There is darkness all around him, but then color begin to return in bits and pieces. He blinks and blinks and blinks, and realizes belatedly that there is still something in his ass. “What?” Vidar wets his lips, bites on them, and tries to hold his head up again but fails utterly. “What are you doing?” he asks, anyway.

The finger shoves deeper, and it’s so dry. It burns, must tear his asshole open, and he keens, throwing his head back. Vidar shudders, and shakes, and trembles, and he tries to beg, “Stop, stop, I don’t...” but the words I don’t want this don’t come.

Because he does.

He wants it, still.

No, that’s not right. He wants it more, now. Now that he’s had a taste, he just wants more. He wants the burning and the pain and the agony and the humiliation. The finger goes deeper and deeper in, and he glances around wildly, gaze unable to focus. The other orcs aren’t really looking at him, but they’re here, still.

As a second finger forces into his asshole, Vidar starts to cry. Hiccuping sobs, and he can’t hold them in, somehow. But he stops trying after a moment; the sobs shakes his body in a way that only makes his legs worse and he really does wonder, does worry, if they’ll actually break.

If feels like they will.

He blubbers something incomprehensible when the third finger goes in, and there is no answer now, either. Only ever deeper and deeper thrusts, and a steady hand on his stomach that occasionally presses down until he gags and coughs and chokes on his own tears.

A forth fingers shoves in, somehow, and Vidar cums again. Falling apart, his body pulls taught and there—the joint pops out. His breath is punched from him, body spasming around the fingers, and he screams. The pain is intense, sudden, overwhelming and it drowns him, destroys him, wrecks him entirely.

One of his legs just—disconnected from the rest of him, he thinks.

His mind drifts for a long, long moment, as he feels how fucking absurdly loose that leg is.

“Wha—” Vidar doesn’t have the strength to continue. He falls silent. Tries again, after a moment, “What happened?” he hacks, turning his head to the side as far as the chain will let him.

He gags, and feels the vomit in the back of his throat.

The fingers in him continue to go deeper, still. Vidar’s body is pressed down as the orc’s fingers force their way in, and he finally manages to swallow the vomit again. And this time, when he lifts his head, he succeeds.

So he sees the orc’s eyes, sees the intense focus and the dark gaze and then sees that gaze shift up to Vidar’s face. The eyes widen slightly, then, a minuscule movement that he’d miss if he wasn’t looking so closely. They stare at his face, tracing his wet, sticky cheeks, and his bloodied throat, and his heaving chest. Then they meet Vidar’s eyes.

“Who...” Vidar starts, voice hoarse like gravel. He stops, rethinks, and asks, “Your name?”

(Can the orc even understand him? He can’t understand it, but it should still... understand him, right? It’s a game, after all, and it’s an NPC.)

Vidar gulps, waiting an eternity for an answer. But, eventually, it comes. The orc’s rough, deep, voice says, “Fu’shj,” a noise Vidar can barely string together. It repeats, still staring into his eyes, “Fu’shj.”

“I’m Vidar,” he mumbles in response, and his strength gives out, his head falling back onto the hard ground. It bounces and he winces from the shot of pain, but then the fingers inside him curl and dig deeper and he’s wincing for an entirely different reason.

“Vitar,” Fu’shj repeats slowly, mispronouncing it, and curls its fingers again. Vidar moans brokenly, trying to shift, trying to press down onto it, trying to get it deeper, trying to feel more.

His loose leg feels gross every time he moves, and there’s a pressure behind his eyes, a heat in his stomach scorching him.

The fingers are abruptly pulled out, and Vidar gasps, groans, moans; tosses his head as he tries futilely to chase them. He presses down, feels his hole gaping open, fluttering. Feels the air strike it, his eyelids fall shut, his mouth open and breaths heaving. He tries to say something, gets out a weak “Please,” but doesn’t know how to continue.

The orc lets go of his stomach and Vidar coughs a “No,” into the air.

There is a moment of stillness, a moment where nobody’s touching him, where the only thing keeping him together are the manacles and the collar and the chains. Vidar’s eyes are shut, and they feel glued shut, he can’t even open them. His breaths feel wet and hacks in his chest, and the stats he can see even with his eyes shut tell him that his HP has gone down again.

Vidar shudders, when he feels blunt pressure on his asshole. He tries to open his eyes, tries to glance around, but he can’t make any sense of what he’s seeing. It’s all just colors, all blurring together.

He keens, tilting his head back and as the blunt force continues to shove against his asshole, not penetrating, just shoving uselessly, Vidar reflexively tries to get away from it. He shakes his head, and the blood on the collar lets him, and he whimpers “No, no, no, please,” his words erupting from him so quickly that they fall into each other.

He holds his breath as the bluntness shoves harder still, and there’s nowhere for him to go, he can’t move away. He’s tied down too tightly, no give in the chains at all, and the orc isn’t even holding him. The only touch is the inhumanly thick cock pushing against him, and it’s warm, blindingly hot and so thick and how can he... it won’t fit, it can’t fit, it can’t.

“You can’t—” Vidar blubbers, tossing his head to the side, trying to get his head up so he can see again, and the words fall, “You can’t, it won’t fit, don’t, don’t, you can’t,” but he’s ignored. Still.

Like always.