aut_nihil | (no subject)

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.

There, Carver thinks, and he bites Pope a little harder, groaning softly. He can hear Pope’s breath as he exhales, as he arches into it. Bending to the pleasure. There’s something heady in that, something that twists in Carver’s gut as he fucks this man.

He braces his hand on the mattress by Pope’s head and fucks him a little harder, grinding against that spot. You feel good, sir, he almost says, and just makes a small sound against Pope’s throat.

He isn't supposed to like this. It was shameful enough feeling good fucking Carver, bad enough that he got off on it, but this?

But there's a blinding pleasure building the more Carver takes him and he throws his head back and just takes it for a few beats. He's hard against Carver's stomach again and isn't that a sick little miracle?

He kisses Carver's neck blindly, bites down on his shoulder, fighting how good this is.

Oh, fuck. Carver closes his eyes, breath coming harder. He's not thinking of Riley even though he had it in his back pocket just in case. The enemy wants a show but this feels almost too real, the way that Pope reacts to it. How Carver can feel him getting harder, rubbing against Carver's stomach. Biting at his neck.

Carver groans at the pressure and just fucks him harder. "I got you," he murmurs, and he softens the bite he left on Pope's neck with a kiss. "It's okay."

You can let go.

He jerks, coming again, momentarily losing track of everything else in the world. It's not supposed to be like this, he wants to snarl.

He keeps holding onto Carver, one hand in his hair, the other on Carver's hip.

He feels it when Pope comes and fucks him through it, hissing against Pope's throat and biting him once more before finishing. He presses his forehead to Pope's with a groan, holding very still. Trying to breathe with him.

His instincts rail against this. He wants to get to his feet, wants to fight and scream and claw his way out of this room.

He can't. Not yet. So he breathes. Stays down, stays still. "You passed," he tells Carver. It's over. For now.

Carver draws back just enough to meet Pope's eyes, and nod. Solemn and sober. The commander never lies, never bullshits, so this is just the way the world is now. There was a test, but he passed. Fuck the enemy.

He pulls out, shifting to protect Pope if needed. Wary of the enemy.

The leader hums. Head tilting one way, then the other. "Well. Was that fun?"

"I always wondered what you people got out of it," he tells the leader, glowering at him. "Now I know."

The leader laughs at that, flashing very white teeth. "Oh, was he that good? Gosh."

The others snicker. Carver holds very still, expression blank.

"Really wasn't sure you had it in you," the leader adds almost thoughtfully. "But you came twice. That's fun. Mhmm. Bet you're all tuckered out now. And you were good, both of you. Maybe you've earned a little break before we come back."

He doesn't know what it will be like to be alone with Carver after this. He dreads it.

But he stares at the leader, unwavering, like he could take another fucking if they want it, no big deal.

"When we come back," the leader muses, "one of you's gonna have a whole lot of fun with all my guys. The other gets to watch. You'll be picking, Pope."

The others laugh again. And then they're alone.

Carver holds very still. Barely breathing. "Sir?" he murmurs.

He breathes out hard. He needs Carver healthy; Carver is the better fighter.

"How are you holding up, son?" He asks, stalking away from Carver, needing space even though he also needs an update, needs to know what he's working with.

He bows his head and doesn't move. Just holds very still and fixes his gaze on the horizon line, barely breathing.

"I'll live," he replies softly. Then he clears his throat and forces himself to speak clearer. To articulate. "I'm hurt, but it's easier to move now. Are you - ?"

Carver hesitates.

"Are you okay, sir?"

He's worrying Carver, he thinks, and makes himself turn to face him.

"I'm fine," he says, and he is. He wasn't brutalized like Carver was. "You didn't hurt me. You...you did good, son. You pulled it together."

He can't let them get to him. Can't let them win the way they think they can, by wearing them down one humiliation at a time.

It’s what you have to say, isn’t it? That you’re fine? That it was nothing?

He shivers. Wonders if Pope hates him now. “I’ll take it when they come back. You don’t have to, sir.”