Chapter Text
Seagulls streaked through a sky red with an ash-choked sun. Jagged peaks of smoke rose over the city, the thick air lurid with embers. Orange flames bobbed and flickered on a small skiff on the river. Dark clouds rolled in from the northwest on a brisk wind, their bases just a few hundred feet off the ground, the wind shear tearing off filaments of the storm, contorting and merging with the scent of chemicals, burnt metal, and bleeding flesh.
A seagull landed on the pier, its beak gripping the end of a severed thumb.
Jayce Talis knelt on wood slick with soiled water, wrists crossed behind his back with fibrous rope because his captors must have run out of handcuffs and chains. They used the same rope plus a rag stuffed in his mouth to gag him. His back to Piltover, he faced the river and the Undercity. A stream of people were herded by Noxian soldiers through the bridge linking the two cities, dads holding on to the hands of their daughters, toddlers crying in their mothers’ arms. The soldiers paraded through the frightened throng, lofting great crimson banners high in the air, their motion easy and unhurried. There was no one left to resist.
Last time that he had seen Viktor, the lab was on fire. That was forty-six hours ago. He couldn’t be dead. If he was captured, he could be imprisoned in any of the hundreds of Noxian camps in Piltover and beyond.
The high council had just granted Zaun independence a week ago. Jayce and Silco had come to a deal that finally had a chance to work. Jayce had been up all night drawing up the paperwork for peace, or at least the first round of red tape to get out of the way so that the twin cities could mend their broken relationship and start afresh. What went wrong?
Thirty feet ahead of Jayce, Silco threaded past Noxian guards to stand by Ambessa Medarda, an imposing silhouette of metal armor against the city set on fire. She had taken precious little time subduing the City of Progress, sacking its institutions of commerce and knowledge and placing its citizens under house arrest, into camps guarded day and night, or to the sword if they defied her will.
And then she had brought Piltover’s leadership bound and gagged to this pier, kneeling in an anxious line before her as a storm blew in.
Councilor Kiramman stood on her knees at the far end, alert and stiff-straight. Her fierce eyes never once left Ambessa, as if at any moment she’d break out in a scathing critique instead of begging for her life. Shoola was next, remarkably calm and observant, probably missing very little in what went on around her. Bolbok fidgeted endlessly and groaned every once in a while; Jayce didn’t want to think what the Noxians had done to prevent him from speaking. Hoskel was trying to be strong, sniffling back tears, but he slumped further into himself, looking miserable. Salo knelt beside Jayce, jutting his chin out petulantly and working his narrow jaw on the gag. He shook his head and rolled his eyes in Jayce’s direction, as if he were trying to communicate how absurd it was that the conquered nobility were being treated like cattle getting shipped to market. Jayce couldn’t give a shit about whatever personal argument Salo was having with himself.
Mel wasn’t here. Was that a good thing? Surely Ambessa wouldn’t hurt her own daughter?
A few drops of rain fell on Jayce’s forehead. The wind kicked up his hair and chilled his right side, rustling up his white suit. But he stood up straighter on his knees, as a broad-shouldered soldier strode along the line of imprisoned councilors. Heavy set and armored, with a beard fanning out from his noble chin, he kept watch on them with a steady gaze, resting on each as he passed. His eyes lingered on Jayce.
Jayce returned the eye contact, strong enough that heat flushed into his cheeks. It was one of the few choices afforded him, the least that he could do that wasn’t yet another act of compliance. He had seen this soldier accompanying Ambessa before; the two seemed inseparable. The man’s mohawk looked aggressive but his expression appeared neutral enough. A few piercings and a small tattoo on his face, a face that still peered back at him.
Jayce finally looked away, turning his attention to water pooling on the pier. He breathed heavily as the man walked past. The soldier’s weapon splashed the pool, a spear with a blade as thick as a sword. It glistened with fresh blood.
The soldier parted to the side. Ambessa strode up, arrayed in a crimson sash that rippled over her armor and muscled body. The wind barely budged the kinks in her dark gray hair. Her eyes roved over the line of prisoners before her who just days ago had been her hosts in a welcoming land. If she felt any guilt for this breach of trust, she betrayed no hint of it. She carried herself with all the grace of a victor who had yet another unpleasant task to perform. Her jaw set, as she stood before the councilors.
“Rictus.” She nodded to the soldier, who walked to the end of the line where Councilor Kiramman knelt. Something flickered in the councilor’s eyes, as he came to stand before her.
Then he swung his spear at mid-level, the large blade whistling through the air. There was a crack. Her head fell to the ground.
Just her head.
God no.
Choked screams through gags, bodies shoving, but that didn’t stop the blade splitting through more vertebrae. Shoola’s head fell.
An execution.
Jayce couldn’t move. Blood pounded in his brain. He blinked, and Bolbok’s mechanical face rolled onto the wet planks of wood several feet away.
He watched, transfixed, as Salo and Hoskel bolted up. The blade beheaded Hoskel before he made it to his feet. Salo kept running. Another soldier threw a spear, impaling Salo in the chest straight through his back. He collapsed with a squelching sound, pools of red under his body. The water inked around Jayce in deep crimson.
Rictus turned his way. There were no more councilors between them.
Jayce just stared. A knot heaved into his throat, but he didn’t throw up. His pulse throbbed like he’d been screaming at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t make a sound. Adrenaline flushed through his body, aching like hell, but he didn’t use it.
He just took a breath and stared at Rictus as he walked up to him. The man was sprayed with blood; he adjusted the spear in his hand.
The image of a casket came to Jayce. His mom would have to bury a headless corpse. He never would get the chance to tell Caitlyn how her mother died.
He closed his eyes, breaths sharp and labored. Cries of seagulls circled above. Mel would be alone. She could never go back to Noxus, and Piltover was finished. She–
Flames licking up walls, glass vials breaking in the heat. Viktor held out his hand desperately, body behind a wall of fire that smelt of evaporated lab chemicals. Jayce couldn’t reach him. Surely everything they had built together was burnt to the ground. There was only Viktor, and he couldn’t even save him. The Noxians dragged Jayce away. If the fire didn’t get Viktor, then his terminal illness would, dooming him in some squalid camp as he lay on a cot by himself, coughing up blood. There would be no one to hold his hand, as he breathed his last, falling asleep, never waking.
Jayce’s chin was lifted. He flinched – eyes flying open.
Rictus was staring down at him. God, what now?
The soldier was searching his features, the curl of his thick forefinger under Jayce’s throat with enough pressure to keep his head angled up, enough for the man to get a good look at him. Jayce’s body heaved with each lungful of air that he was still allowed to take for who knows how many more seconds longer.
At the edge of his vision, bodies were being dragged and dumped in the river. Ambessa stepped closer.
“I want him,” Rictus said. He let go, Jayce’s head bowing as the pressure left.
“You sure?” She sounded more curious than critical.
Rictus nodded. Ambessa turned around and strode back to the line of soldiers at the edge of the pier. “Move out!” The line instantly tightened and rippled with activity.
“Get on your feet,” Rictus told him. He slid his hand under Jayce’s armpit, pulling him up, then guided him toward the coach that had brought him here. Jayce glanced back. He couldn’t tell where the current had taken Councilor Kiramman’s body, or if she had been dragged under the turbulence of the coming storm.
He was shut inside the coach’s dark interior, heavy screens blocking out most light. The seats around him were empty. The carriage jostled with a start, the rattle of the road thrumming deep in his bones. He sat there, eyes wide open despite the darkness. They really were dead. All of them.
The sharp crack rang in his ears again. His throat tightened. No—just, no. Think about something else, anything.
He sat there, in the dark, focusing on the rumbling of the wheels below, more rough than smooth. Poor paving, which meant a less-favored district of Piltover. Pebbles pinged off the metal siding. Pings and jitters, on and on.
Rictus wanted him. For what? And after whatever that was, then he’d kill Jayce?
Maybe his fate was merely postponed. Surely Ambessa Medarda wouldn’t leave a single leader alive of a nation that she had subjugated? Can’t risk a rebellion, right?
No one would know where they would dump his body, if it was still in one piece at the end of all this. Just like the others, a nameless grave. How much would it hurt? Quick or slow? Could he be as strong as Kiramman? Those bright blue eyes, so fierce and unyielding, so hard to read. Surely underneath that strength, she knew that she was going to die.
His jaws clenched on the gag. He let her down. He let all of them down. Somehow his peace deal unraveled and destroyed everything. People were dead because of him, and he didn’t even know why. Was he just a patsy, Silco planning to ally with Ambessa all along, or did he say something wrong that soured negotiations? He must have missed all the signs.
Thunder grumbled above, and suddenly a thousand little hammers pounded on the roof of the carriage as the sky unleashed its downpour. Wheels slid and squelched loudly, getting sucked into the muck, traveling off the main road. They sounded too much like Salo’s chest imploding.
He didn’t know most of the councilors well enough to identify their next-of-kin; surely the Noxians hadn’t destroyed all the records of the noble families. He likely would never get the opportunity to notify their families of their deaths.
Tears moistened his face, but he didn’t sob. He wished that he would. The knot in his stomach hurt, and his head throbbed with a headache. His throat was so dry; he couldn’t remember when he last took a sip of water. Yet his mind raced with esoteric matters of duty, succession, and rule under invasion. Until he knew what happened to Mel, he was the last councilor standing. Leadership fell to him, for as long as he remained alive. If his own death was imminent, he needed to find Mel to take over or, if she was already dead, to identify the successors to Piltover’s leadership. These individuals would need to know how to govern under duress, to give hope to a people suffering and demoralized, and to organize a resistance strong enough to overthrow a Noxian invasion force.
He leaned back, head against wood, jostling with the rough pace of travel. Rain pummeled his world from above, leaking through the screens, turning dark wood even darker. Everything – so impossibly frenetic, all directions all at once, demanding his attention every single second. He would have no rest.
If only he could see Viktor again and make sure that he was safe.
He adjusted his bound hands, wincing as he rubbed his own wrists against the constraint of the tough rope, just so that he could feel the smoothly worn surface of the rune on his wrist. Before everything went to hell, he had planned to take that rune out of its leather casing and cut it down into a gemstone. A jewel fit for an engagement ring.
How many times, in so many different ways, had he imagined coming up to Viktor, clearing his throat –
In the lab amidst blueprints for Hextech, surrounded by the dream that Viktor allowed him to believe in once again. Viktor sitting at his stool, crutch leaning on the table, eyes blood-shot as he pulled another all-nighter. Jayce would get down on one knee, and every thorny calculation would melt away.
Or somewhere in the Undercity that meant something to Viktor’s younger self, the place that molded the man through suffering and endurance, carrying memories too tender-wounded to be spoken aloud. Jayce would take both his hands and whisper a life-changing question, and maybe even that kind of memory would be forgotten.
Or an alpine field of flowers and melted snow, where Jayce once had his life saved by a stranger who gifted him his purpose. Jayce would lift Viktor high in his arms, getting him to laugh and feel the sun on his face. He would fall into the grass with him, gazing into eyes that ached like the sweetest poison. He would drink of Viktor until his corpse was numb and dreamless. Words would fade entirely, intention and desire conveyed through heart alone.
It took Viktor’s fatal prognosis for him to see the light, and now it was too late – for everything.
Too late to share that light with Mel, to sweep her into his and Viktor’s world. He had fallen for her so early – an impossible height that dazzled him like ascending a mountain at sunrise. Nothing felt impossible cresting that peak and glimpsing the world on the other side – teeming with life and promises below your feet. She had been patient as he adjusted to the rarefied air at this elevation, guiding him past fatal crags and sharing the joy of discovery and accomplishment, to do and see what so few have done before. And she held his hand, as night fell and harsh winds twisted trees into ghosts of themselves. He stood firm because she was there first, a wanderer alone on the mountain.
Viktor made him feel seen, and Mel helped him to see. Without either, he was blind and invisible.
The rhythm of the carriage jerked to a halt. A gust of wind slammed into the compartment, the cold cutting into Jayce. His body went rigid. This was it, the next phase of the endless nightmare, where dreams no longer mattered and choices ceased to exist. The world had been shot to pieces, and it was either his job to put it back together or none of his damn business in the first place.
Rictus opened the door; even this weak light took adjusting to after spending time in darkness. It was evening, deep orange rimming the western horizon, a sliver of brilliant rays breaking out below the low clouds. The rain had stopped for now except for a small dusting of droplets from a murky gray sky. The wind was still kicking up a fit, chilling Jayce to the bone as he was pulled out of the carriage.
“Careful, don’t slip,” Rictus said, large hands gripping Jayce on either side of his shoulders, steadying him on the sloshy mud of what was presumably an unpaved road. Maybe he thought Jayce was the fragile sort of Piltover elite that never set eyes on dirt before, but at least he said it politely.
Was this the middle of nowhere? City lights and untamed fires twinkled in the distance, and everywhere else was open wet land covered in tents and soldiers and people. Refugees — or prisoners — formed a line at the shore of the river, hemmed in by guards holding spears. Most of the people looked hungry and bone-tired, their clothing soiled with dirt and dried blood. Several individuals crouched or held their limbs close to their bodies – clearly in pain. Each had an open wound gashing through their torso, their leg, their face. Did Noxus run out of bandages and medicine, too, or was this just how they did war?
The flicker of anger died quickly, as Jayce was led carefully through the maze of tents, Rictus gripping his arm and avoiding the deepest pools of muck. Jayce wished that Rictus would get him sprayed with mud; at least he’d fit in with the rest who were forced to suffer here. His gold-trimmed white suit was just one more reminder that Jayce Talis was the person responsible for getting everyone into this hell.
Rictus halted at a large tent surrounded by nameless other tents, soldiers and servants milling through the paths between them. Some children lay in the mud outside another tent, asleep with exhaustion. Maybe they hadn’t eaten all day.
“Come in.” Rictus brought Jayce into the tent, securing the flap closed behind them. He left Jayce standing near the entrance as he started a fire in the cold campfire under the center of the tent, its apex perforated with several slits to allow smoke to escape. The stones were wet, but Rictus found dry kindling in a pile of supplies that took up most of the space of the tent’s right side, leaving room only for a basin of water. Still, the rest of the tent was surprisingly roomy, enough for Jayce to stand upright, which made sense since Rictus was taller than him and wouldn’t want to stoop in his own home-away-from-home. This was Rictus’ personal tent. There wasn’t really any furniture, except for a thick layer of furs sprawled on the floor to the left in what was presumably a bed.
Jayce really didn’t like this. Heat crawled up his collar, and he chanced to look behind. The flap was shut with a simple knot, the lower part of the fabric stirring with the wind outside. If he made it out there, he would face dozens of soldiers from here to the river. Were there any boats? Could he steal a carriage and make for Piltover at top speed? That assumed that he could get out of these bonds first, that he wouldn’t get speared in the back, or that he wouldn’t face immediate capture upon his return to the city.
Hastily, he looked forward again, but he found that Rictus already had eyes on him. The fire crackled alive, glinting off the dark hulk of his silhouette. He rose up. Jayce didn’t move. His pulse jumped as Rictus walked up to him, towering above, and brought his impossibly large hands around Jayce’s back. He was embraced, his chest against the jut of Rictus’ armor. Jayce almost swallowed the rag in his mouth as those fingers reached into his hair, carding through the strands and smoothing out what the wind had tangled.
“You are beautiful,” Rictus spoke calmly. He cupped Jayce’s jawline, encouraging Jayce to look up and meet his gaze. “I know you are frightened. Don’t be. Try to relax. Just take a deep breath, that’s it.”
Rictus looked pleased, as Jayce inhaled deeply, lungs filling with smoky air and the man’s warm breath. Adrenaline shot through his body. It was happening again. Why was he completely blind to signs of sexual attraction? At least Mel was a pleasant surprise; this wasn’t. He couldn’t get out of this.
Rictus stroked his face. His large forefinger tried to tame Jayce’s cowlick, but it was too stubborn. Rictus stepped back, letting Jayce go.
“Please, lie down on the bed.”
Jayce’s jaw tightened on the gag, hands fisting behind his back. He almost didn’t hear Rictus over the blood pumping in his ears. Shit.
He shook his head.
Please don’t make me do this.
Rictus didn’t go after him or force him down. He kept up the warm eye contact and the steady voice. “Jayce,” he said his name, like it was a new and delicate type of weapon that required careful handling, “you know you will be in my bed eventually.”
Eventually. Rictus may have spoken softly, but there was no mistaking the intention behind his words. The man who had beheaded Piltover’s council had no need to raise his voice to get what he wanted.
Jayce walked over to the furs spread on the floor and knelt in the center, the second time today on his knees. He brought his elbow down and pushed his legs out. He eased down on his back, soft hairs of the pelt enveloping him. A small choke escaped him, muffled through the gag, as he settled in, every instinct screaming at him that this was a terrible mistake. The biggest in his life. Once Rictus was on top of him, there’d be no going back—you can’t undo this type of nightmare. Watching people he knew get killed—that was him as a bystander to disaster. This was the real thing. Maybe he didn’t have much time after this, maybe he was destined to die soon anyway. Why sacrifice himself to this debasement, why—
He forced himself to breathe through his nose, the gag growing unbearable. Rictus was on the other side of the tent, removing his armor, the chest plate clinking to the ground. When did he set eyes on him? At the spa, while Ambessa intimidated Jayce as she emerged naked out of the pool? Or was this a last minute whim on the pier, hot off the blood of Jayce’s fellow councilors?
As Rictus rose up, moving in his direction again, he couldn’t stop thinking of the class on history, part one, that he tried to swap out for another mechanics class, to no avail. He dozed through some of the lectures on battles long before his time, none dated in Piltover’s period because Piltover never faced something as backward as war. Invasions of conquest happened to other people. But he remembered a couple old drawings from his textbook, women and men of the local land gathered together and forced to pleasure the invading army. It was more about power and domination than anything as innocent as attraction.
Rictus still wore his tunic, leather loincloth, and leg wrappings, having only removed the armor. From this far below, Rictus standing over him was like a mountain peering to the bottom of a ravine — terrifying in height and breadth, rocks falling down any minute to crush and suffocate Jayce.
And all Jayce could conjure up were pages from a textbook. Knowledge couldn’t save him now, nothing could. He snatched a breath, as Rictus stooped over him and began removing his boots. Jayce lifted his feet instinctively, feeling dirty with the simple act of compliance. Next, his socks were pulled off. Those fingers lingered on the fabric of his trousers, pressing into the muscle of his calves. “Very nice,” Rictus approved. “You work with your body.”
Jayce nodded stupidly. Most inventors and scientists didn’t put the time and effort into building up their bodies like Jayce did; he was a bit of an anomaly at the Academy and sort of proud of it. But he was no warrior. Muscle to him was a means to creation — to kick metal into shape and craft dreams out of molten fire. It was never meant for destruction or harm.
Rictus crawled up along his body, hooking hands under his waistband. Jayce jerked, but did nothing more as Rictus pulled his trousers down. The furs betrayed him with their softness against his bare skin but the air told the truth—cold and bitter. The campfire did nothing to temper its sting. Night was falling, and so was he.
He blinked back moisture from his eyes, heat rising into his cheeks. He wouldn’t cry when nothing had even started yet. His briefs were still on, for fuck’s sake. Not in front of Rictus.
Unfortunately, Rictus noticed and left Jayce’s legs behind as he walked on hands and knees, either side of Jayce, until they were face-to-face. Even with a neutral expression, viewing this man this close up just reeked of pure intimidation. The hairs of his mustache stirred with his hot breath. Clearly visible were the fine lines of the small tattoo between his eyes and the studs above his right eye and below his mouth. Such intense light brown eyes, rimmed below with black eyeliner.
Viktor wore eyeliner. Why would Jayce be thinking of that at a time like this?
Somehow, Jayce felt his pulse levelling off as the eye contact deepened, breath growing steady. He met Rictus and didn’t look away. He must have looked ridiculous gagged, but he squared his shoulders anyway. Despite everything, he still had that choice.
“That’s it,” Rictus whispered, “just relax.” He laid a hand on Jayce’s chest, stroking over his tie, then moving to his heart. “You are a noble thing and very proud.” Rictus smiled down at him, eyes glancing over his features, the breeder to his purebred stallion. Is that how he saw Jayce, something beautiful to be tamed?
“We both had a long day,” said Rictus. “It’s getting cold outside. We can keep each other warm tonight.” He broke his gaze as he stood up. “You won’t wait long.”
Rictus went over to the supply-side of the tent again, rummaging through metal containers, wooden boxes, and frivolous items like empty glass bottles and quills. Jayce broke out in a sweat, the tension fraying his nerves. Long day was an understatement for his experience, though he supposed that killing off his general’s enemies all day would tire Rictus as well. True to his word, Rictus soon returned holding a squat, clear glass jar filled with something pale yellow-cream. Lard – for lube. He came back down on his knees, laying the jar to the side, as his attention fell to the last meager obstacle remaining between him and Jayce.
Jayce felt strong fingers grasp his briefs. He was at a crossroads on how best to react. Vulnerability only meant humiliation, but apparently any trace of resistance turned Rictus on. There was no winning. He hated that he came up with the stallion image, because now he couldn’t get it out of his head. He worked on his gag like some frustrating bridle. He had realized, always too late, what a sucker he was for the roles that people gave him, whether as the poster boy of Hextech or a councilmember embroiled in politics, a role that he was still stuck playing. Once handed a role, he could get lost in it. That sort of power over a person can change how they see themselves.
His briefs were pulled down his legs, momentarily pulling at the ankles before slipping off his toes. Jayce kept his legs pressed close together. He wasn’t going to make it easy. Rictus didn’t dwell on the victory of rendering Jayce half-naked but crouched with renewed intent, fresh hunger infusing his energy. “Spread your legs,” he commanded, but Jayce kept still.
Rictus reached over and fondled his cock. Jayce sucked in air, eyes widening as the pressure of two stout fingers pinched around his tip, then the whole hand closed in – and squeezed. Jayce gasped through the gag, chest rising, fighting the urge to squirm or move away, anything not to give away the pain. He stared at the tent slope above as it jerked with the wind. His thighs were pressed open by a hand, then forced further apart by a knee, and he couldn’t stop it.
Rictus let go of his cock and used both hands on Jayce, grasping his thighs and pushing him apart until Jayce’s legs were spread far on either side, readied like a woman giving birth. Rictus drew in close, grinding his thighs against Jayce to keep him open. Jayce ached with this fruitless quest, muscles tense attempting to deny Rictus access that he was already destined to gain. He shivered slightly, refusing to look but frightened as hell as Rictus unscrewed the jar cap.
A thick finger pushed into Jayce, knobby and slick with fatty lubricant. Jayce refused to groan as his walls were forced open. Rictus had made it inside him and was preparing him for a more difficult task ahead. Just one of his large fingers was already uncomfortable; he dreaded the prospect of swallowing more of Rictus.
His breaths were shallow and fast, wet beads under his eyelids, as Rictus stuffed him full of lard. The oily fat caked in a thick layer inside him as the finger thrust in-and-out, pushing the lube deeper in his canal and testing Jayce’s suppleness. He lay as patient as a corpse tended to by an embalmer with eager hands. Rictus leaned over him. “Are you good?”
Why Rictus maintained this farce of politeness was anybody’s guess. He was kind enough to prepare him, not kind enough to stop the rape. Jayce nodded, because what other response could he give?
He was already arched due to his wrists bound underneath him. Now he willed his tense body to loosen. What was the point of resistance if it only hurt him and made this shitty day even shittier? He concentrated on his anal muscles, easing them to relax each time Rictus reached further into him. It wasn’t easy, but it was the only way that he was going to survive this night.
“Have you done this before?”
The rape or the anal sex? Black humor aside, Rictus seemed to be asking an honest question, eyes studying Jayce intently. Jayce nodded, and he watched his brows rise in surprise.
Jayce must have had that kind of face that just screamed heterosexual. Everyone in his life assumed the same thing about him; hell, he didn’t even know himself that he was different until a year ago. Viktor opened his eyes, almost too late. Everything in their relationship was too little, too late, and too damned by fate to lead anywhere except tragedy and separation. Viktor was dying, and Jayce was here in a tent outside Piltover having sex with a stranger. If he ever escaped, it may not be enough. Viktor may already be gone.
Jayce felt a fire lick up his spine. He sat up, bracing himself on his crossed elbows. He stared down Rictus between his legs. So he wanted to know if he’d done anal? That – and then some. He tried whatever gave his partner the most pleasure. Sex was an act of mutual exploration and adoration. He gave his lovers everything in his soul and body, until they felt more loved than they may have ever felt in their lives. Their happiness meant everything to him. His life was made whole by two of the most remarkable and kind people whom he had ever met, and may Jayce Talis be cursed by the Arcane if he failed to find and protect them from this hell.
He nodded vigorously, heaving with breath, anger coursing through his body. Rictus better make his move, because this was as ready as Jayce was ever going to be.
Rictus drew in close to Jayce and cupped his jaw in his large hand, his finger still inside him. His eyes lit up, and he spoke a phrase that Jayce didn’t understand, words in the native tongue of Noxus. Then he pushed Jayce’s chest down. He kept the pressure, as he removed his finger and pulled up Jayce’s left leg over his shoulder. This position opened direct access to the anus for deeper thrusting. Jayce kept his breathing steady, hoping the lube and his own adrenaline would help him get through this. He couldn’t see the size of Rictus’ penis, since his leather loincloth blocked it from view, but he could feel Rictus guiding himself into position.
There—he found the hole. Jayce tried to calm himself, as he was pressured by the hand on his chest and the tip entering him – unsurprisingly big but still somewhat tender, which meant he had room to grow. Rictus knelt and steadily penetrated, licking his lips as the lube allowed him to slide into place. He glanced in Jayce’s direction, as if anticipating a reaction. Jayce was tense in his facial muscles even as he worked to loosen himself for Rictus. It was a really big dick. He probably had taken something of this size before, when he and Viktor experimented with Hexstrap double penetration, but they had given the task weeks of gradual preparation so Jayce could accommodate larger sizes. Viktor was gentle and communicated through every step. Now Jayce worried that not only was he not prepared enough, but that Rictus would care little about his level of pain or the limits of his body. Jayce could tear, which would be really painful and could lead to infection if left untreated.
Jayce forced passivity into his muscles, laying himself completely in the open for Rictus as the man expanded into his body. Rictus let go of his chest and brought a hand to pull one butt cheek further apart, widening Jayce’s hole for himself. His other hand held Jayce’s leg over his shoulder. He sunk deeply into Jayce.
Jayce gasped, eyelids fluttering. His chest bobbed three times for air. He felt impaled to the ground, the weapon pulsing hot and sharp inside him, the immense strain to hold it in gradiating into pain. He couldn’t help it – his ass screwed tight, which had the effect of his canal sucking closed around Rictus like air escaping from a vacuum. It must have felt fucking good to Rictus, because his lips parted and his hands clenched into Jayce. Crucially, his cock grew thick and hard inside him.
Shit. Jayce felt tears forming in his eyes. He was just so damn full, the invasion cutting deep as tremors ran through his body. He swallowed and blinked back the moisture, trying to rein in his vulnerability.
Rictus watched him, a new, ragged hunger heaving through the man above. His eyes narrowed as he leaned over Jayce. “This is how I like you, councilor.”
His hands gripped flesh tightly. He slid his dick out, then executed a clean, sharp thrust into the body below him. For Jayce, he may as well have been lying on the battlefield as the enemy cleaved him in two. He was on that pier, getting his throat slit. Except that he didn’t die with the first blow, or the second, or the third or fourth or fifth. Rictus was a professional, and he knew how far to push his victims to keep bearing the pain and still survive.
Jayce moaned through the gag, throat tight and ass even tighter. Rictus rode him like the stallion that he was, captured and put to work. And the work was punishment for the crime of standing in the way of Noxus, for being a human body in its path to power and glory, everything cut down and bent to its will. Lust and cruelty burned in those eyes, sex indistinguishable from violence.
He thought of his mother and hoped she was safe under house arrest, worrying for her son, instead of suffering like Jayce was right now.
Whatever small mercies that he received earlier, were gone now. Rictus grunted with the brute effort of fucking Jayce, powerful hips plunging in and out like a piston. Jayce shook his head, desperate for the pace to slow down, but Rictus grabbed his hair and held him down, immobilizing his last means of communication. Fucking dammit. Tears squeezed out of him as he was forced to swallow his tormentor over and over, to stare into a face that wanted to see him bleed.
When Rictus hit his prostate, Jayce choked on his gag, vision blurring and body seared with agonizing heat. His hips bucked, trapped underneath Rictus. The next thrust rammed into his wall, the misalignment tearing through tissue. Jayce whined but couldn’t scream. His mind went numb with pain. He stopped breathing, body shaking, utterly helpless as every nerve ending lit up at once. The fucking did not stop, the cock carving him up like raw meat on a slab.
He refused to breathe. The self-imposed asphyxiation was his only distraction, first with the fretting pressure of his lungs crying for air, then the soft fog that followed, seeping through his brain until the sex blurred together, just a jumble of sweating, jostling bodies, his own self far away and somewhere else where agony was dimmed like a sun behind smoke.
Rictus slapped him. “Wake up!” Jayce gasped for air, choking and gagging, as Rictus cut off his futile attempt to escape even for a little while. He knew that he was bleeding. He didn’t know how much more that he could take.
Rictus was sweating over him, mouth clenched tight and eyes zoning out. He let out a loud groan and pushed himself deep into Jayce as his dick jerked with life. The stiff shaft began to vibrate, pumping out cum. Jayce felt a new pressure filling him and a new form of degradation. It was such a small thing, but now this man would merge with him and become a part of his body, and he never had a choice in that. It was an ugly symbol of everything that he was forced to endure. He was stripped, barren, exhausted, and alone.
He didn’t make a sound, as Rictus elbowed his chest and emptied himself into his captive. That powerful body relaxed, even whimpered in some realm of pleasure far removed from Jayce’s world. Jayce kept silent. Let the man enjoy his damn orgasm in peace; after all, that’s what this was all about.
Rictus took his time. He let his softening cock sit in his own juices inside Jayce as he wiped his forehead of sweat. He exhaled and sat back, staring off into the ceiling of the tent, mind somewhere, on the battle, his home, or the last dregs of desire. Wherever he was, he looked at peace and satisfied.
He finally got up, laying Jayce’s leg to the side and pulling his cock out. He went over to the basin of water on the far side of the tent, splashing his face.
Was it really over? Jayce pulled his legs together, but a sharp pain stabbed through him. He rolled to his right side, facing Rictus, too uncomfortable to lie on his buttocks. He was so tender and aching all over, but the pain was deeper and more persistent in his bruised anus. It felt as if someone had pushed a row of little spikes into his rectum, and there was no way to get them out. Just how injured was he? Would his wounds be left untreated, like with the people by the river?
Jayce rocked himself quietly. The cool night air chilled his exposed lower body. The wind sighed through the fabric of the tent. It was impossible to tell how late it was. Would everyone be asleep? Now that Rictus had gotten what he wanted out of him, had Jayce’s usefulness come to an end?
Rictus stamped out the dying campfire, plunging everything into darkness. His footsteps neared the bed of furs. For a frightening moment, Jayce thought that he would get fucked a second time. Rictus laid down behind him and drew in close, embracing Jayce’s body in his arms. Jayce’s bound hands slotted into the warm confinement of the large body enfolding him, fingers curled against the leather loincloth. He waited for the leather to be lifted, for Rictus to feel him up again and enter his ruined hole once more. But the man tugged at a loose pelt instead, finally pulling it free and throwing it over both their bodies. He settled in, holding Jayce captive against him. His breath warmed the back of Jayce’s skull.
“I liked that, Jayce. I like being inside you.”
His fingers moved down Jayce’s naked buttocks and slid into his hole. Jayce breathed sharply as Rictus tested his torn rim, the flesh sparking raw and loose under his hand. Rictus backed off, bringing his hand back to embrace Jayce’s chest. “Got carried away there,” he admitted. “Your injuries will be dealt with in the morning.”
Rictus slipped his large hand around Jayce’s throat, pressuring his windpipe gently yet insistently with his thumb. His voice spoke softly into Jayce’s ear. “You are warm and safe in my bed tonight. The rest lie at the bottom of the river, feeding the fishes. Count yourself lucky, Golden Boy.”
His grip tightened. Jayce could hear his teeth clenching as he spoke. “You never had it hard in life. People like you, all pampered and parties and prestige. You are all the same.”
The tone grew cool, the grip easing just enough to imply that he wouldn’t strangle Jayce right there in his bed. “Now you have earned my satisfaction, and I expect you to keep earning it. Do you understand me?”
Jayce felt anxiety and fear knot in his throat, the fast thrum of his pulse that would never slow, the prospect of the never-ending nightmare stretching out before him as far as the horizon and beyond, overtaking every dream and hope and conscious thought. His world – reduced to nothing but pain and terror. He must earn his survival, and the cost was this. He nodded his head.
Rictus let go of his throat, the hand returning to rest on his chest. “Good. Now go to sleep.”