Caged (part two)
cw: forced arousal, noncon drugging, noncon/noncon toy use, self harm as a form of control, death mention, death threats, briefly described gore
previous // Secrecy Masterlist
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“I know a lot.”
The man won't stop fucking monologuing at him.
“I like to learn, and I've done everything I can to dig into Black Kite.”
Vic doesn't care. His head is hot in spite of the room's cool air, his fingers numb and prickling, shoulders beginning to burn with the strain of this forced pose. He clenches his hands into fists and pulls against the cuffs, pouring all his attention into the sting on the metal in his skin, but the relief it provides is only temporary. His attention keeps pulling back to his stupid dick.
The heat in his groin is worse than his head, pulsing with his heartbeat, getting worse if he so much as twitches. It's tugging incessantly at his attention, borderline unbearable, but he'll bear it just like anything else. This is a new angle, he'll give his captor that much. Usually when his captors want to degrade him they'll just fuck him. They don't try and make him want it first. But physical sensations be damned, he's not gonna fucking cave to that. Not while there are cameras on him, and even if there weren't, he wouldn't give this motherfucker the satisfaction.
It's just a drug. Drugs fade eventually.
He can tough it out. He just wishes the enemy would shut the fuck up.
“I was there when they cut Castor Nichols open, you know. You could trace scars back to sightings and piece things together. It's hard to piece things together with the Kites.”
On about Nichols now. Vic doesn't want to hear about Nichols, especially not when he's writhing on the floor like this, but he's not even gonna dignify this with an insult. The gravity of what he's saying, cut him open, traced scars, is lost for now, buried under the heat and the spite.
“You kill everyone you meet, or at least you try to. But there's always a few stragglers who've seen you in action. And Vic Shepard, oh I've looked into you specifically. You were a lot sloppier six years ago. That was right after Castor died, hm? You went all wildcard. A lot of the people you worked for aren't the tight lipped type if you toss them some paper, you know? I have to wonder if the mark was still watching over you then, or if it didn't count you as a Black Kite anymore. Black Kites aren't sloppy, Vic.”
He nearly says something at that, a snapping curse, something. He hates the burning need in his gut and he hates the enemy's voice even more, talking like he's giving Vic a lecture, like he knows everything when he doesn't know shit. Talking about the mark, talking like there's some supernatural bullshit embedded in Vic. Is this guy a wannabe cultist or is he just stupid? Deluded by tv shows and forum posts, projecting his ideas onto Vic's lived experience. He keeps himself reigned in by imagining killing his captor, killing him slow.
I kill everyone I meet, don't I? How's this for sloppy?
“I guess you self-corrected in the last few years though, huh? Maybe that was the mark's doing. Maybe it starves without a Kite to do its bidding.”
Batshit crazy. It was Vic's doing, everything has been Vic's doing. He survives and kills because of his own damn choices. But he doesn't say that, instead digging his teeth into his tongue and trying to hold as still as possible.
His captor begins to pull things out of the cabinet and lay them out one by one, making sure Vic has a perfect view of each item he sets on the ground, yapping all the way through. Dildo, vibrator, sounding rod, lube. He's clearly trying to intimidate Vic, but that won't work. Whatever happens, he'll get himself through it with the sweet thought of watching the light in the man’s eyes die.
The muscles in his thighs twitch and jump with the untouched heat in him, like his body is caving little by little, seeking to alleviate that horrible itch, the need to seek pressure or relief. He locks out his knees in response, pulling at all four cuffs until the metal is digging in painfully, flexing his core until his abdomen burns with the strain. It's not enough.
His teeth dig into his tongue as he tries to breathe deeply, breathe through it. This is new, he'll allow for that. Uncharted territory, new tactics being used against him, but he's not gonna let it break him. He'd rather deglove his hand than be filmed humping the air, and by fuck he'll stick with that, no matter the heat, no matter the urge. And even so badly injured, he'll still pin this fucker down, still choke the life out of him—
“You want to kill me, don't you?”
Vic hadn't even noticed his captor moving to kneel in front of him again, he's too wrapped up in all this fucking heat.
“You do,” says the enemy. “I know how you operate. Your mission comes before everything else. You'll sit still and let yourself be tortured, sweet little lamb, then sink your teeth in as soon as I turn my back. It's the same story from any straggler. Some assumed you'd shut down completely, some thought it was just pride, but in the end it was always patience. You're patient now, aren't you? Waiting for me to make a mistake you can use.”
The drug makes him want to respond with rage, to beat the shit out of this guy while the cameras are rolling, but he knows he should try to be logical instead, try to roll with the punches. The enemy knows his routine, somehow, and Vic needs to adapt to that, but his thoughts are about as easy to hold onto as the end of a hot poker. Frustration and the stupid, animalistic need to rut are muddying his head; just the heat and the twitching skin and the weight between his legs that's steadily becoming unbearable. He almost screams when his captor starts rambling again, almost thrashes against his chains like a madman.
“You know, the oldest account I have of you is from years ago, almost twenty years, can you believe that? Some tussle over the Russian border. Do you remember it? They let you go. They most certainly could've killed you, but they let you go. Dumped you naked on the side of some country road.” He leans closer, close enough that Vic could throttle him if his hands were free.
“What did you think of that? Was the mark protecting you then? Did you feel lucky?” That last word is breathed across Vic’s throat in a way that makes his body shudder, hips shifting involuntarily.
Fuck giving no reaction, he tries to headbutt his captor with all the force he can muster, but the man only moves back.
“Do you feel lucky now? I do wonder what all I could do to you. What it would keep you alive through.” He laughs. “It's tempting, trust me, but I've already laid my plans.”
Attempting the attack only seemed to heighten the sensation of the drug. It's all Vic can do to not writhe in his restraints, but his empty mask is broken now, teeth bared as his captor sits back on his heels, fingers glancing over the dildo, the lube.
Fuck you, you smug bastard. I'll skin you alive once I get out.
“I wouldn't even say we need these. Not yet, anyway. Not when I can just…” He leans forward again, those same fingers now ghosting across Vic's thigh, hardly even a brush, yet the feeling is electric.
He jerks against the chains, back arcing, teeth closing around a cry. The barest hint of shame sparks in his chest at giving his captor even that much. He's stronger than this. He's—
“Ggh— fuck—”
The enemy’s hand is slipping up his inner thigh, and Vic's body is almost shaking with the contact. All he can do is press his shoulders into the wall as hard as he can, scraping the skin there raw in an effort to feel something he's in control of.
“I wasn't sure I'd get to hear your voice so soon.”
He's smiling, Vic can feel it, and it's only then that he realizes he's screwed his eyes shut. When he forces them open, the enemy is standing over him. Vic knows he's considering what to do next.
He should be considering the same. His captor already knows his MO and likely has a plan to keep him down, which means Vic needs to pivot. He could dislocate his thumb right now, maybe both thumbs, and that much pain would be a welcome change at this fucking point, but that would still leave the cuffs around his ankles…
The enemy steps closer, one boot between Vic's legs, like he's considering a well-placed stomp or kick. Even that would almost be welcome, but instead he only edges his boot closer, until it's an inch away from the underside of Vic's cock.
Fuck, he knows exactly what the enemy wants. It's a source of pressure, a source of relief, but Vic isn't gonna cave to that. His hips twitch, just knowing the boot is so close, like it's some kind of fucking magnetic field, and he closes his eyes, clenching his jaw so tightly it aches.
Of course his captor takes that as an invitation. The slightest pressure grazes Vic's shaft, and suddenly he's rutting into it, chasing the relief his body is sure it will get here. The hard ridges of the rubber sole, the eyes of the cameras pointed at him, for a second none of it matters, nothing matters but alleviating the burning weight in his dick.
…and then, just as fast, the pressure is gone, leaving him thrusting into nothing, a frustrated groan escaping him before he can stop it.
Shit, fuck… He squints up at his captor, jaw locked in an open-lipped snarl. I'll fucking kill you.
“You liked that, didn't you? Want to do it again?” The man's teeth are bared too, in a shit-eating grin. “I'll let you finish if you ask.”
Fuck that. Vic responds with a sharp yank on the cuffs that sends a shock up his arms. Fuck you, fuck the distracting drug, he needs to act.
“No? I didn't think so. Oh well.”
He grinds his teeth together as his captor drops to one knee, grabbing one of the tools he's laid out. Vic needs to do something now. There was no strain or give when he jerked his restraints, so brute forcing them, or even just the bar out of the wall is unlikely. The cuffs on his ankles are too tight to slip out of, even if he skinned himself on the way out, and there's very little room to move. He knows he can free one hand before his captor reacts, but he'll need to time it right. He's already only half as focused as he'd like to be, and the pain that comes with escape will spike his adrenaline, but it'll also make him sloppy in the first few seconds, and those aren't seconds he can waste.
Free one hand. Kill this motherfucker. It's the only option he can see right now.
The toe of the man's boot stretches out to nudge Vic's cock again, prompting an uncontrollable, full-body jolt, and Vic has to choke down a gasp.
Or tear out his throat next time he gets close.
The pressure leaves, Vic's hips bucking up in a futile effort to follow it, his face burning in pure frustration.
Tear out his throat and fuck the hole.
“This would go down a lot easier if you weren't already hard, but it's not my fault you're so sensitive.”
When his eyes can focus on the enemy again, he's kneeling in front of Vic, holding the sounding rod up for him to see.
Sitting back just far enough that Vic doubts he'd be able to get in a killing blow, but he'll have to get closer if he wants to shove that into him. Just a sharp blow to the back of the head, slam his face into the floor a few times while he's dazed, and—
“Fuck!”
The enemy grabs his dick, and the sudden pressure is like an explosion. Murderous thoughts get hazy, even when the man drops a knee onto his thigh to keep him from pumping too vigorously into his hand, even when he gets in close, distracted by the toy.
Do it, kill him, fuck, fuck, if he comes right now, that'll clear his head, right? That'll make this easier. For a moment, Vic stops trying to fight his body, instead letting himself get carried away with the heat, chasing the unwanted pressure of the man's hand, but the desperate rush is brought to a shuddering halt when the enemy pushes the sounding rod into him.
All at once it's too much. His heels dig into the ground, shoulders once again grinding into the wall to try and escape and distract from the new pressure. Vic very nearly lets out a cry as the enemy works the toy into him, only just barely managing to cut it off, sound shifting to something more like a growl.
“A whole new world, huh? You ever been fucked like this?”
He could kill him, he'll kill him, he'll—
The man forces it the rest of the way in, pressure pressure pressure that makes Vic want to retch and tangles any plans into useless knots. He bites his tongue until it's bleeding, the room fuzzy around him, the burn in his groin inescapable. When his captor gives the thing a twist that sends sparks shooting down his legs, Vic turns his head away, practically slamming his temple into the wall with the effort of holding back a cry.
“Tsk tsk, that won't do. I want to hear you. Do it for the cameras, Vic, haven't you heard of a performance?”
He's vaguely aware of the man moving back to the cabinet, but his hands shake when he tries to ball them into fists, when he tries to position for his next move. He can barely breathe past the fucking thing in him, much less line up a thought, and when the man returns, it takes him far longer than it should to realize he's holding a ring gag.
“Fffuck you,” Vic growls up at him, but his captor doesn't respond, just drops to a kneel between his legs, just barely close enough for the fabric of his pants to brush Vic's cock, and even though the heat is unbearable and the pressure inside him is too much, Vic's hips jut up to grind on the man's thigh, head too hot to register the movement around his face, but then suddenly he's panting through the gag, its straps digging into the corners of his mouth, the metal of the ring making a dent in the roof of his mouth as he tries to bite down on it.
The pressure abruptly leaves him, and this time Vic can't hold in his frustrated roar at its absence.
Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
“Much better. I know you're not a chatterbox, but that doesn't mean I won't get some sounds out of you.
His dick feels like cement between his legs, throbbing and aching and needing. In the moment Vic hates it more than anything else, more than even the enemy in front of him.
Hates his whole body for the betrayal.
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