"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."