"So, that's four rifles and two cases of bullets, delivered to Combeferre by the end of the week. Thank you. Is there anything you would like in return?"

Enjolras was wrapping up a late-night meeting with Boucher, the leader of one of the smaller cells of workers, in the abandoned warehouse. It had been a good meeting. Boucher was newer to the cause, but seemed to have good connections.

"You." The answer was so unexpected that Enjolras blinked, unsure what the man meant or even if he had heard correctly.

"Pardon?"

The man stepped closer, a suddenly predatory gleam entering his eye. "You, for one night."

"Something more relevant to our goals, Citoyen. If that is all, we'll be in touch."

Enjolras stepped back, intent on departure. He turned to leave, and pain exploded across his face. He staggered sideways, but his momentum was stopped as a strong grip closed around his arms. Four men, bulky and menacing, had somehow materialized around him.

In front of him, Boucher smiled, and Enjolras' heart momentarily stopped. A knife was drawn, and laid against his throat.

"Don't make a fuss, now. One night, cooperate and you'll be free to go at daybreak. Resist," another knife-edged smile, "resist, and we'll rape you to death."

Enjolras opened his mouth, ready to argue, to convince the man that this was madness. The blade moved from his throat to his lips, and the words died before he could voice them.

"Think carefully now. Feel free to scream or moan, but if you try to speak, I'll remove your tongue. You might find that hampers your efforts for the Republic."

Enjolras swallowed dryly. He would not scream. He refused to give them that. But he would cooperate. Survival was the most important thing right now. Just get through this night.

The knife withdrew, to be replaced by Boucher's fingers. The fingers traced his lips, then slid around to grasp his chin tightly. Boucher pressed closer, forcing Enjolras to fall back against the human mountain holding him in place. Enjolras choked as Boucher's mouth pressed against his, thick, hot tongue driving toward Enjolras' throat. Before he could adjust, mentally or physically, to the plundering of his mouth, he felt his arms yanked behind his back, and his wrists tied together, painfully tight. God, they had planned the entire attack.

The brutal kiss continued. Overwhelmed, dizzy, Enjolras' world had quickly contracted to that foreign tongue claiming his mouth, and the hands – so many hands – running over his body. A ripping sound reverberated in his ears. Soon those hands closed on bare, vulnerable skin, and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself away from this world. The kiss ended, and Enjolras was forced to the ground, on his back, his wrists trapped and crushed by the weight of Boucher's body as well as his own. The knife was back at his throat, and the hands shifted to pull his now naked thighs apart and back.

"Remember, don't fight me," Boucher whispered into his ear. Enjolras braced as best he could, knowing what was about to happen. Academic knowledge was poor preparation for the real thing. Pain shot through his body, and Enjolras clenched his teeth against a scream. The pain turned to agony when Boucher began moving in and out of him, picking up speed. "Ach, so damn tight!"

Once more, he was given no time to adjust. Cruel fingers entwined in his hair, pulling his head back, and Boucher's mouth descended once more. Enjolras gagged against the invading tongue. Cock and tongue sped up their thrusts, and Boucher began moaning into his kiss. The rhythm built to almost unendurable levels, before Boucher gave one last, brutal thrust and shuddered, collapsing onto his victim. Enjolras wanted to vomit as the hot liquid filled him, but he refused to yield to such a reaction. Boucher's hips continued to rock against him for another minute or so, Boucher's tongue lapped almost lazily at his face, and then finally it was over.

Once his attacker's weight was removed, Enjolras shifted slowly, painfully onto his side, desperate to relieve his crushed wrists.

"That was incredible. You're truly a great fuck, as hot as I imagined you."

Sick, dazed, Enjolras didn't respond.

"All yours, boys! Just don't fuck his ass. That's mine!"

The words didn't entirely make sense to Enjolras, but he did comprehend that his ordeal was far from finished. The hands closed again on him, and dragged him to his knees. Harsh fingers dug into his jaw. A thick cock rubbed across and into his face, then butted against his lips. The fleshy weapon thrust inside, making Enjolras choke once more.

Hours later, Enjolras lay curled up, half on the filthy floor and half in the lap of one of his abusers. All four accomplices, plus Boucher, had used his mouth. Boucher had also raped his body twice more, climaxing once. This was the first time since the assault had begun that his body was empty for any significant length of time, but hands still played across his chest, casually molesting him, pinching his nipples and prodding the bruises. The respite could not last. Again, his head was lifted, his mouth fed with cock. The phallus filled his mouth and throat, moving slowly in and out. Exhausted and broken, Enjolras kept his eyes closed and rode out this newest rape.

Several more hours passed in a blur. When daylight finally filtered through the cracked walls, Enjolras had lost all sense of time. He didn't feel it when his numb wrists were released. The hand against his cheek demanded his attention. Boucher leaned over him, with a sated, happy leer.

"That was amazing. I dreamed of doing that since the moment I laid eyes on you. We'll get those arms to your group. See you around."

A final, deep kiss that Enjolras barely registered, and then they were gone.

For an indeterminate time, Enjolras lay curled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. It was finally over, but his body was slow to realize that fact. Eventually, he dragged himself up and began to dress. His clothes were beyond repair, and his entire body ached. With a scrap of his ruined waistcoat, he mechanically scrubbed at his face, desperate to remove the evidence. He stood on weakened legs and began to make his way home. The streets were filling with people, and Enjolras clung instinctively to the shadows. Halfway home, he knew he wouldn't make it.