Warning: Violent noncon in this chapter. And the romance I refer to in the description of this story is between Marion and Robin(2), not Marion and Gisburne. This is definitely a more brutal story than my previous offering, "Destiny's Child, Greenwood's Heir." Not meant for the kiddies, but I promise this is the harshest chapter by far.

Marion

It was brutal, it was painful and humiliating in ways she'd never dreamed possible, and it was her own fault.

She should have known, somehow, although she still wasn't sure, in the immediate aftermath, how she could have. Gisburne had acted with a swiftness and brutality that didn't surprise her, and a cunning she'd never have credited him with. The trap had been well set, a call for help from one of the local village lads bringing her to the isolated home of a charcoal burner and his young wife.

She could only assume the boy who had summoned her had been tricked as well. Maude, the charcoal burner's wife, had no doubt been forced on pain of death to ask him to fetch Marion to help her with "woman's troubles," as the boy had blushingly informed her when he made his appearance in their camp. Robin had sent her on her way, she'd brought with her what few things she had on hand that might help, and had arrived to find neither Maude nor her husband, Corwin, anywhere to be found. Fled or dead, Marion still had no idea, and until the pain subsided and she was able to do more than crawl, no way to find out.

God and Herne, she'd never felt so much pain between her legs and in her abdomen, not during her monthlies, not the first time she and her first Robin had made love on their wedding night and she'd surrendered to him a woman's most precious gift. The brief pain then had been overwhelmed by her love for her husband, his tenderness and concern for her comfort.

Tenderness…she felt a bitter laugh trying to escape her lips and bit it back ruthlessly. Hysteria would surely follow and she needed to keep what little wits remained to her under careful control.

Tenderness had been the last thing on Gisburne's mind when he stepped from behind the half-opened door as she entered the dim interior of the windowless hut, slamming it shut behind them both.

She should have known what he intended when she noticed, her mind working at top speed, that he'd shed his armor, although he still held his sword threateningly in one hand. Later she realized his tunic was unbelted as well, although that detail escaped her in the first rush of adrenaline-fueled panic.

She'd turned at bay as soon as she saw him, before the door fully shut, pulling out her dagger since her bow was useless in such close quarters. Gisburne had the reach advantage, but she thought to make him pay dearly for any attempt to drag her back to Nottingham, the fate she mistakenly assumed awaited her as soon as he got his filthy hands on her.

He gave a disdainful laugh as she whirled to face him, her inadequate dagger aimed directly at his heart. She had a split second to make a decision, and prayed it was the right one as she flipped her weapon backwards, holding by the flat of the blade as she raised it over her shoulder and threw it at him the way Nasir had taught her. Even as the knife left her hand, she made a dash for the room's only exit—the door Gisburne was blocking with his body.

She startled him enough with the speed and ferocity of her attack that he ducked aside, the dagger barely grazing one cheek, but drawing blood nonetheless. As she reached frantically for the door, however, he recovered himself and grabbed her around the waist, twisting her away just as her fingers touched the latch.

She screamed with anger and kicked out, but he held her firmly by the waist with one arm while he dropped his sword and trapped her arms tightly against her chest. He easily avoided the frantic movements of her legs, then with brutal suddenness slammed her up against the very door that had been her goal scant seconds before, knocking the breath from her and leaving her reeling in pain.

Feeling his hot breath against her cheek as he pressed his body against hers, she heard him say in a hoarse voice: "A good try, Lady Wolf's Head. But you'll not leave this hovel till I give you leave to do so." His voice lowered as he whispered directly into her ear: "And don't think you won't pay for the damage you've done to me."

And so it had proved. Marion flinched away from the memories, still as raw and aching as her bruised and battered body, but as impossible to ignore. He'd deftly removed her quiver and arrows, tossing them carelessly to the floor next to his sword while continuing to hold her pinned in place with the weight of his body pressed so tightly against hers she fancied she could count every rib in his chest, every stitch and seam in his clothing.

She still didn't quite understand what he had in mind, even though she could plainly feel the shape of his arousal against the cleft of her buttocks. It wasn't until he went to work on her clothing, fumbling with one hand at her waist to remove her belt so he could more easily pull off her tunic, that she came out of her shock enough to realize that he wasn't simply taking her prisoner, not this time.

She'd held still in hopes of lulling him into a false sense of security, but reason snapped when she felt his hands traveling eagerly beneath her clothing, insinuating themselves between her arms and chest. That eagerness on his part gave her an opening, no matter how small, and she took immediate advantage as her hands were finally freed and she reached behind her blindly to claw at the still-bleeding wound on his cheek.

He'd stumbled back with a howl of rage and pain, but when she tried once again to fling open the door, he was on her before she'd done more than lift the latch and yank open the wooden barrier that was all that stood between her and freedom.

With one hand he slammed the door shut, easily overpowering her frantic efforts at escape. With the other, he grabbed a fistful of her tunic near the back of her neck, almost yanking her off her feet as he pulled her back and away from the door. She lost her footing fully when he wheeled her around, shoving her toward the low pallet that served as Maude and Corwin's bed.

She immediately attempted to scramble to her feet, but Gisburne was on her before she could get further than her knees, slamming her back against the heap of dingy blankets that made up the bedclothes and once again covering her body with his own.

"Another good try," he growled as he pinned her arms over her head, holding them easily with one hand. He ignored the blood dripping down his cheek and onto Marion's tunic as he leaned over her. "But even if you manage to get away from me and reach the door, what makes you think you'll get past the soldiers waiting to drag you back in here?" He smiled mockingly down at her enraged face. "Or would you rather I had one of them hold you down while I do the deed? Would you truly prefer an audience?"

She froze at those words, staring up at him as her face went from flushed with rage to pale with sudden terror. Oh no, he wouldn't…surely he didn't mean…but he did, she saw it his eyes, the desire and rage, watched as he licked his lips in anticipation, cursed him with every fiber of his being as he bound her hands together, dragged them back up over her head and fastened them to something she couldn't free herself from no matter how hard she struggled.

With her hands secured, Gisburne turned his attention once more to her clothing, shoving her tunic up over her head so it tangled around her upper arms. When that effort exposed the bindings that supported her breasts and kept them from bouncing painfully when she ran, he muttered a curse and snatched up her dagger, slicing through the fabric while Marion continued to fight him as best she could.

But there was no escape, although she sent out frantic prayers, pleas and threats to God, Herne, and anyone else that might be listening, pleas for help, for Gisburne to drop dead where he knelt above her, for anything, anything that might spare her the horrors to come.

No such aid materialized. Gisburne fell upon her, but not because death had struck from above, only to place greedy lips on her exposed breasts, nipping them painfully while he shoved her skirts up above her waist and went to work cutting away the rest of her underclothing and exposing her nether regions to the loathsome touch of his insistent fingers.

She nearly screamed then, but bit her tongue and held it in, grimly determined to stop this from happening…and knowing, deep in her heart, how futile a determination that was. Still, it wasn't in Marion of Leaford to submit passively to fate. By God and Herne, Gisburne wouldn't be allowed to take her without a fight. Glaring at his face as he raised himself over her and fumbled with one hand at his trousers, she spat at him.

Although she missed his face, the spittle landing harmlessly on his tunic shoulder, his face blackened with rage and he raised a fist, smashing the side of her head almost hard enough to knock her out. She could hear the inadvertent cry that she made as the blow landed, but was too dazed to do more than blink in an attempt to regain the focus in her eyes. For a brief moment there were two Gisburnes in front of her. As if one wasn't bad enough, she thought with a sudden burst of hysteria, and clamped down tightly on the laugher that threatened to overwhelm her. Laughter that would quickly turn to sobs, and she would never allow Gisburne to see her weeping.

As she fought to recover from the blow to her head, the ringing in her ears was replaced by first the incongruous notes of a bird singing somewhere outside, then the noises Gisburne was making: the panting of his eager breath, the sound of his shoes being kicked off his feet, the whisper of clothing as he slithered out of his trousers and tossed his tunic over his head to lie, helter-skelter, wherever it fell.

When he was completely naked, he reached down and stroked greedy fingers down her body from breast to private parts as she flinched away from his unwanted touch. "I've long wondered how it would be to lie between your legs, Lady Wolf's Head," he said in a voice thickened by lust. "Let's find out, shall we?"

She continued to fight him as best she could, tasting blood on her lips from Gisburne's blow, threatening him with her eyes, kicking out when he temporarily freed one leg as he shoved his knee between hers. But the blow landed harmlessly against his thigh, and he had the gall to laugh at her as he thrust into her with a grunt of satisfaction.

He used her ruthlessly, more than once, and each time she prayed would be the last. But instead of leaving her or dragging her off to Nottingham, he would merely roll onto his side, one leg covering both of hers to keep her pinned in place, until enough time had passed for him to be ready again. And again. After the third time she fell into a kind of stupor, losing track of the world around her as her vision grayed and numbness finally, mercifully, settled over her body.

After an unknown amount of time had passed, a backhanded slap roused her, and she found she'd been freed from her bonds and Gisburne's hateful body as well. He was resting on his haunches next to her, fully clothed once more, sword in hand as he contemplated her supine form.

She couldn't move. A sickening combination of shame and rage, coupled with a sudden return of pain, kept her limp and unmoving on the bed. She felt a trickle of fluids between her legs and knew without looking that blood was part of it.

Gisburne raised his free hand to her cheek. She flinched away from his touch, more a reflex than a conscious act, watching him through eyes dulled with pain and the beginnings of shock. In spite of her movement, his knuckles touched her cheek with the gentleness of a lover's caress. "I'll be waiting for him," he said with a gloating smile, and Marion didn't need to ask who "he" might be. "He'll be so blind with rage over this, he'll be easy prey." Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her unwilling lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth in a mockery of intimacy that left her stomach churning with nausea.

She hadn't even the strength of will to bite him or try to try and push him away, merely let him assault her mouth as he'd assaulted the rest of her body, then watched apathetically as he rose to his feet and headed for the door. He stepped over her bow and arrows as he pulled the door open, ignoring them as if inconsequential, and so they'd proven to be. Her dagger, however, he kept, ostentatiously tucking it into his boot before smiling and swaggering off, not bothering to close the door behind him.

When he was gone, when she was finally, mercifully alone, Marion curled into a tight ball of misery and wept.

Gisburne

"Finished, my lord?"

Gisburne glanced over his shoulder at the door he'd just closed, a satisfied smile on his face. "Oh, yes," he replied to the leering question the soldier had asked. "Quite."

He strode to his horse and swung himself briskly into the saddle, trying not to wince at the tenderness between his legs. He'd not bedded a wench with such ferocity—not to mention frequency—in far too long, and would no doubt be feeling the results of his…enthusiasm…for several days. Ah well, a small price to pay for the satisfaction he'd gained. And once Marion crawled back to her Wolf's Head lover and his men and told them what had happened….Gisburne's smirk broadened into a gloating smile. Huntington would react as any outraged lover would, without thought of consequence, dashing off to avenge his greenwood whore, and be cut down like the worthless dog he was.

The anticipation of that moment was almost as satisfying as the afternoon he'd just spent reminding the Lady Marion of a woman's place in the world.

He sneered as he urged his horse into an easy canter once they cleared the woods and made for the road to Nottingham. That whore had no doubt spread her legs for every one of Huntington's filthy outlaws by now, from the half-wit to the giant to the dark-skinned Saracen. No decent woman would run wild with a pack of men, and if she'd willingly given herself to two different men who called themselves Robin i' the Hood, then obviously she would let any man put his hands up her skirts.

A jolt as his horse stumbled over a loose patch of gravel brought his thoughts back to his current state of discomfort, and he forgot Marion as easily as he would have the face of an anonymous peasant in a crowd. Cursing under his breath with every step the miserable beast took, he spent the remainder of the journey home wishing desperately for a cool poultice and the warmth of his bed.

After all, he'd certainly earned his rest today.

A/N: What can I say, Sir Guy of Gisburne is my favorite Robin Hood baddie from this show, although the sheriff comes a close second. This is in spite of the bumbling idiot he was portrayed as, but in an on-going series, the writers have to jump through some pretty preposterous hoops to keep the villains alive and kicking from episode to episode. I've chosen to pretend that Gisburne actually does have a brain in his head, which probably makes this an alternate universe. Either way, I know I've done Bad Things to Marion again in this story, but I promise, things will get better. Eventually. R&R but please keep flames to yourselves; constructive criticism is always welcomed and PMs promptly responded to. Thanks for reading.