Chapter Text
The doc strings him up in some sort of dog harness; black straps digging into his chest and pelvis, making it harder to breathe when they're pulled taunt, suspending Vic a few feet off the ground. He feels stupid. Helpless. Like an insect trapped by a glass. He lets his head loll, hopes a strap will break and he'll snap his neck on impact.
You motherfucker.
Vic doesn't squirm or fight when the doctor adds more straps. He can picture himself in his mind’s eye, squirming like a fucking grub on a hook, futile animal struggling of a dog getting hosed down. Stupid. He won't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him like that, though his absent legs try to lash out in vain when the doctor palms his cock.
Fuck you!
The gag makes a reappearance. Incessantly aching ring. When the doctor forced it in and pulled the straps tight, Vic's head was level with his crotch. The positioning wasn't lost on him. He knows exactly what he's in for. As resolute as he is to shut up and take it, to let them do what they want and show no weakness in the process, a part of him wonders what the point is. He endures to escape. Here, there is no escape. Is there still pride to be scavenged at this level of humiliation? When they've all-but made an animal of him? A damned fuckdoll? What's the point in expending energy for a brave face they won't even look at?
The point is, I'm better than them. The point is that if they were in my place they'd be wailing and begging and I won't. I refuse. I'm better.
His insistences feel empty. The only outcome that even borders on positive would be if he died before his new tormentors arrived. Taking one of them with him in this condition is nigh impossible. Even Vic has to allow for that. His teeth are locked in place, he can't fucking move. But maybe they'll kill him. Maybe it will end.
His spine is a painful bow with the way he’s supported midair, pressure growing at the center bend as his core muscles give out. Pressure, pressure, pressure. It has to be on purpose. One more thing to weaken him, to cause him pain.
The doc leaves him like that for a while. Might as well be hours, might as well be days. Time crawls on until all Vic can focus on is his damn back, vertebrae grinding with every breath he takes, compressing and crushing until he wants to scream.
He won't, he won't let them have that—
Still, he can hear his breaths getting louder, more desperate. The strap around his chest doesn't demand his attention the same way, but it's squeezing his ribcage, adding another layer to the pain. In spite of his resolve to hold still, to maintain what dignity he can, Vic starts squirming in the harness, writhing this way and that, feeling the straps dig into his skin further, letting it burn because at least that's a pain he has a say in.
A grub on a fucking hook.
He stills at the sound of laughter somewhere behind him. Voices, multiple. Five or six men, lingering past an open door. He should've heard them approaching.
What good would it do? What could you fucking do about it?
“You drug him up for us? Looks like he's hungry for some action.”
“No. I actually don't know what the fuck he's doing.”
It's stupid, but Vic latches onto the doc’s words. Doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. There's— there's still an element of surprise, something he controls.
“Well?”
“Knock yourself out. I'll be in the hall if you need me.”
The squeak of shoes on tile. Vic makes sure he hears it this time, makes sure he's tracking it. Pointless, pointless, pointless.
“Try not to kill him. Ridley’ll give me an ass chewing.”
It's tossed out like an afterthought, of course they don't care if he dies, but it's something else to hold on to. He might die here, tonight. It shouldn't be a relieving thought, but Vic can hope. Better now. Better now while he still has anything left—
A thick pair of hands grabs his ass, twisting his back, and Vic lets out a yelp, his hopes suddenly lost in the pain.
He's had worse. There will be pain before death, that's the way it goes. Still, he cries out again as his torso is lifted, increasing the bend in his spine.
Fuck, fuck! His teeth grind into the gag, sharp inhales drying out his tongue. He rolls his neck, trying to relieve any pressure, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears the telltale click of a belt, the pull of a zipper. A hard heat presses against his ass, entering him with no preamble. It goes in easily enough, the toy did its work, but Vic still retches at the feeling.
He's no stranger to rape. Feels like he should be used to it by now, just another torture, just another pain. It's nothing compared to the crushing agony of his back, nothing compared to the fire in his abused jaw, but it's what pulls his attention, what makes him want to scream. He forces his eyes open, blurred out linoleum a few feet away from his lolling head, his own tangled hair swaying like prairie grass with every thrust of the man behind him. His stomach tries to turn itself inside out, eyes watering as he heaves up nothing, drops of spit peppering the floor. He hates himself for that. Even with this, even with worse pain, he usually has better control, he can keep it all down, keep his face cold, but now he can feel himself fighting tears. Stupid, fucking stupid.
The man hilts himself, a bruising grip on Vic's hips. He's practically dwarfed by the toy Vic came in with, but it's the heat, the twitching and the grunting and the hands that are driving him to madness, a scream he refuses to release bubbling in his throat, choking him. Vic can feel stinging heat as the man spills inside him, a sudden emptiness, new hands as another takes his place. Shoes squeak on tile, black lace-up boots stepping into his field of vision, a sharp pain in his scalp as his head is jerked up. The heat of a cock stuffs his mouth, sealing his throat.
Trapped between two bodies, back arced even further, the pain in his spine is unbearable. It feels as if he's about to snap in half with every thrust, every jostle pulling a scream from him that only makes the man taking his mouth groan as his throat tightens and vibrates. Black spots dance across his vision like flies, and Vic hopes the man gets lost in the passion, hopes this kills him.
He isn't that lucky.
His lungs are screaming when the floor blurs back into view, coughing up come, a sob building in his chest as the man behind him gives one final pump, one final fucking grunt, then leaves him gaping.
He could be better, he could do better, but his body knows. There is no after, there is no endure and escape.
This might as well be the rest of his life.
Two more take their place, and Vic cries.