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[personal profile] knights_say_nih
This one was for another kinkmeme prompt, featuring slavery.

Same pairing, same rating.  It is basically also a snapshot of all my kinks.

Bane is a bastard. An unmitigated, infantile bastard, and an utter sadist. And John hopes he never stops coming back.

The game is always the same in the beginning. It starts with the protocol. Stripping out of the soft tunic they keep him in, washing every inch of his skin to get the creams and oils and perfumes off, he comes out of Bane's shower and faces him, naked. The man has no patience for the trappings the league requires of their slaves, no love of the soft kohl they do his eyes with or the ornaments they put in his ears.

He wants John to face him like a man, and John is all too happy to rise to the occasion.

Until the orders start. Then he mostly wants to punch Bane in the face.


The first time Bane sends for him, he's terrified. Rightly so. His body is already bruised and sore; whenever a group of them comes back from a long mission, the whole harem ends up spending the first week overworked and shivery, close to tears and fraught. John is no exception.

Bane looks thoughtfully at the ragged story of teeth marks down John's throat and chest, the wild scratches on him, his bruises and little cuts.

"Have you been seen to by the medic?" Is the first thing he asks. When John shakes his head there’s no mistaking the 'good' in Bane's eyes.

He rubs antiseptic and ointment into him for hours, nails raking on each scab, fingers rolling every bruise, while John puts his face into his hands and screams and stays still.

"You'll do," says Bane, and then rubs his thumb through John's tears. "I'd like to lick these if I could."

John shudders like he's dying, and when Bane pushes him onto his knees, pushes his mouth onto his cock, part of him knows he never wants to serve anyone else ever again.


One day he's told to stand. Simply stand, how difficult could it be, while Bane rearranges a few plants about him, except oh, they're stinging nettles, and Bane throws a whip at him and makes him dance, brushing and bothering the leaves until he is red faced, blotchy, screaming profanity back at him as he laughs safely from the other side of the flower pots.


With Bane, fast means faster, and even then, nothing is ever fast enough, no problem solved or obstacle scaled. John picks up grains of rice in his teeth for him, bringing them prettily and dropping them into Bane's hand with his arms bound tight behind his back, until his patience with the game goes and he bites down hard on the heel of the mercenary's expectantly extended palm, earning a bellow and a ferocious kick to his thigh.

Bane goes on a mission and John limps the whole time he's gone, thinking of him with every step.


The other slaves whisper about him. Say he's difficult, that his expectations are impossible, that he punishes too hard for demanding so much.

John knows they’re idiots. The tasks are never intended to be succeeded at.

With other slaves, Bane has to make the stipulations impossible in order to get them to the point of failure. With John, he is sometimes able to fan him in such a way that the natural flames of his resentment overtake them and lead to outright defiance.

He gives him a formal teaset to serve, and tells him not to spill a drop, while Bane beats him with a birch wand. The thing is so thin it irritates, more than anything, but keeps jarring his elbows so he has to focus, and is so patently obnoxious that soon the whole tea set ends up tipped over, broken, one cup thrown against the wall, another thrown at Bane's head, startling them both as it cracks against the mask.

For a moment, then, John wonders if he's gone too far and hurt him, but Bane gives him a look of utter shock for his impertinence and then fucks him with ragged joy into the teastained carpet, so hard John feels it for a week.


Gradually, the requests for him from the others diminish. He ages up and out of what is fashionable, pretty, girlish. He has too many marks. One day, John's skin is bristling with clothespins. The next, it is a bleeding mess of needles.

Both leave ugly reminders, to anyone who isn't Bane and doesn't reach for bruises.

John stays still and quiet through both ordeals, but sobs like he's having- well, like he should sob during the other things- when Bane asks him to stand on his hands for a game with rope, crying so hard he thinks he'll suffocate over something from a childhood he doesn't even remember. He can't let Bane touch him after that, screams and locks up whenever he tries for the better part of an hour, chokes down a cup of weak tea and then makes it back to the stalls.

They don't do anything gynmastic again after that.


Bane is human too, though people forget it, and when he comes back with all his ribs broken John makes him hold very still while he goes down on him, whimpering and sucking obscenely and making every move he needs to on his own so that Bane doesn't- because the idiot just won't wait.


He thinks he loves him, or would if it were ever really possible.


John is being oiled by one of the men who does these things, the night Bane comes to find him, guards the slaves and transfers them from stable to bed and back again.

"I've been excommunicated." Bane says, without preamble. John bats placid eyelashes at him.

"I'm leaving. I'll be hunted. Killed if they catch me. I need men. Soldiers."

"My lord, he has an appointment with-" the stable hand starts to protest, and John turns to him in the soapy water, and then punches him, hard, across the face, like he does with Bane when he is using the dragon's tongue to lash just his nipples again and again and again.

The handler isn't Bane, so he goes down cold, and John is aware, suddenly, that his body is strong, has been tested again and again, worked down to a honed blade by impossible tasks, by whole nights spent balanced on one foot, by years of 'faster.' He shakes his hand out, looks down at the slumped body, then up at Bane.

"I can shower and meet you at the gates in ten minutes."

"Make it seven." Says Bane, coolly, as he turns to go, and John grins, ferocious and feral, at his back.

Faster it is.
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April 2013


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