aut_nihil | (no subject)

"I'm all right," he says, and doesn't say 'son', not now. He can't think about Carver at all or this won't work.

He unzips himself and kneels on the bed beside Carver. Makes himself lay down.

Okay, Carver thinks, laying his hands flat on his knees. Trying to think, to force himself to move.

He shakes himself. He gets the little jar of lubricant and sets it closer, trying to fight back the tension. Knowing it must be worse for Pope. He can't drag it out. So, Carver runs a shaky hand through his hair and presses his hand on Pope's stomach.

"You want me to make it feel good?" he asks, very quietly.

It's probably easier to take if it hurts. But he can't risk being injured anymore than he can risk injuring Carver.

"Do what you do best," he grunts at him, and pulls him closer. They have a show to put on.

Carver leans in and just presses his forehead to Pope's, closing his eyes for a moment. Stalling just for a second, to take a breath. I trust you, Carver thinks, I always have, you kept me alive, you made me strong. And now it's his job to take care of Pope, to keep them both alive so they're not beaten to death or cut to ribbons in this goddamn hotel room.

So breathe, Carver orders himself. And get it done.

He keeps his forehead pressed to Pope's as he reaches for the lube and gets his fingers wet. As he then reaches down, smoothing his free hand over Pope's sides, his stomach, trying to keep both of them calm, and then between his legs. Pressing against him, rubbing circles to get him used to the idea, but not pressing inside yet.

His breath catches despite himself, because it doesn't feel bad but he's braced for the intrusion and he doesn't want this. He has to do this.

At least it's with Carver and not one of the men standing around them.

He breathes out and rests a hand against the back of Carver's head. Makes himself relax.

The first time Carver did this, any of this, was with Riley. They had time to figure it out when they weren't going at each other desperate and fumbling in the armory, both of them afraid they were going to get caught and drummed out. But after, on leave, they had time. They laughed and they figured it out, what felt good, how to take care of each other. It wasn't like this, forced and awkward, with the enemy looming.

Carver closes his eyes, nuzzling against Pope and praying the commander won't hit him for it. That this doesn't break the trust Pope has in them even though it violates the chain of command. He can feel how tense Pope is, how his breath catches and then how he forces himself to relax. Carver tries to be gentle, at least, to keep it from turning sharp or ugly. They can't afford more injuries.

This is just happening, Carver tells himself, and he presses a finger inside. Steady, and careful. He cups a hand to Pope's cock, not sure the commander can or even wants to get hard again, but maybe it'll make things easier.

It makes it feel like sex, at least. Like sex and not like something formal and ugly. He parts his legs a little more and ignores the way one of their captors whistles.

It doesn't hurt. It just feels strange, like an intrusion, and he tries to just go away in his head. Think of a place no one can touch him, a long beach in Vietnam he visited once where he felt peace for the first time in a long time.

Okay, Carver thinks, okay, at least it doesn't have Pope tensing up in pain. That's something, isn't it? Pope doesn't react to it much and Carver just breathes. He moves slow, curling his finger slightly, as he pulls back out and then presses in again. Trying to get Pope used to the sensation before he tries more, because there'll have to be more.

"Keep going," he says, a low growl meant just for Carver's ear which is so close to his mouth his lips brush it as he talks. It would be easier if this hurt but they can't afford to hurt him.

“Yes, sir,” Carver murmurs, keeping his eyes closed. It’s been a while since he’s fucked anyone completely sober. He doesn’t want to enjoy it but there’s something heady about the way Pope lowers his voice. How he spread his legs as Carver fingers him. Like it’s something genuinely wanted, and not forced on them.

He presses back in, angling up and rubbing gently for the spot that’ll make it feel better. He has a feeling Pope won’t know how to react to this.

He very much doesn't. Carver's fingers stretch and probe and then, there, a flash of pleasure that makes his back arch. He doesn't necessarily want this to feel good but now that it does he wants Carver to do it again.

There it is. Carver takes a slow breath, opening his eyes to watch Pope. Part of him wants it to feel good, even though he knows that makes it harder. But no one really takes care of Pope, do they? Carver bumps his head against his commander’s, all quiet animal affection, and keeps going. Angles up and rubs gently, waiting until he feels Pope arch into it again before he adds another finger.

“Like that,” he murmurs, very softly. “Sir.”

Make it hurt, he wants to order Carver. He doesn't know what to do with the pleasure, what it says about him, what it means. He fists his hand in Carver's hair and holds him close.

"Give em a show," he mutters, that's all they have to do.

Carver just bows his head, breath catching a little as Pope holds him by the hair. It stings but it feels good at the same time. Something real.

"Yes, sir," he agrees, and he nuzzles against Pope briefly. Doesn't dare to kiss him. But he presses up, angling his fingers to make the stretch easier, and tries touching Pope's cock. Trying to make it good in the ways he knows how to. "Think you can take more?" he asks quietly, just for them. Trying so hard to forget the others watching.

He grunt softly at the touch; he's almost too sensitive, it makes him shudder, but it's a shock to his system and he welcomes it.

"I can take it," he says. "Do it."

He doesn’t ask again. Just bumps his head against Pope’s, steadying himself, maybe steadying both of them as he pulls back for more lube. The enemy isn’t rushing them this time, not yet. He’s careful as he presses back inside, fucking Pope slow and steady. Feeling the way he shuddered when Carver touched his cock and so Carver does it again. Rubbing against the head, allowing himself to imagine—just for a moment—that this is something wanted. That maybe they never knew each other before and it’s just a moment, and it can feel good.

He presses a third finger inside and angles up. Feels himself getting hard as he does it. Wondering what Pope will be like when Carver has to fuck him. Whether he’ll stay this stoic, and quiet.

He asked for this. He wanted this. This is better than them gangraping Carver, or himself.

Put on a show, he tells himself, don't let this make you angry. That's what they want, your anger, your indignation.

He strokes Carver's hair, hums a little encouragement. Moves his hips so his cock rubs against Carver's hand.

It’s quiet, mostly. Pope doesn’t say anything this time, doesn’t make much noise at all except to hum a little as he strikes Carver’s hair. Operator hair, Carver thinks, because he’s been letting it grow out and they’re in the field enough that no one cares. He shivers a little, stroking Pope’s cock. Just a little. He doesn’t know if Pope can come from this, or wants to. It’s just happening.

Carver shivers a little. But he reaches down and undoes his own belt. Thinks Pope’s as relaxed as anyone could be for something like this. “You wanna be on your back?” he asks quietly, very quietly. “Or ride me?”

It won’t be a choice much longer if the enemy insists, forces them.

"On my back." If he's going to be vulnerable he'd rather feel something solid at his back, something other than the eyes of their enemies. "You do what you have to do."

Carver swallows hard, pressing his forehead to Pope's. "I'm yours, sir," he promises, very softly. "Always."

No matter what happens. But he's quiet as he settles between Pope's legs, as he presses inside and takes a shuddering breath at the heat, and pressure.

This is meant to break them, humiliate them. He won't let it. Goddammit he will not.

It hurts and he takes it with a growl, tensing up but that makes it worse, breathing in hard to make himself go slack again.

Carver holds as still as he can, pressing his forehead to Pope’s. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispers, miserable and wanting in the same breath because it feels good. He wants to fuck Pope until he gasps and lets go but he holds, and reaches down to stroke Pope’s cock to try and make it better, easier to take.

Carver is capable of causing so much pain to people; Pope knows. He trained him to hone that sadism, to put it to work. And here Carver is being gentle, taking it slow, and he needs that as much as he'd rather have this hurt than feel good.

He settles and then he moves, coaxing Carver to move in him, and this is wrong and he hates every man in this room and he's going to make them all pay but first he has to get Carver and himself out. So he brings up a leg, hooks it around Carver, moves his hips again.

It’s easier when Pope makes the first move, hooks a leg over him, and Carver just groans and puts his mouth against Pope’s neck. He doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t dare, but he bites ever so lightly as he starts to work his hips. To match the hesitant rhythm that Pope sets and to find that angle that made Pope groan before. It’s easier to pretend if it feels good.

Teeth against his throat. Good, he thinks, he can focus on that point of pressure even if it's not hard enough yet to leave a mark. He told Carver to put on a show and the kid is, and he curves his back and-

A low moan. That, that feels good, if Carver can just keep that angle and this steady pace, he'll make it through this.