishing to spill it all over his selfless host’s bed, he stumbled off to sleep bottle-less. “And when I find you,” he mumbled to himself, tugging his boots off slowly and methodically, one at a time, “I’m going to…” What? Kiss you. “Kill you,” he concluded.
There was a tentative knock on the door and he cursed his fate once again. Rolling his eyes, he called out from the bed for whoever was there to come in. He was definitely not getting up for anyone at that point. The young man who poked his head in through the door, and charmingly begged hospitality for the night, was surprisingly pretty. What difference would it really make to him, in his current state, if he could no longer have the luxury of solitude to add to his unexpected comfort? He told the young man that he could have the rest of his dinner and wine (if there is any, he snickered to himself), and offered him the other half of his room, surprising himself as those words slipped out of his mouth. He heard quiet conferring, most likely between the cavalier and his valet, followed by laughter that was almost feminine in its youthful giggles. Did I just offer him to share my bed? Athos let out a little self-directed groan.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Curate, I accept,” rang out the young voice from the other room.
“Then get your supper, and make as little noise as you can,” he quickly grumbled. “I have been riding all day, and would not be sorry to sleep tonight.”
He closed his eyes, praying that sleep would descend upon him before the unexpected guest made reappearance. The wine was making his head spin and he could feel that irritating ache in his legs that indicated he was probably too tired to sleep. This was his body’s final insult, and he shut his eyes against everything, willing his mind into stillness.
He felt the balance of the bed shift, as obviously another body had descended onto the mattress and climbed quietly under the coverlet. He kept his eyes shut, but he could swear that he felt the young cavalier’s face hovering above his own, he felt the soft brush of another’s breath against the back of his neck. This closeness was followed by the tentative brush of a hand along his arm, sliding slowly down to caress his thigh through the thick covers. Wonderful, exactly what I needed.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” he heard whispered against the back of his neck, the stranger’s hand snaking its way under the coverlet, resting softly against his abdomen.
“I absolve you. Go to sleep,” he half-pleaded, refusing to open his eyes. He felt the young man laugh soundlessly. Warm lips pressed to the base of his neck. “No,” he moaned, feebly, “No more sinning.”
“But, father,” the hand slid down and found his sex. “I simply cannot find the strength in myself to stop. I have such a fondness for members of the clergy.”
I can relate.
“Undoubtedly, but..,” he was prevented from speaking further by the sensation that the young man’s hand was bringing to bear upon him.
“But?” the soft whisper against his lips.
He gasped a bit and inhaled as soft long tresses fell over his face. He detected something that smelled vaguely of lavender. Why do you persecute me like this? He dismissed that as an unwelcome hallucination. Soft lips, far too soft, even for a young man, brushed against his own. You really are a very… pretty… boy. He kissed back, giving in to this temptation meant for another. He was surrendering to his mounting desire to grasp, crush and claim, and he reached his hand out and ran in along the young man’s flank, letting it settle without any shyness or gentleness on his impromptu companion’s ass, bring forth a surprised gasp.
“Oh father…”
He simply moaned encouragement into the young man’s mouth and pulled him closer to himself. Oh to hell with it, he thought, the sooner I have my way with him, the sooner I can sleep. He felt his way up the silky chemise, noting the likelihood of his companion’s highly aristocratic origins, and deliberately yanked the impeding bit of cloth over the lad’s head, eliciting another giggle. In the dark, like this, he could pretend anything. He could pretend anyone. He reached out again, to pull his startling prey into his surprisingly ravenous clutches, when his hand landed on something unanticipated.
“What the hell is that?!” he shot up in bed, his hand still holding on to the bewildering object, which his brain was starting to recognize as…
“My breast, father,” the voice responded, followed by the usual giggle.
“Of course… right.” Athos wanted to leap out of the bed.
“Oh, father, don’t tell me you’re changing your mind,” the girl… the woman, laughed again, tossing her long tresses.
“Um… I… it’s just… it’s been a while… since I’ve done that,” he stammered. With a woman.
“Well, yes, I would expect nothing less from a pious man such as yourself.” Her hand closed over his hand, pressing his fingers around the supple curves of the breast he had been holding.
“Do you often dress as a man to seduce priests?”
She laughed again, pressing her lips back to his.
“Only truly handsome ones, such as yourself.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the curates.”
“I’m sure you will absolve us both,” she straddled his hips, pushing him back into the depths of the bed.
This night could not possibly get any worse, he began to suspect. Nonetheless, his original plan still seemed valid: bed the wench, then get to sleep. Sleep was the goal, sleep was attainable. Just close your eyes and think of sleep. And Aramis.
Her hands had resumed their previous ministrations, quickly reassuring him that exceptional skill knew no gender, and, after all, why should he not take what was being so generously proffered to him. She wants to seduce me, fine, I’m just going to stay right here, and let her. He was ready, and he had convinced himself that he actually almost wanted this. His hands, both of them this time, were sliding back up her soft abdomen to cup her breasts, to feel the unfamiliar heaviness of them in his palms. She had let out a little moan and threw her head back, he hair spilling like a cape around her shoulders. He almost wished he could see her, he imagined she was beautiful, she had, after all, been a very pretty boy. He felt himself enveloped by the warm moistness between her thighs and he thrust up inside her, in an all too familiar way. He was perfectly amenable as her nails dug into the flesh of his chest, her face close to his face, hair covering both of them, as she rode him like an amicable stallion until she had cried out her own pleasure.
Judging by his own flaccid state, he knew that had spent himself as well. Finally, he would be able to sleep. Her arm was draped over his chest and he sneered at the presumed familiarity.
“Father, you were magnificent,” he heard her whisper and felt her tongue lathe a trail along his neck, lapping at his sweat.
“I know,” he responded and rolled away, as sleep, blessed sleep, finally overtook him.
He woke with the first rays of dawn, shooting out of the bed as if it was on fire. With trembling hands, he pulled on his trousers, still not daring to turn around, to see what was sleeping in the bed behind him. He smoothed his hair away from his face, leaning his forehead on the cool window. He could barely make out her features reflected in the glass. Finally, bracing himself, he turned and approached his sleeping companion.
He had to admit, she was lovely.
Not allowing himself any further reflection, he hastily dressed himself, rebuckled his sword, and left the bedroom as noiselessly as he could. In the front room, the person whom he had earlier presumed to be the valet was asleep in the arm chair, her own head thrown back in her repose. He was about to leave the vicarage, but something in the features of the sleeping maid caught his eyes, something familiar, something… He approached the armchair to have a closer look, when it all came crashing back to him.
D’Artagnan. Milady. Kitty.
Aramis.
Oh Lord, have mercy…
Lavender.
His feet propelled him back to the bedroom to stand over the bed, staring down at the sleeping form completely unaware of him. He was terrified of touching her, irrationally aware of the fact that touching her now would be making absolutely nothing worse of what he had already done. So, this was she. His rival. Marie de Rohan, the duchess de Chevreuse. They had never spoken her name between the two of them, but then again, there were many things that went unspoken with Aramis. He had to admit, he could find no flaws now with his friend’s taste. She was lying there, her lithe neck exposed, impossibly within reach, and all he had to do was squeeze.
He suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. He had to get out of there. He needed… something… oh God… of all the women in the world… He was never drinking again.
He mounted his steed and galloped as fast as he could in the opposite direction from where he was originally headed. Is there no place I can hide from this, my personal Hell? There was only one person in the world that he knew he could still turn to for a semblance of sanity; one friendship, which he had somehow not managed to muck up in all his sodden despair. And that was Porthos.