(no subject)

[aut_nihil]

Pope doesn't go on as many missions as he once did. But he sees trouble brewing in the future, in the solo orders Carver was given, and he can't stomach staying behind when Carver might face the worst alone.

So he defies his own orders and he goes with Carver.

And things go sideways. They're outnumbered despite his best efforts and his warnings, and they're gathered up, hoods on their heads, arms tied behind their backs.

Carver's strong though. They're going to make it through this. He's going to get them through this.

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[fortitudosalutis]

Things go tits up. Carver works at the bounds silently, slowing his breathing down and trying to center himself. Figure out where the fuck they've been taken. They're inside, he knows. He can feel carpeting digging into his knees. The plus kind, maybe the hotel kind. It doesn't smell like shit or rust, either, so not a warehouse. Whether that's good or not, he can't tell. They haven't been killed yet, either way. But the enemy has Pope and that's not fucking good.

Might mean there's gonna be questions soon. An interrogation.

The bag's yanked off his head. Carver hisses, pulling away, and gets backhanded for his trouble. The world blurs, his head whipping to the side. But it is a hotel room. A fancy one. He works at the zipties, trying to work his laces loose.

A man in a ski mask crouches in front of them, yanking the bag off of Pope's head as well. Then, almost matter of factly, he takes Carver by the hair and wrenches his head back.

"You're not the boss," the man observes, tightening his grip hard enough that Carver's eyes water. "That one is. But you fucked up a whole lot of my guys. That hurts my feelings, soldier."

[aut_nihil]

Pope is on his knees, toes engaged like he was taught, like he taught his men, and he looks at Carver. Looks at him and is not afraid, Goddammit, he won't show a single nerve to these people.

"Shame your men weren't worth a damn in the field," he drawls, hoping to bring attention onto himself and off of Carver.

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver grunts, snickering at the enemy, refusing to bow or flinch. There are three others in the room, tall men with ski masks. All of them armed with pistols. That’s interesting, Carver thinks, that’s interesting, maybe they don’t plan on killing us just yet. They care about their faces being seen.

“Not my fault you hired bitches,” Carver shoots back, unrepentant.

The enemy yanks Carver’s hair, nearly tearing it out at the root. He seems to be the leader and his eyes are a bright, vibrant blue. “Get him up,” he orders the others. “We’re going to have some fun. You—“

And he looks to Pope, sneering.

“You get to watch, motherfucker.”

One of the others grabs Carver’s shoulders, hauling him back as he thrashes and kicks. He’s not beaten, though. They toss, kicking and snarling, onto the fancy goddamn bed.

[aut_nihil]

"Amateur hour," Pope barks, and laughs. Inside he's raging. "You think that will soften us up? We don't break. Not for soft limp dicks like yours."

[fortitudosalutis]

We don’t break, Pope snarls, and the words echo like a drumbeat in Carver’s mind. We don’t break, we don’t break, we don’t break. One of them grabs him by the hair again, wrenching his head back for another backhand. It’s hard this time, splitting his lip, and leaving him reeling just long enough for the others to flip him onto his belly. Pinning him down.

Carver snarls, thrashing, and gets his face shoved into the mattress.

“We’ll see, won’t we,” the leader replies mildly. “We’re gonna have some fun first, and then we’ll talk terms.”

[aut_nihil]

"Don't even fight, Carver. They aren't worth the effort." And he needs Carver to have strength to fight after. "They probably can't even keep it up long enough to do shit."

He spits off to the side, derisive. "Bunch of amateurs."

[fortitudosalutis]

“I take that personally,” the leader drawls, but there’s an undercurrent of real anger there. Embarrassment, maybe. And then there’s a man on top of Carver, grinding against him. Bearing him down hard.

Carver twitches, fighting to get his breathing under control. He’s been beaten before. Pistol whipped. But this—

Don’t think about it, Carver orders himself. Don’t think about it, as someone works his belt open. Don’t think about it.

The leader shifts. Crouching down in front of Pope. “You like this one,” he observes. “That’s sweet. Think he’ll beg?”

[aut_nihil]

"My boy won't say a word except to mock your limp dick," Pope snarls back and hopes Carver takes that as an order. Just go away in your head, he wills him silently. Just like I taught you. Get through this. They can't hurt you. Not really.

[fortitudosalutis]

“Your boy, huh?”

There’s something almost smug in the leader’s tone then. Something mocking as the others work Carver’s pants down, as they lay hands on him. Pinching and dragging their hands, one of them taking Carver by the jaw. Touching his mouth even as he snarls and tries to bite.

“Well,” the leader murmurs. “Let’s play a game, then. I bet my guys can slut your boy out. I got time and all sorts of tools. Shit you wouldn’t believe, my man. Or…”

There’s laughter. Low and mocking.

“Maybe you show us how it’s done, old man.”

[aut_nihil]

"No."

But he sees them not holding Carver as tight. Sees the attention turning, even if it's not how he hoped. "Go fuck yourselves."

[fortitudosalutis]

"Mhmm. C'mon, old man. On your feet."

The leader hauls Pope up. Brings him to the edge of the bed, right by Carver's face, and Carver jerks, breathing hard. The man on top of him is hard, no matter Pope's talk about limp dicks and not giving them a damn thing except mockery.

"Talk your boy through it," the leader suggests. "I got time to break him in real good. Give everybody a turn."

Carver hisses, jerking, and the man on his back shoves his face down into the mattress again, hard enough that he can't take a full breath.

[aut_nihil]

"We don't break," he tells Carver. "Fortitudo Salutis." They find God in the pain.

And there will be pain. A kind he didn't adequately prepare Carver for because how could he ask his men and women to do this to each other?

And that's on him. He'll own that. He'll get Carver through this.

"Focus on my voice, son."

[minuteofangle]

"Fortitudo salutis," Carver hisses, even as someone takes him by the hair again, mashing his cheek into the mattress so there's nowhere to look but right at Pope, no way to predict what's about to happen except for the inevitability of it all, and the cold, clammy hands forcing his legs apart. He watches Pope, who's more like his father than any blood relation, and tries to slow his breathing. To stop himself from flinching and just grit his teeth as an enemy grinds their dick against him and then forces their way inside.

It hurts. It feels like he's been split in half and he takes a shuddering breath, flinching when someone slaps him on the thigh.

"God, you're fucking tight," one of them grunts. "Relax. Tell him to relax, old man, or this won't be any fun at all."

[aut_nihil]

"We don't break," he says softly. "You are stronger than this. Stronger than anything these fuckoffs know to do. I've trained you for everything you need to survive."

Please stay strong, he thinks. Please let everything he's taught be enough.

"I'm right here."

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver's been fucked before. Bent over a bed and railed until he cried out, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise. He likes it, sometimes. Not always. He likes it with Riley, his sometimes man, and he's liked it a time or two with strangers he meets in bars and never exchanges more than passing moments with. It's good, a thrill, it settles him down.

This is something else. This is a wrenching, ugly pain different from any test that Pope's put him through. Carver tries to slow his breathing, to control himself, ride it like a wave and just go away, but he can't. He's watching Pope, twitching and biting back small sounds, trying to breathe when everything this fucker on top of him does knocks the air from his lungs. It hurts, but there's a curl of pleasure underneath it, with how he's being ground into the mattress and how the man gets an arm around him, hitching Carver's hips up for a better angle and that has him stiffen, eyes going wide in something close to panic because it feels good.

It feels good, and he doesn't want it to.

"Your boy's a stoic one," the leader observes. "But I bet we can work on that. How many do you think he take, old man?"

[aut_nihil]

"Not as many as I can," Pope snarls. He fixes his gaze on Carver. "You've got this, son. They can't break you. You're stronger than their whole pathetic army."

He'd take this pain for Carver if he could.

[fortitudosalutis]

"You're lucky we're just fucking him," the leader replies mildly. "There's all kinds of shit we could do to a handsome bitch like him. He's your favorite, isn't he?"

Carver shudders as he's fucked. His shoulders ache, his wrists throbbing. Pain is a teacher, the kindest and most generous of them all. Pain is a teacher and this a lesson and it will make him stronger for enduring it. The man hunches over him, making a guttural sound as he comes. Carver stiffens, closing his eyes as he's slapped on the ass. At the sounds he hears. The laughter and the filth.

Someone else lines up behind him. Trailing their fingers through the mess and then pressing inside as Carver tightens his jaw, trying not to move as he's fingered. But this one's different, laughing a little as he searches out the right angle. As he makes Carver jerk and twist under him, fighting pleasure instead of just wrenching pain. "Sir--" he hisses, unmoored.

"I bet he'd cry if we put a vibrator inside him," the leader muses. "We could keep him like that for hours. Think he'd still be stoic then?"

[aut_nihil]

"He won't break," Pope says with utter conviction. "You can try every weak ass trick you've got, he won't cry for you."

Carver won't. He won't. Pope trained him better. Did his damndest to teach Carver not to break and he sees his face right now, unbroken. He can't reach out to touch him but he wishes he could.

"You're doing it right, son," he tells Carver. "You're doing me proud."

[fortitudosalutis]

He won't, Pope promises, sounding so goddamn sure. He won't break. You're doing me proud.

Carver takes a shallow breath, grinding his cheek against the mattress. He tells himself it only hurts. That the body reacts to stimuli regardless of what the brain thinks and that's kind of interesting, scientifically. How all those data points converge.

But the enemy behind him keeps fingering him and another works a hand underneath him, touching his cock, and -

Carver twitches, closing his eyes tight. No, he thinks, but you don't say that during a test. You just take it. They make him come like that, twitching and hurting, a stranger's hand tight in his hair. Holding him down while Pope watches.

"Good boy," one of them coos, mocking, and then he's being mounted. Gasping as he's fucked through it, raw and overstimulated, and this time he can't help but thrash.

[aut_nihil]

"You think that breaks him! You're nothing to him!" Pope roars, watching all of this and fighting his own bonds. "You're less than a cheap whore to him! Think of every dirty face you've fucked, Carver, they're less than that."

[fortitudosalutis]

It's different this time. A raw edge, a blade scraped against his nerves. Too much. It's almost like drowning the first time, when the pain really sets in and the body starts to realize the danger. When you thrash and thrash and all you can do is suffer and choke. He's gasping now, eyes screwed shut, trying to listen to Pope's voice when all he wants to do is disappear. Too much, he thinks, too much. Pope's shouting now, saying things, trying to make the enemy small, but they're just fucking him. Holding him down, making him filthy.

Don't cry, Carver tells himself, don't you fucking cry, but he's gasping. Trying to muffle the noise against the mattress as the man behind him goes harder, jerking into him, calls him a slut and then comes with a strangled curse.

"Your boy looks good when he's fucked," the leader snickers. There's the sound of a belt clicking. "He's gonna remember me when we're done."

[aut_nihil]

"No he won't," Pope snarls. "The only voice he's thinking of is mine. Every cock you bring is just proof he's right."

He wants to reach out and his hands are bound behind his back.

"He doesn't know you, he only knows me."

[fortitudosalutis]

"I think we're gonna test that," the leader grunts, climbing into the bed and putting his hands on Carver's hips. Digging his nails in hard. "What'd you think, kid?"

Carver shudders. He can't hide it this time, the way he flinches when the leader presses inside him.

The leader grabs him by the hair again, hauling his head up. "Asked you, mhmmfuck, a question."

Carver twitches, sweating and overstimulated, overwhelmed. He swallows hard. "What?"

"Your CO says you only know him. Wanna test that, boy?" The leader bites him on the side of the neck and Carver stiffens, fighting back a groan. It hurts. Everything hurts now. "I'm gonna put your boss in a line with my boys, and they're all gonna get a turn on you. Shhh, don't flinch, you're doing so good. Good boy. Now, I'm gonna blindfold you, much as it hurts me, and we're gonna play a game. You tell me which of those fine motherfuckers was your boss, then you're done."

The leader laughs and lets go of his hair. Carver slumps down, unfocused, trying to meet Pope's eyes.

"Easy, right? But you try and talk to him, CO, you try and signal him, and I'll mess that pretty face of his up so bad everyone will know what a slut he is. Doubt he'll be your favorite then. What'd you say?"

[aut_nihil]

He'll probably be last in line anyway. They'll probably fuck Carver over and over and over before putting Pope in the line.

"He'll know," he says with a confidence he doesn't really feel. But Carver would have to know, wouldn't he? Who loves him and who doesn't?

[fortitudosalutis]

The leader laughs, jerking into Carver and slapping on the ass. That time, Carver barely reacts, just bits his lip and presses his cheek into the sheets. He barely fights as one of the others tears a strip of blanket from the bedding and forces it over his face. Sending the world dark.

Things blur. Someone eventually cuts the zipties on his hands, threatening him with a knife if he tries to get him, to fight, but there's already a man inside him, fucking him hard and bearing him down as the others bind Carver's hands in front of him. Better on your shoulders, they jeer. And that way they can force him to push himself up onto his forearms, take it different, deeper. He tries to count, to mark details about who fucks him and how, but it all blurs. If he focuses too hard on certain details, he starts to panic and they shush him, stroking his hair almost kindly, and that's worse.

He goes quiet after a while. Barely there. He doesn't react much at all when Pope's hands are untied, and he's forced onto the bed.