Fandom: All Elite Wrestling
Rating: 18+
Pairing: The Butcher/Orange Cassidy, The Blade/Orange Cassidy
Additional Tags: Taser, Violent Rape, No Lube, Anal Tearing, Anal Sex, Disassociation
Summary: Dissatisfied with his boys' losses to Orange, Kip Sabian arranges a bit of revenge for them.
Original Date Of Publication: July 20, 2023
Notes: An AEW Kinkmeme prompt fill.
Being a fighting champion sucks. It's not like he gets a new belt every time he wins. Just new enemies, and less friends. Orange is alone in the locker room when Kip prances in, all smiles and hairspray and flanked by his goons. He's sore and slow, too fucking slow, barely up to his feet before he's grabbed by the front of his jacket and punched--
TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK--
Not punched.
A taser is jammed under his ribs, and his breath leaves him in an agonized groan. He crumples to his knees.
"Get his hands-- Butch, gag him with something."
Orange is kicked to the floor, a boot planted on his back to hold him. He can't even begin to struggle, his brain is in an animal panic trying to remember how to breathe. A pair of handcuffs bites into his wrists, and he's lifted by his hair. The Butcher's found and balled up a sock to stuff in his mouth and secure with duct tape, wrapped twice around his head just to make sure he can't shake it free. Kip's made himself at home and pulled up a front-row seat to-- whatever the hell this is. Revenge, obviously. Orange really, really hates being a champion.
"You know, I've lived here a long time, Clementine. Had to adjust to a lot of things, but there's one little American tradition that I have always hated. Do you know what that is?"
Orange glares. Kip smiles.
"Consolation prizes. Participation trophies. Rewarding mediocrity, if not outright failure. Putting a belt on someone who can't even be bothered to take his hands out of his pockets and show the barest respect to his opponents."
Kip stands and paces like a fucking cartoon villain, putting Danhausen to shame with his monologue.
"But I've realized, maybe that's the point. To let the loser get one over on the winner. A bit of petty revenge. Well, you've taken victories from under my boys' feet, and they've got nothing to show for it. It's time they got one over on you."
Perfectly on cue, the Butcher straddles his legs, and three things become terrifyingly crystal-clear.
First: At least one of these men intends to rape him.
Second: They all know him well enough to put him in a position he can't escape from, no matter how good he is at fighting without his hands.
Last: The Butcher has a knife, and he doesn't doubt that he'd use it to keep him in line.
Orange freezes like a deer in the headlights as the cold metal slips between his skin and the back of his pants and underwear. It's wickedly sharp, and saws through the waistband with just a few strokes. The thin, flexible denim that makes it easy for Orange to bend and run and jump also makes it easy to rip the whole center seam apart once it's started. He's exposed and immobilized, flat on his stomach with the Butcher's full weight holding him down. With the hard bulge of his clothed cock grinding against him.
"Lube?" He asks, pulling it out of his trunks.
Kip waves a hand. "We won't be needing that, will we? You didn't lose to some whinging little prick. You lost to big, strong, long-reigning International Champion Orange Cassidy."
Orange looks up at Kip in abject horror. The Butcher shrugs and spits in his hand, and all Orange can think as he lines himself up is " I should have just taken the loss. "
There's nothing poetic to say. No fire, no impaling, no metaphors for what it feels like to have a fat, blunt, hard dick forced up his ass with only minimal lubrication. It feels like exactly what it is. And it feels horrible. He feels his rim tear almost immediately, a sickening little 'pop' of flesh giving way, and he wishes, prays that's the worst of it. But as he begins to bleed, the way is only made easier for the Butcher. The first push got him about halfway. The second buries his shaft all the way up to the hilt. The hot, sweaty heft of his belly squeezes the air out of Orange in a pitiful wail, muffled by the sock in his mouth.
"Oh, is this what it takes to break that stony exterior?" Kip mocks from his seat. "Get a nice big cock in you, and you bloom like a sweet little orange blossom."
He then directs his attention behind Orange. "How does it feel to fuck a champion, Butch?"
The Butcher pulls out slowly, letting Orange feel every inch drag along his insides, and thrusts back in with a horrifically wet smack.
"Tight," he grunts, pulling Orange's head back by the hair. "Feels like a fuckin' virgin."
The Blade snickers from where he stands, somewhere out of Orange's watery vision. "I don't believe that for a second. You think he got all those clutch pins without payin' for 'em?"
All three of them have a good laugh at that, while Orange sobs. The physical pain isn't even the worst thing. He's broken bones and torn muscles. He wakes up, goes to work, and goes to bed in pain every single day. It's the humiliation that's killing him. Making him nauseous. Making him want to curl up and disappear. It's the heavy, sticky body driving him into the dirty linoleum floor. It's the hot breath panting on the back of his neck, in his ear, the scrape of the Butcher's mustache when he mouths crudely at his skin. The tears and snot running down his own face and the whimpers and hiccups he can't hold back. He can't be strong like this. All he can do is go limp and wait for it to be over.
It's not even a relief once it is. It's more of the same, Orange's hips bruising on the hard floor from the force of the Butcher's last couple thrusts, animalistic grunting when he finally goes still and shoots his load as deep in his guts as he can reach. And then he's gone, slapping Orange's ass on the way up to his feet, and Orange is cold and empty. Footsteps pace around him, but he doesn't bother raising his head to follow them. What does it matter?
The Blade whistles, apparently quite impressed by what he sees.
"Jesus, is he still alive?"
Unfortunately, yes.
"Pick him up, let me see," Kip directs his henchman.
Orange remains a dead, floppy weight as he's hoisted up, the Blade's hands hooking under his knees and hugging his back to his chest.
"Oh dear, oh dear." Kip's voice drips honey and venom. His eyes are glittering as he approaches, stooping low to put himself face to face with the carnage. "Butch really did a number on you, didn't he?"
Orange whimpers behind the gag, trying in vain to close his legs. Even if he could squeeze his thighs together, this position still wouldn't let him hide anything. He can't see, but he can feel it. He's raw and open, his flesh torn. He feels scraped and hollowed out and filled back up with scum and filth, oozing from a hole too ravaged to hold it in. It's slithering, trailing, down his crack and dripping from his tailbone. Kip's eyes follow the path, and his fingertips trace it back up to the source. Orange twists and struggles in the Blade's grasp as he pushes it back inside him, fucks him with his fingers just for fun.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic, clementine. You've taken worse, haven't you? My fighting champion. You can take more than this. You're going to take more."
Orange sobs. Kip grins and looks straight into his bloodshot blue eyes while he holds the Blade's cock at his gaping entrance. The Blade drops him down, spearing him even deeper than the Butcher had. Ripping his wounds open anew. Bile rises in Orange's throat with nowhere to go. He cries like a child, wailing around his makeshift gag even when the tears stop coming. He cries himself hoarse. Then silent. Then numb. His head lolls forward, too heavy to keep up anymore, and he just watches his own flaccid prick flop with the Blade's thrusts. Distantly, he hears Kip cackling at his pain, but he doesn't feel it so much anymore. Maybe he's bleeding out. He's probably not that lucky, though. Only lucky enough that the Blade doesn't last long.
Orange is dropped back on the floor unceremoniously once the Blade is done with him. Discarded like a broken toy. Shaking, he rolls on his side, away from the trio. He shuts out their laughter, their mockery, and just. Drifts away.
When Orange comes to, he's still alone. Still lying on the floor. He feels the dried blood on his thighs crack as he unstuck them and laboriously rises to his feet. Alone. Nobody even noticed he wasn't around. Nobody came to check on him. Not even Chuck.
He needs to lose that fucking belt. But how can he? He's sacrificed his body, his friends, and now his dignity to keep it.
It's all he has left.
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