Vidar’s stomach swoops as the orc stops, and he swallows his saliva, eyes tracking the orcs every movement. For a moment, it does nothing. Vidar’s stomach is just about to settle into something nearing normality when the orc then moves again, and his eyes finally see what it’s carrying. How did he miss an iron collar that big, he wonders half-hysterically.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Vidar repeats, over and over again. It makes him feel—fuck, he feels warm and gooey, and so, so, so hot, when his no is ignored like they can’t even hear it. Like he’s not saying anything.

Another orc steps forward from above his head, one he didn’t see, and grips his head by the hair. It holds his head still as the smallest orc shuts the collar over his throat, locks it carefully with only slightly fumbling hands (why do they fumble, he wonders. Aren’t they NPCs?) and an another iron chain is attached to the side of the collar.

His hair is let go, and his head thumps to the ground. Vidar can’t even keep it up, just stares sightlessly at the blue, ever-so-perfect, sky.

He hears the chain connecting to another pole. But he just... his eyes close, and his lips are wobbling, snot still spilling form his nose. His cock is so hard, and his legs hurt, and his arms feel like they don’t even exist. The collar around his throat is cold, cold, cold, and it burns just as badly as the manacles around his ankles do.

Vidar can’t move. He tries to shift in any direction, any direction at all, but he just—can’t. He’s stuck so thoroughly that the collar won’t even let him turn his head.

Pre-cum drips onto his stomach, in ever-increasing increments.

He wets his lips, blinking his eyes open. He doesn’t remember closing them, but he must have. Sniffling loudly, the scream at the back of his throat stays lodged where it is, and he instead mumbles a weak, croaking, “Please.”

There’s an answering grunt, for the first time. Vidar’s eyes widen and he tries to turn his head but the collar is too tight and it just hurts again. His lips wobble and it feels like it’s covered in a mixture of tears and snot now and it’s gross. But he licks them still, letting the taste sit on his heavy tongue.

One of the orcs finally walk within his sight-range, and he exhales gently, staggeringly. He can’t help but wonder, are they going to leave him here? Alone? Walk away and let the next thing to find him take him? Or will they use him themselves?

He wants... he wants the orcs. He wants the biggest one. He wants to be held down, tied down, wants to be useless and forced to simply take it. He wants no choice.

He wants captivity and slavery and just—

Fuck, he’s so fucked up.

“Please,” he begs again, louder. Vidar stares up at the orc, and he think its the one who carried the poles. This one hasn’t touched him, he thinks. Hasn’t hurt him. “Please,” Vidar repeats, feeling tears starting to gather at the corner of his eyes.

But the orc turns away. It grunts something, says something, to another one. And then it leaves his sight again, and Vidar sobs, throwing his head back and grunting, too.

The collar tears his skin open, and the blood makes it easier to turn his head, at least. Now, he can see more, and he manages to spot the biggest orc. It’s looking right at him, too, and Vidar’s head snaps around. He heartbeat is thundering in his chest, and his breaths are a hundred times too fast. Something is coursing through his veins, some emotion he doesn’t recognize.

His head rests on the ground, and his back aches from the position it’s been forced into. It’s a steadier, easier, pain than his legs, though. (He thinks, wildly, trying to figure out what is happening, what will happen to him.)

When the heavy steps approach, shaking the ground he’s lying on from how much it weighs, he turns his head again. It’s the biggest orc, thankfully, and he exhales, relaxing the tiniest bit. Vidar stares up at it, and the orc blocks the sunlight so completely that he can actually see clearly. But he doesn’t keep looking, merely licks his disgusting lips and arches his head to the side, closing his eyes.

He waits.

Breathless, energy at top speed, his heartbeat the only thing he can hear, his breaths already shattered, he waits.

A hand presses down on his taught stomach, nudging his cock in the process, and Vidar jolts. He flinches, throws his head back, and the hand presses down, down, down, until he gags, about to vomit.

Then it lets up, and Vidar swallows the liquid in his throat. He raises his head, and looks at the biggest orc and its hand on his stomach and rasps out, “What?”

The orc stares at him with dark eyes, not making a sound. It just keeps the hand on his stomach, his belly rising and falling with each deep breath he manages to force down. Vidar frowns, tries to move again, hissing harshly when it makes the pain in his legs worse, and he repeats, “What do you want?”

He pauses, eyeing the strong arm and the wide chest and he whispers, “What are you going to do with me?”

He waits, again.

Finally, the orc shifts, sitting down in the gap between Vidar’s legs, and he hisses. He grunts, too, when the hand temporarily presses down harshly on his stomach again and the taste of vomit returns. The gagging is worse this time, but the orc at least doesn’t repeat it again when he eases up once more.

His neck hurts from holding his head up, from the collar and the wound it tore open. But he wants to see, what the orc does, what it looks like.

The hand stays on his shuddering stomach, but the other... the orc’s other hand trails behind his cock, down to his asshole, and his cock aches. His balls draw up, and as the orc forces the tip of it’s thick finger in without any preparation, or teasing, or lube, as it forces in, Vidar shakes apart.

His cum stains his stomach, and the orc’s hand.