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?"