For a moment, there's just pressure. A distant sort of pain and an ache deep inside him as someone else takes him, hurts him, makes him small. He's filthy now, Carver thinks, disgusting and small, making small sounds and trying to hide his face against the mattress. He stinks like come and he's scared, deep down, that they're going to keep him like this. That it won't end.

They've made him come twice now. They made Pope watch.

There's someone else behind him now. Holding him. Something -

Morse code.

Carver's breath hitches. He almost sobs when Pope's inside him but he holds, he bows his head and takes a ragged breath, and if he shivers, he doesn't fight. He holds as still as he possibly can.