Archive of Our Own

It's later than usual when the dungeon doors give their ominous cry announcing someone is coming. The pain in Hank's face has dulled to a low, persistent throb. He feels it speed up as footsteps approach. Tension runs down Connor's spine. The urge to reach out, comfort him, tell him it's going to be okay gnaws at Hank's viscera.

But he doesn't. It won't be.

Usually Connor is collected by two guards at most, and Hank is reasonably sure that at least one of them is there to make sure Hank himself doesn't try anything stupid. Connor usually goes quietly, like a man with the fight beaten out of him. He'd even had Hank fooled for a little while.

The thought of that grate in the interrogation chamber flashes across Hank's mind. It had taken two of them to control Connor. If Hank can cause enough of a distraction that should give him the chance he needs.

There are too many boots. Hank spares Connor a sidelong glance and catches the alert worry in his expression. They couldn't have figured out Perkins was a false lead already, could they?

A familiar face comes into view, flanked by two even more familiar guards. Hank sees Connor straighten by a minute degree. His own stomach ties itself into an ever tighter knot.

“How the mighty have fallen.”

Her voice is smooth, although her hair is duller and more lank than Hank is used to seeing. Her eyes aren't on Connor. Hank meets cold blue ones with his own, and knows she sees the same lack of warmth in him. “Rosanna,” he acknowledges, his voice rough and thick with pain and his own earlier screams. His throat feels as if it's been scraped raw when he speaks.

In the corner of his vision he sees the movement from Connor. His attention snaps to Hank. Hank does his best to ignore it.

“Lady Cartland,” Connor begins.

“Shut up,” she snaps, and then gives a soft sigh of pleasure. “I've always wanted to say that.”

Connor straightens, and does as he's told. Hank knows it's for the best. He'll find no allies with this one. He wonders if Connor had known already.

“To your father, at least,” she continues. Her hands rest on her hips. She looks like a mercenary, not a lady, dressed in breeches and thick boots like the men behind her. “But he's dead, so you have to pay for his crimes instead.”

Connor's throat works, a thick swallow making his Adam's apple rise and fall in his throat. He doesn't say anything else.

“What did you come here for, Rosanna?” Hank asks, wearily. She hasn't come for nothing, and wherever she's come from, it looks like she was doing something more important than telling the heir apparent to shut his yap.

Her attention fixes solely on Hank now. It sends needles across his skin. Rosanna Cartland is much more dangerous than she appears. She couldn't beat most men hand to hand, but she didn't need to. It was no secret that she'd been the brains behind her husband's successes in King Kamski's wars.

“I got word that you'd been arrested, Hank,” she answers, plainly, with a gentleness that does little to conceal the dangerous hook in the words. “People think you've turned traitor. Gone soft. After Cole, I didn't believe it.”

The mention of Cole's name drags claws down Hank's spine. Every inch of his skin draws tight. He's being offered an out. He can prove his loyalty to the cause and walk out of this cell. That's what Rosanna came here for.

“Don't say his name,” he replies, his voice cracking. He can barely bring himself to say that name and Rosanna says it too easily. He realises the nails of his unbandaged hand are digging into his palm. He forces himself to uncurl his fingers slowly.

A small flash of sympathy crosses Rosanna's face. It makes Hank want to slap her. “It was the royal family that took him from you,” she continues, regardless. “Just like they took my family.” Her mouth twitches with that smile again, but the sympathy rings hollow and doesn't meet her eyes. “I know how you feel.”

Connor's fingers curl into the cloth of his stained and filthy breeches. His head hangs, but Hank can still see the downturn of his mouth. There's more pain in that glimpse of his expression than there is real sympathy in Rosanna's. God, the kid really had no idea, did he? All those smarts and he'd been kept so fucking blind. It makes Hank wonder how much the King had really known too. And the Queen, had she deserved death for being married to him?

Connor sure as shit didn't deserve any of this for the crime of ignorance.

“I doubt that,” he growls.

Rosanna gives a huff of laughter, but there's no amusement in it. Instead it's mocking. Scornful. “They're right, aren't they? Did it really only take brown eyes and a pretty face to make you forget?”

Anger burns in the pit of Hank's stomach. The fingers of his injured hand curl, and the pain that fires along his arm gives him something to focus on. “Connor didn't get your husband and son killed,” he grinds out. Connor hadn't got Cole killed either. His father had, however indirectly. The institution had, the world, the way things were and worked, that had got Cole killed. Everyone scrabbling for resources and wealth and land and power, fighting over it, hoarding it, that had got Cole killed.

But Connor? He was as much a victim of it as Cole.

“They'd still be alive if it wasn't for his family!” Rosanna shrieks, her arm colliding with the metal bar of their cell door. The sound and suddenness of the outburst sends a jolt through Hank, and he sees it send a jolt through Connor too. “He has to pay,” she adds, more calmly.

Hank squares his shoulders. “What they're doing to him is barbaric, Rosanna,” he says, trying to match her calmness. “You never would have allowed it before.”

Rosanna gives a shrug. “Soldiers need their comforts,” she answers, blithely. “Are you telling me you've never done it?”

Vomit crawls up Hank's aching throat. “No!” he snarls. “Never! I didn't lose my fucking conscience when my son died!”

The accusation stings her. Hank watches the way she rears back, as if his words land like the slap he wants to deliver.

“I fought to help this country!” he continues, his voice raised and rasping. “I fought because it was the right thing to do, but this?” He holds up his own bandaged hand, and then points at Connor, at the state of him, “this isn't justice, Rosanna, it's not even justified. This is just cruelty. The same cruelty you blame his family for.” His voice cracks, and Hank is forced to stop. Talking hurts. Shouting hurts more.

He glances sidelong at Connor. Connor's eyes are wide, eyebrows knitting together, and worry lines creasing his forehead. His mouth hangs open, as if he wants to say something. Hank snatches his gaze away. Connor doesn't speak. Maybe he doesn't dare in front of this audience.

“They're right,” Rosanna says, into the silence that follows, “you really have gone soft.”

It doesn't hurt. If anything it only pisses Hank off, but there's no point in wasting his energy fighting Rosanna Cartland from the inside of a grubby, disgusting cell. “Think what you like,” he mutters.

Silence hovers, thick and choking. Hank does his best to avoid looking too much at Connor. If they think Hank has gone soft and that hurting Connor will get at Hank, there's no telling what they might do. Could they do anything worse to him than they already have?

“I was going to let you out of this cell and have your revenge,” Rosanna says, distantly. Disappointment rests like a blanket over the words. “I thought you'd want the prince to know how much he's hurt you.”

Hank swallows the retort that burns in his aching throat. Connor has never hurt him. Hank has hurt Connor, though. Hank is the reason Connor's here, the reason Connor's brother is running for his life to Jericho.

“But if you'd rather show him mercy,” she says, with vicious delight edging into her tone. Hank looks up into her blue eyes again and realises that all the softness that used to be there is long gone. Rosanna's heart died when her family did. Hank had thought his had, too. “I'll let you.”

Hank feels Connor's eyes sliding to him again. Hank isn't sure where this is going either, but he already knows he's not going to like it.

“Do you want to be his first, or his last of the night?”

Hank's stomach rolls and sour bile burns its way up his throat. “Neither,” he spits. Every muscle in his body tightens. His bones feel like they might snap under the strain.

Rosanna's soft chuckle is malicious, and dangerous. “If you don't I'll toss him in the stables and let the horses have him too,” she says with a shrug. Her eyes are narrow as she glowers at Hank. “One of the mares is in season,” she adds. “The stallions could do with the outlet.”

The thought makes Hank's stomach roll again. “You wouldn't.”

Rosanna's smile is humourless, and cruel. “I think we've already established that you no longer know what I would or wouldn't do, Hank.”

“Lady Cartland, please?” Connor's rough voice cuts through the air, and Hank's attention snaps to him. He's risen up, hands on his knees, but his head bowed and his eyes squeezed tightly closed, like a supplicant begging for mercy. “I'll do anything you and your men wish. You don't need to bring him into this.”

“Connor--” Connor look across the cell at him, his brown eyes filled with apology, and the rest of Hank's protests die in his throat. Connor has already been put through so much, but he's prepared to be put through still worse if it'll spare Hank having to compromise his morals.

“Would you look at that,” Rosanna murmurs, in dim awe. “Zlatko was right; the little princeling really does care about you.”

Hank swallows tightly. Acid still scours his throat. Connor's face is pale, and his knuckles turn paler as he grips the cloth of his soiled breeches. Soiled with his own blood and the leavings of god knew how many men. He hasn't had a change of clothes since this began. They stand as a testament to what he's endured even as the bruises and bite marks have healed.

And now Rosanna promises worse.

“So be it,” she replies, gesturing with one hand to one of the guards. The man steps forward and unlocks the cell. The mechanism gives way with a metallic clang, and the door shrieks as it's dragged open. “If you're still alive after the horses are done with you, the dogs can have you too.”

Panic flashes across Connor's face, his eyes wide and his jaw dropping as the man reaches in and yanks at the tattered remains of Connor's shirt. Hank's heart leaps into his burning throat.

“Wait!”

Connor's feet trail behind him as he's dragged from the floor. His hands grasp at the guard's wrists. Hank hauls himself to his own feet as fast as he can. The room lurches and spins. The sound of Rosanna's laughter reaches his ears as he braces himself against the wall of their prison. “Changed your mind?”

Hank meets Connor's eyes. The guard keeps him suspended too low to get his own feet under him, and too high to still be kneeling. Connor shakes his head, the movement quick, and urgent.

Brown eyes stay locked with his, wide and desperate. “I'll go first,” Hank says. The words dry on his tongue and make his skin crawl.

Rosanna snorts. With a wave of her hand Connor is tossed like trash to the floor at Hank's feet. He sprawls on his hands and knees, and Hank crouches down to him. “He's all yours,” she commands.

“Hank,” Connor's voice is quiet and raspy. “You don't have to do this,” he insists, in a rush, “I can take it.”

“She'll kill you,” Hank whispers in return and he curls his good hand around Connor's bicep. That was the difference, wasn't it? The men, up to now, had just been using Connor for fun. He was something they tossed between them, ripping him to pieces bit by bit like a fox cornered by hunting hounds. But with Rosanna there was intent. She wanted more than his humiliation.

“She still might,” Connor answers, his hand covering the back of Hank's gently. Eyes the colour of fertile soil plead with him. “You don't have to be part of it.”

Hank forces himself to look away. “Swear on your son's memory you'll keep him alive,” Hank demands, “and whole.”

“You're not in a position to bargain, Hank,” Rosanna reminds him. “You're going to have to decide whether it's worth the chance that I'll keep my word.”

“Hank.” Connor's voice is quiet, and imploring. Hank looks back at him and finds Connor's brows furrowed in concern.

Concern for him. For his moral integrity. The thought makes Hank's stomach twist and knot. “I have to take the chance,” he apologises, quietly. If Hank lets Connor die the cruel ways Rosanna would have him, for the sake of his own virtue, then it isn't worth shit.

Connor's eyes close, and a frown paints his lips. It hurts to see. There's a part of Hank that has wanted this. He's thought about it, how he wants to take Connor for their first time together in a clean bed, gently, with oils to make it comfortable and so he can show Connor how it can feel. How it should feel. And he thinks Connor has wanted it, too. Hank's touch doesn't make him flinch. He falls asleep in the illusory safety of Hank's arms. They kiss, and Connor's hands rove over Hank's chest and back and shoulders as if he wants to touch, to be allowed to touch for his own sake.

That's being taken from them. Hank is being made a part of Connor's abuse, and his ability to make Connor feel safe and cared for in his arms is being ruined. Hank won't ever be able to touch Connor again and not think of this. Connor won't be able to escape it either.

But at least this way Connor might live.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, quietly, bringing his hand up to Connor's cheek and pressing his lips against his. Connor's jaw tightens under his hand as he swallows.

“So am I,” Connor replies, in a whisper. His deep brown eyes blink open. Hank finds himself trapped in them. He's heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Connor's looks right at him. It's gentle, and warm, and utterly resigned.

He leans in again, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are achingly soft against Hank's own chapped ones.

Laughter scratches across Hank's senses. A shiver runs through Connor as he flinches at the sound of mockery. “How adorable,” Rosanna sneers. “He actually likes you, Hank.”

Hank throws a poisonous look in her direction. When they get out of here, and they are getting out of here, he's going to chop off the hands and cocks of every man that touched Connor, and he's going to make Rosanna Cartland watch. She smiles at him, coldly, and turns to the man beside her, saying something Hank can't hear because Connor is speaking to him; “Pretend they're not there. Please?”

Hank forces himself to look away from her, back to Connor's earnest, concerned face. It's almost worse. He nods, guilt surging up inside him. “You should--” he begins, and then cuts himself off. “I'm gonna be as gentle as I can,” he promises.

A soft smile tugs at the corner of Connor's mouth, and Hank thinks he'd like Connor to look at him like that under different circumstances. Across the room at a ball, perhaps. Or while they're hunting on horseback together. It's just a little bit cocky. “I know,” he answers, quietly, as if he thinks it funny that Hank needs to say it.

It makes Hank's throat go tight. Maybe he can pretend that they're anywhere but here. He can imagine Rosanna hasn't waved a guard off, back through the door, and that there isn't a mocking audience intent on using their affection for each other to hurt them both.

He can try. That won't make it true.

“You should lie down,” he advises, as softly as he dares. Connor's eyes close in a slow blink before he nods.

He gets onto his back, on the dirty dungeon floor, knees up. His hands move to the fastenings of his breeches, undoing them swiftly. Hank can try to ignore a thousand things about the moment, from Rosanna's resumed malicious chuckling, to the iron bars, and the dull ache in his own mouth where he can still feel his pulse in the missing tooth Andronikov had claimed. But he can't ignore the faint tremble of Connor's hands as he works to bare himself for another assault.

Hank settles his warm, roughened palm over Connor's pale fingers, and Connor's hands still. He looks up at Hank, lips parted and brown eyes wide. Hank curls his fingers around Connor's hand and squeezes gently. After a moment, Connor squeezes back, and Hank sees an anxious breath leave him in a sigh.

He leans over Connor slowly, bracing his weight on the heel of his injured hand, which sends a sharp pain coursing up his arm. Hank can ignore that, too. He bends low over Connor, his eyes closing, and finds Connor's mouth with his own again.

Connor relaxes by degrees. His jaw loosens as he responds to the kiss, his tongue sliding forward to find Hank's. The exploration is slow, and sweet. Hank lets Connor take the lead, controlling the depth and pace. He lets go of Connor's hand, using his own to slide gently up over Connor's shirt, feeling out the taut plane of an underfed stomach, and the delicate prominences of ribs. He's not starving, neither of them are, but nor are they as well fed as they used to be. It makes it harder for them to fight back.

Hank remembers it taking two men to pin Connor down and smiles against Connor's mouth. He should be weaker. He should be broken. But he isn't. He's fucking extraordinary.

Hank breaks the kiss when he feels his own breath growing short. Connor looks up at him, deep brown eyes wide and alive as he looks into the depths of Hank's. His cheeks are tinged pink and for a moment, for a brief and beautiful moment, the dungeon and Rosanna and everything else about this is a thousand miles away. “You okay?”

Connor nods, licking his lips and swallowing.

“Get on with it.” The command is sharp, and shatters the spell. Connor glances sidelong towards Rosanna, and when he looks back at Hank the life in his eyes has dulled a little more. His hands go back to working at his breeches, pushing them off and baring himself to the room.

Hank doesn't look down, although he wants to. Instead he shifts his weight, holding himself low so that Connor's humiliation can't be seen by everyone. The rough stone of their cell digs at his knees and the heel of his hand, but he ignores it and presses another kiss to Connor's mouth.

Connor startles under him, tensing up like a rabbit about to flee. Hank goes still, his lips pressed to Connor's, his eyes closed. He wants to tell Connor that he'll give him all the time he needs, but he daren't say it aloud.

Connor relaxes again by degrees. His breath comes through his nose and rakes through Hank's beard. Hank responds by opening his mouth to Connor's, letting his tongue slip forwards. Connor meets it with his own, each touch tender and shy. Mocking laughter and voices try and break into Hank's awareness, but he fights to ignore them and keep his attention on Connor.

Connor's skin is warm and soft under his fingers. Hank touches him as lightly as he dares, tracking back and forth over the inside of Connor's thigh until he feels Connor unclench under him again. Every new touch makes his breath hitch, and Hank keeps kissing him, soft and sweet, trying to reassure him.

It's Hank's turn to twitch when Connor's hand finds its way beneath his shirt. Careful fingers graze across his belly and upwards, finding the hair at his chest. Hank breaks their kiss again, looking down into beautiful brown eyes he could get lost in. “Is this okay?” Connor asks, his warm palm pressing against Hank's stomach.

Hank nods. Connor wants to touch him. Maybe it gives him a feeling of a little more control if he can reciprocate. Maybe he just wants to keep reminding himself that this is Hank, that the hand growing ever closer to his cock is Hank's and not some brute intent on hurting him for their pleasure. “Yeah,” he answers, “of course.”

“--treating him like some maiden,” comes a scoff from their audience, followed by peals of laughter. Their audience mock, and jeer at Hank's slowness.

“That one's had more dick than a brothel!” heckles another voice. The truth of it stings Hank's heart. He's seen the aftermath, when Connor has returned to the cell filthy and bruised, clinging to his tattered pride and his soiled clothing.

“He's that run through it won't even touch the sides,” comments another, callous voice, prompting peals of laughter.

Connor's eyelids lower, breaking the intense eye contact. “Hey,” Hank says, quietly. Connor's eyes flicker back to his. “Forget about them.”

Connor's mouth flickers in a hopeless smile. His hand sinks into the hair at the back of Hank's neck and tugs him down again. Hank lets himself get lost in another long kiss. Connor's tongue laps gently against his own, the movements slow and probing, and Hank thinks he could spend an evening doing this with Connor. Just the two of them, lay on a rug of animal fur, in front of a fire, looking for each other's hearts with their mouths.

His palm finds Connor's flaccid dick, and Connor freezes up again, but he recovers faster this time. His fingers work their way into Hank's hair and through the pelt on his chest, and Hank feels him take another steadying breath and release it into the kiss. Hank lets his hand follow the curve of Connor's groin down, until his fingers find the abused pucker of his ass.

The flinch this time is more obvious. It gets another cruel laugh from their captors.

Hank stops. His fingers still against Connor. A shuddering breath escapes their kiss and then Connor's hands moves up his chest again. “It's okay,” he says, quietly, his lips moving against Hank's mouth. “I'm okay.”

A swell of self loathing breaks in Hank's chest and crawls up his throat, hot and bitter. Connor shouldn't be the one reassuring him, he should be the one trying to make Connor feel safe, and comfortable. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows it down. Get it the fuck together, Anderson. For Connor's sake.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, hoping their audience can't hear it. His lips brush against the corner of Connor's mouth as he shifts. “I'm gonna try and be gentle, okay?”

Connor's nod is minute, barely noticeable, but when Hank pulls back he finds those deep brown eyes staring directly into his heart, brimming with sorrow and trust. His soul feels thin under that gaze, like an over-washed shirt, fraying at the edges.

Hank forces himself to look away and brings his hand up to his mouth. It's hard to work up enough saliva. His mouth feels dry and useless, and his fingers taste foul when he sucks at them, covered in grime and sweat. He ignores it and keeps going, until the sour taste of his fingers fades and his skin feels slick.

A cut off whimper tears from Connor's throat when Hank touches him again, his eyes squeezing shut. His body locks up beneath Hank as Hank rubs the wet of his fingers against Connor's abused flesh. It's not enough. They're dry again too quickly. “Hey,” he murmurs, as cruel laughter at the way Connor flinches, like a beaten dog to a raised hand, echoes around the room, “look at me.”

Connor does, although Hank can see the effort it takes. He brings his fingers back and soaks them again, until his own spit is running down his palm. “You're gonna need to relax for me,” he advises. Fuck, it's been so damn long since he did this, anything like this. Not since Cole, a traitorous little memory provides. He's had lovers of convenience, men and women alike, in the course of his life, but Cole's mother--

He shelves the memory. It's bad enough that what he's doing now is tainting everything he'd wanted - or thought he might want - with Connor. He can't taint the past, too.

She'd been special. So was Connor. Neither of them deserved what happened.

Connor nods as Hank touches him again, and this time dares to ease the tip of his finger in. Connor's body resists, tightening, trying to keep him out. “Breathe, Connor,” Hank advises, keeping his eyes fixed on Connor's no matter how much it tears at the weakened threads of his heart. Connor's eyes are wet, rimmed with tears he's stubbornly trying to keep from falling, but Hank can see them, gathered at the corners and glistening in the candlelight.

Connor exhales, shakily, and the resistance vanishes. Hank's finger slips inside, and the meagre contents of Hank's stomach try to crawl up his throat. He's inside Connor. He has his finger inside him, violating him as intimately as every man stood by their cell, baying for his suffering.

The saliva still isn't enough. Hank can feel the way his skin drags, rough and cruel, against Connor's delicate, brutalised insides. He keeps his hand still as Connor's body twitches around him, tightening up again before relaxing once more. The look of concentration on Connor's face makes Hank's stomach churn further.

There's no way, Hank thinks, with a sickening lurch in his chest, that he can do this without hurting Connor. They need olive oil, or the white of egg, and time. Time for Hank to use his hands and his mouth and show Connor's body the affection he deserves. If he had the time to kiss every inch of Connor's skin until he was trembling with the pleasure of it, maybe then Connor could relax enough. If he had something slicker than his own spit, maybe he could make it easier.

But he doesn't. And he doesn't have time, either. He doesn't know how long he can make Rosanna and her boys wait for the show--

or for their turn.

“Hank?” Connor's voice rips him from his thoughts. Hank looks up to find a tear has escaped down the side of Connor's face, tracking through the grime and sweat.

Hank glances down again, at the space between himself and Connor, at his finger disappearing into Connor's body. He pulls it out slowly. “I don't know if I can do this,” he admits, quietly.

Connor's fingers brush over the tangled ends of Hank's hair and into his beard. “It's okay,” he says, quietly. “I can take it.”

Hearing that doesn't make it better. Hank's soul withers into a black and shrunken ball in response to those words. Connor's taken worse, much worse, and that makes Hank feel so many things. Angry. Hurt. Useless.

He shakes his head. “That's--” he begins, “I mean--” and then he gestures vaguely towards his own groin. “I don't know if I can do this,” he says again, a little more pointedly.

He can't get hard. The thought of hurting Connor is enough to make his dick shrivel. Even if he could get it up, there's no possible way he could keep it up when he can see the tears in Connor's eyes.

A new ripple of laughter runs through the braying audience. “The old man's too soft!” cries one voice. The same one that had called Connor run through. Hank is starting to be able to tell them apart.

Sadistic laughter peals, but one voice rips through, commanding and cold. “If you can't perform,” Rosanna says, “somebody else can have him.” She gestures to one of her men, one of the only ones that isn't laughing, and he moves forward like a cat with cornered prey.

“No!” Connor's voice is sharp, and firm. Hank feels the instruction arc down his spine. There's a lifetime of royalty and command at the back of that voice. It's a voice that doesn't know how not to be obeyed. It disappears in an instant, replaced with the gentler, placating voice he's grown used to. “Give him a chance.” Hank only realises the hand that had been against his chest had moved when it presses back again, this time over his shirt, and he meets Connor's eyes as he says, “I know what will help.”

“Connor,” Hank begins, but Connor cuts him off.

“Trust me.” The hand against Hank's chest pushes, and Hank leans back. Connor scrabbles out from underneath him, hurrying because of the threat inherent in the impatiently waiting eyes. The disgusted sneer from the man Rosanna had ushered in lingers at the periphery of Hank's vision as Connor pushes him back, onto his heels.

Urgent hands go to the fastenings of his breeches. Hank snatches at them. “Connor,” he repeats. Connor's wrists feel fragile as bird bones under his hands and he loosens his grip.

Connor looks up at him, slowing in his fervour. “It's okay,” he says, in a whisper. “I want to.”

The words make Hank's brain stutter. Connor wants to. Wants to what? Does he want this? Sex with Hank? Or maybe he wants to help, whatever helping means.

Connor unfastens Hank's breeches, and then pushes him further back until he's lying back against the grimy stone floor of their cell. The filthy straw and blanket that makes up their bed catches in Hank's hair as Connor, focused on his task, spreads Hank's legs, and then bends between them.

Oh.

Cheers and insults erupt from their audience. Hank hears comments about how it's the only thing Connor's mouth is good for, and how eager he is for this one. Hank's soft dick is salted with gentle kisses, as if it's something precious. A soft, wet tongue drags across the tip and sends sparks through Hank's hips.

“Fuck,” he hisses. It feels good. It shouldn't feel good. Connor's mouth is delicate and sweet as he lavishes attention on Hank's dick. Hank dares to look down, across the expanse of his own chest and gut to find Connor's eyes locked on his as he presses a gently sucking kiss to the tip of Hank's cock. It's a view Hank has only witnessed in his most sordid dreams, when he'd woken up wracked with guilt and Connor draped across his chest, safe in his arms.

He swallows. His throat feels tight. So does his groin. Connor's eyes don't leave his as he opens his mouth, tongue sliding softly forwards to cover his teeth. The tip of Hank's dick settles on that plush, pink tongue and then disappears into the cavern of Connor's mouth.

Connor blinks, slowly, as if he doesn't want to do this without seeing who he's doing it to. Hank can't help the groan that builds in his chest and rumbles in his throat. His fingers twitch to reach for Connor's hair. Instead he fists his hand by the side of his hips.

The movement is slow. Connor's mouth grows tighter as blood fills Hank's cock, swelling it. The soft, yielding warmth is intoxicating and for a moment, for a brief moment, nothing exists but Connor's eyes and his mouth and the lush pleasure between them. Connor's lips are stretched around Hank's cock and he looks, for a brief moment, happy.

“His mouth's the best part.”

The illusion shatters at the commentary. Hank's stomach roils. Connor draws back, leaving Hank's cock shining and slick, as well as flushed and hard.

A catcall rises from the audience. “Look at the size of that one!” Shame creeps up Hank's chest. He's never been ashamed of his dick, but he's never felt the need to show it off, either, and now it's going to become another thing used to hurt and humiliate Connor.

“Shit,” one voice mutters, “forget about not touching the sides, he's gonna tear him in two.”

Hank's heart sinks, low and heavy with guilt. Connor's eyes don't leave Hank's. “Ignore them,” he says.

Hank wants to reach out to him. He wants to cup Connor's face in his hands and comfort him. Connor is working so hard to ignore the howling of their audience. “I don't want to hurt you,” Hank admits, quietly. And he will. He knows he will.

Connor's smile is a hopeless thing, small and weak on his face. “Rather you than them,” he whispers.

It's a twisting knife to Hank's heart. Connor would rather Hank hurt him; someone that doesn't want to do it, that gets no pleasure out of it, than someone that will make it worse because his suffering is fun for them. It makes Hank's throat sore and his chest tight with a sob. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair that it's like this. He should have the chance to show Connor that it can be good for him. That it doesn't have to hurt.

Instead he's going to hurt him, and other people are going to enjoy it.

“Please?”

The plea is quiet. Broken. Hank squeezes his eyes shut and forces the bile crawling up his throat back down with a hard swallow. “Okay,” he agrees. “Okay.” It feels like surrender.

Connor shifts back again, lying himself down against the cold floor. Hank hesitates, wanting to ask if Connor wouldn't prefer to be up on his knees. It might be easier on him, that way. It might hurt a little less. But then he remembers how Connor had looked at him while suckling on his dick and he realises that no, Connor needs to see him, see who it is that's hurting him and know that they don't want this either.

He moves between Connor's legs. He doesn't have time to waste before his dick wilts again. Connor's eyes are fixed on him as he spits into his hand and grasps his cock. It's not enough, but it's better than nothing. It'll have to do.

The head of his cock feels too thick and blunt as he presses against Connor's hole. Connor's body doesn't yield immediately, and Hank sees his Adam's apple move urgently in his throat as he tries to force himself to relax. Hank's heart shatters at the sight. A moment ago he'd been so confident and sure of himself, in control as he took Hank in his mouth. Now that confidence has fled again in the face of repeating the familiar pain of violation.

Hank bends down, capturing Connor's mouth with his own in the tenderest kiss he can muster. His lips stroke over Connor's, his tongue teasing forth, requesting, not demanding entry. Connor yields to it with relief. One hand curls into Hank's shirt, gripping tight and pulling him close, and Hank feels Connor sigh against his mouth. The words “Thank you,” carry in his breath, felt more than said.

The first breach is tight. Connor relaxes in stages, his body reflexively squeezing, trying to resist the intrusion. A soft whimper escapes Connor's throat, and Hank closes his eyes tight against the sound. Connor's hand at his shirt tugs him ever closer, urging him not to stop, so Hank keeps going and hates himself for it. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he whispers over and again in a helpless litany.

The tightness, the heat, they feel better than Hank had feared. His cock forces its way in to Connor's delicate insides, and it's dizzying. Being inside another person feels better than Hank remembers. It reminds him of long nights in front of the fire with Cole's mother, buried in the tender embrace between her legs on a midwinter's eve. Nine months later there had been Cole.

Connor feels like that. Like home. Like pleasure. Like something he wants to feel over and over again.

A stifled cry bursts from Connor's chest, and Hank sees the pain on his face. Eyes screwed up tight and teeth bared as he hisses through them. Tears cling to his eyelashes. The guilt slashes Hank's chest open, spilling his vile guts across Connor's body and letting the cold in to wrap around Hank's heart.

Hank kisses his cheek. “I'm sorry,” he repeats. His own throat feels tight. The world blurs as tears gather. “Look at me?”

Connor does. His eyes open, catching Hank off-guard with the way they shine. “It's okay,” he replies, voice thin and cracked. “Don't stop. It'll be worse for us both if you do.” The hand in Hank's shirt tugs again, and Connor's other hand loops around the back of Hank's neck, holding him close.

It's all Hank can do to nod. He draws his hips back, and Connor winces. There's too much drag, Hank thinks. It's almost painful against the sensitive flesh of his dick. Connor's body clenches arrhythmically as he fights to keep it relaxed, and Hank pushes himself back inside against it.

It shouldn't feel good. It shouldn't. But fuck, the warmth and softness is sinful, and if it wasn't like this, Hank would enjoy it. He draws back and sinks in, moving as fast as he dares. Each spasmic squeeze of Connor's body is almost painful and Hank thinks he deserves that, he deserves for it to hurt him too.

But between those tight pulses is the yielding heat of another body, sinful and decadent. The clenching of Connor's insides grows weaker, less frequent, and some awful, dark, twisted part of Hank likes this. His cock throbs with pleasure that sweeps through his tight balls and hips. Connor's soft whimpers at each thrust change too, growing quieter, softer, breathier.

Connor blinks slowly, his eyes still locked on Hank's. Flushed, shining lips part around gentle gasps that fall in time with each inward thrust of Hank's cock. “Hank.”

The shift doesn't go unnoticed by their audience. “The whore's enjoying it!”

Connor turns his face away as a fresh round of laughter and mockery starts up. Hank glances down between their bodies to find Connor's hard cock twitching with every movement of Hank's hips.

He cups Connor's cheek, turning him back to look at him. Connor's cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, and tears still cling to his lashes, but it seems different this time.

Fuck, all Hank wants to do is gather Connor into his arms and whisk him away to somewhere safe. Somewhere they can do this, properly. Where he can show Connor that this is supposed to feel good. It's not supposed to be shameful, or dirty, or a punishment, it's supposed to be two people that want each other being together.

Hank bends, capturing Connor's mouth in a kiss. Connor's fingers curl and tighten in Hank's hair, keeping him close. His tongue slips forward into Hank's mouth, exploring Hank's tongue and lips and teeth in slow and steady thrusts that mirror Hank's hips.

The orgasm that shivers through Hank's dick is a shameful thing. Tension unwinds in his hips and shoots down his cock, splashing against Connor's tender insides. Hank groans into Connor's mouth as his hips buck forward, pushing him as deep inside as he can, and the pleasure crests.

Connor breaks away from the kiss slowly, blinking as if in a daze. Hank feels trapped in his gaze, the dying ebbs of ecstasy throbbing through his cock, still buried inside Connor. His eyes are bright, and alive. Hank thinks, for a moment, that he could fall in love with that look.

Rough, large hands grip at Hank's hair and drag him back. A filthy hand wraps around Connor's throat, pinning him down. Hank fights, lashing out at arms and faces as he's ripped away from Connor and Connor gives a cry of fear. A brutal fist lands across Hank's face, setting his brutalised jaw bleeding again, and Connor thrashes beneath the other man.

Hank watches through blurred vision as Connor is manhandled with disgustingly practised ease, vicious fingers squeezing at his throat as he scrabbles with his hands against the grip. He gives a choked cry as he's penetrated again, crushed into the floor under the other man's weight.

Hank swings for anything he can hit. He catches one man in the shin with his foot, another in the face with his elbow. But there are too many of them. A fist knocks the wind from him, driving hard into his stomach and sending it up into his throat. A knee rises up, between his legs. The pain makes him incoherent, bursting through his stomach in a sickening ache. He retches, mouth filling with blood and saliva as he's forced to his knees.

A hand in his hair drags his head up. Hank can't see much more than colours and shapes. His stomach roils. Connor's choked gasps of pain fill the air. The other man fucks him hard, fast, chasing his own orgasm with no concern for Connor's body. The savage slap of skin, hurried and cruel echoes off the cell walls.

The man finishes with a grunt and pulls out quickly, throwing Connor back down to the stone. Connor's grateful gasps of air claw at Hank's chest. The hand twisted in his hair releases, and Hank swings again, trying to fight, to get to Connor and try to protect him. Something heavy hits him in the back of his knees, knocking them from under him. His arm is wrenched up behind his back with no concern for the damage to his hand, sending pain shooting through his arm and deep into his shoulder.

The second man uses his boot to force Connor onto his front, moving him like he's a sack of shit, or something disgusting he doesn't want to touch. He's dragged up onto his knees, face against the dirty stone while the next man takes him just as roughly. He leans over Connor, covering the back of his head with a hand, rutting into him like an animal.

Something sharp and cold digs into the underside of Hank's chin. A different hand sinks into his hair, gripping tightly. “He's not hard now, is he?” Rosanna observes, almost conversationally. Another man leaves Hank's side to go to Connor, and Hank watches, his eyes and throat burning as Connor's head is wrenched up from the ground. The sound of him gagging and choking as a cock is forced down his throat twists in Hank's stomach.

“Stop this,” Hank croaks.

The man at Connor's mouth pulls out, swearing. “Watch those fucking teeth,” he snarls, backhanding Connor roughly across the face before taking a bruising grip of his jaw and forcing himself back inside again.

Hank remembers the way those brown eyes had gazed up at him, the soft way he'd seemed so content to get Hank hard with his mouth. “You can stop this,” he pleads.

“I could,” Rosanna agrees. Connor scrabbles at the man at his mouth with his hands. His choking noises become more urgent. It earns him a punch to the kidneys from the man at his ass. The strangled sound of pain only adds to the desperate sound of him fighting to breathe. “But you need to see this, Hank,” she says. “None of us would be here without you.”

The vision of Connor being abused blurs into incoherence, just a mishmash of shapes and muted colours. But nothing can dull the sound. Hank hears Connor choking, and then heaving for breath as one man finishes with him. The second man curses as he comes, his thighs slapping against Connor's backside in a fury, and then Connor is punched again, in the back, and the stomach as he collapses to the stone floor of their cell.

Hank wants to reach out to him, and offer himself up instead. He's tried it before. They didn't take it. They won't, because humiliating the broken old man isn't as much fun as humiliating the pretty young prince.

Another man takes his turn, tearing Connor's ruined shirt off him and biting at his neck and shoulders. Connor no longer tries to resist, but he yelps in pain. His legs are wrenched apart, and Hank can hear something being said, something vicious and threatening. Connor's reply is quiet, but clearer. “No.”

It angers the man. Connor cries out sharply as cruel teeth sink into the soft flesh at the inside of his thigh. The other man laughs. “We'll see,” he says, throwing Connor onto his front before he starts to fuck him. Connor's quiet sobs and the echoing slap and squelch of his body being violated reverberate in Hank's head. He's never going to forget those sounds, he knows. He's going to wake up in the middle of the night hearing them.

The fight leaves him, slowly, just like it left Connor. Hank sinks down onto his heels, his chest jumping with his own sobs as Connor is used and brutalised. This cell had been safety for him, for both of them. Hank's arms had been safety for him. And now every time Hank looks across the cell he's going to see some stain, or mark from where Connor had been hurt to teach Hank a lesson.

Rosanna gives a satisfied huff. The last man finishes with Connor, and this time Hank does hear the sinister little threat he makes; “You're gonna beg me for it one day, your highness.”

“I think that's enough for one night,” Rosanna says, to her guards. They don't object, but she placates them anyway with a promise. “You can have him all night tomorrow.”

The men laugh. The last man gives Connor's ass a hard, resounding slap as he pulls away. Connor curls in on himself with a whimper, tucking his arms around his legs as he shivers on the floor.

Rosanna's knife vanishes from Hank's throat, and he blinks as the woman leaves the cell. Hank doesn't move. It feels like he can't. His limbs are made of lead and misery.

The cell door clangs shut with a metallic shriek. “See you tomorrow, darling,” one of the men calls, mocking. “We'll find something nice and big for you to enjoy.”

They leave, in a storm of laughter and footsteps, abandoning Hank to the sounds of Connor's quiet crying.

Hank's hands tremble as he tucks his flaccid, useless dick away and takes his own shirt off. Connor remains curled, naked and vulnerable, and Hank approaches him like one would a wounded animal. Connor chokes back his sobs, wiping at his face with a hand and pushing himself up from the floor. “I'm sorry you had to see that,” he begins, in a rush, his voice thick and raw. “I didn't think--”

Hank shakes his head. Fucking christ, Connor should not be the one apologising. “Don't,” he says, cutting across the sentiment, and then immediately softening. “You didn't do a single goddamn thing wrong,” he says, his heart aching.

He helps Connor gingerly shift his weight onto his knees. Sitting on the hard stone isn't going to be pleasant right now, Hank knows. He tugs the neck of his shirt over Connor's head and eases it down, doing what little he can to restore the man some dignity. His shirt looks comically large on Connor's smaller frame. The sleeves hang partway over Connor's hands.

“They do that often?” he asks, into the silence as Connor pulls Hank's bloodstained shirt down to his thighs. He immediately regrets asking, but he can't resist the knowledge. “The biting?” He clarifies. He's seen the marks when he's helped Connor clean up in the aftermath. He'd long since lost track of which ones were new and which were old. They simply migrate around his body.

Connor's voice is distant when he answers, “That one likes to leave marks.”

Hank leans forward, slowly. Connor doesn't flinch, or twitch away from him. He just sits there, miserable and abused, letting Hank settle his palm against his cheek. Hank brushes at the wet tracks of tears over Connor's skin. “We are getting you out of here as soon as we can,” he promises. And he means it. He'd always meant it, but now, with Rosanna on the scene, there's an urgency to it.

Connor looks at him for a moment that seems to last an age. Hank wants, more than anything, to pull Connor into his arms and kiss those tears and bruises away. But he doesn't know how much Connor can stand being touched right now, after everything.

Connor settles a hand over the top of Hank's against his cheek and tilts his head into it. His eyelashes brush against Hank's thumb as he closes his eyes. “You're coming too,” he answers, with weary determination. Slowly, very slowly, he tilts, tipping in against Hank's broad chest until his other cheek rests against Hank's shoulder.

Hank settles his nose into Connor's filthy hair and curls his other arm around his back. He swallows thickly, and closes his eyes. Connor is warm, and solid against him, and Hank isn't going to deny him any comfort he wants to claim even if he doesn't feel worthy of giving it.

“I won't leave you,” Hank promises, murmuring the words against Connor's scalp. Not until you're safe, Hank thinks. Not until I know you're never going to be hurt again.