Bandom Fic: a thousand ways to kneel
Happy Valentine people, have some slave!fic. I've been sitting on this for months so I thought I'd finally post.
Title: a thousand ways to kneel
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Pairing/Category: pre-slash Jon/Spencer and Brendon/Ryan, slave!AU (shut up, this is so not my fault)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~ 1300
Disclaimer: Not true. In so many ways is this not true.
Summary: Spencer is at the market against his will and his conscience.
Author notes: *sigh of epic proportions* This fic, like so many other questionable things, is entirely pushkin666 ’s fault so point all your accusing fingers in her direction. Thank you to zeitheist , who laughed to my face when I sent the fic to her but who still did a marvellous beta-job on it (even though I totally didn't listen to her about some things). That’s true friendship right there. Title from a poem by Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi.
Author’s warning: This fic is like an opening chapter to an epic Bandom slave!AU that I will most likely never ever write. It’s a self-contained snapshot that introduces ideas but doesn’t deliver any resolutions. I make no guarantees of ever continuing this verse so please bear that in mind when reading.
a thousand ways to kneel
Spencer is at the market against his will and his conscience.
“You know you have to,” Ryan had said, practically dragging him out of the house. “You’re of age now. If you don’t buy yourself a slave, your father will just get you one himself. Do you really want that?”
Spencer really doesn’t. Knowing his father’s taste, he would probably end up with some poor, vacant-eyed soul, all personality beaten out of them three owners past.
“You can’t change the system from the outside .Tell him, Brendon.”
“Yes, Master. Anything you say, Master.” Brendon’s face is respectful enough to fool a casual observer, but they don’t see the mischievous glint of his eyes or the way he walks just a little bit closer to Ryan and Spencer than is strictly appropriate.
“Oh shut up.” Ryan wraps his fingers around Brendon’s wrist, tugging him to his side. It earns them a few stares, but the intricate swirls of henna on the side of Brendon’s neck and the matching ones on Ryan’s exposed forearm mark their bond as exclusive and extremely private. No one dares to intervene.
“Of course, Master,” Brendon says and Ryan rolls his eyes. Spencer laughs and, for a while, his heart feels lighter.
It doesn’t last long.
The noise of the slave market hits him first, rapidly followed by the smell; over-cooked food, unwashed bodies and the permeating stench of resignation.
“God, Ryan. I don’t want to do this,” Spencer says, coming to a standstill just inside the gates. He turns around, but Ryan isn’t there.
Spencer retraces their steps back to the shadow of the high stone wall surrounding the market and finds Brendon huddled against it, wide-eyed and breathing too fast. Ryan is talking; his voice low and measured, his hand still tight around Brendon’s wrist.
Spencer takes the scene in and curses himself for a fool. It’s less than a year since they came here on Ryan’s twenty-first birthday, less than a year since they found Brendon, gagged and hogtied like an animal waiting for slaughter.
“I’m sorry, Brendon,” he says, but it’s clear that Brendon doesn’t hear him.
Spencer touches Ryan’s sleeve briefly, careful not to break his concentration. “Go home. Take Brendon and go home. I’ll be fine.”
Ryan casts him a sidelong glance, part gratitude, part worry, and a lot of anger at himself for misjudging the situation this badly.
Spencer knows there’s nothing he can do about the last one; it’s Ryan’s mistake to fix. “I promise I’ll get someone,” he says instead, trying to convince Ryan that he can do this on his own.
Finally Ryan nods, gathering Brendon up like a rag doll. Spencer watches them walk away, the crowded street swallowing them both in seconds.
He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, turning back around to head to the heart of the slave market. He hates this, but Ryan is right; it’s something that he needs to do.
Spencer wanders around aimlessly for half an hour. The cut of his clothes and hair, the fresh lines of colour peeking under his sleeve all mark him as wealthy and newly of age. It makes the traders bold and eager, scurrying from their stalls like rodents, eyes black and glinting with greed. Spencer sends them all back without a word, the disdainful sneer on his face only half fake.
He passes pen after cage after makeshift stage, all of them full of men and women in various stages of undress and acceptance. Some of them stand still and solemn, some are weeping quietly and covering their faces with rags, a few are cursing in languages Spencer doesn’t need to speak to understand.
He keeps his face impassive but inside he’s growing more and more desperate. How is he supposed to take one of these people home, to make them his? He thinks how his father and his business associates treat their slaves, what they use them for, and his stomach turns.
Spencer knows that what goes on in his father’s household (not Spencer’s, not anymore, and there’s something positive about becoming an adult after all) is not the norm, but it’s what he’s grown up with. Spencer sighs, annoyed at himself, at his weakness. He stops in the middle of the street, closes his eyes and pictures Ryan; the way he looked on his birthday morning, pale and determined, standing on the curb with nothing but the clothes on his back.
Where you grow up doesn’t have to dictate what you do with your life.
When Spencer opens his eyes he finds he’s standing in front of a holding area for new slaves, not yet sorted according to skill or function. On the other side of the iron bars, there’s a man, maybe a few years older than Spencer, with broad shoulders and unruly hair that flops over his dark eyes.
He’s smiling.
Spencer takes a step closer. The man doesn’t back away. His smile widens.
Spencer stares for a long moment and the man stares back; not confrontationally, not defiantly, just a steady, unwavering look that sees more than Spencer is entirely comfortable with.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks.
The affable expression doesn’t falter, but something darker shifts briefly across the man’s eyes. He says nothing.
Spencer finds that he doesn’t much like being ignored. “Come here,” he commands. “Why are you smiling?” He feels his body growing still and focused, can hear his own voice as if from a distance, low and not unkind but with an edge to it that cuts through the man’s indifference, makes him obey.
They’re standing close enough to touch. Spencer imagines slipping a hand between the bars, wrapping it around the man’s forearm, hard enough to leave bruises. He has to fight to keep still.
“Because it unnerves them,” the man says, nodding toward the cluster of slave traders on the side of the enclosure.
Spencer blinks and just like that the tension of the day melts away, leaving him light-headed. Uncomplicated laughter bubbles up from somewhere, spreading warm across his chest. The other man watches cautiously, gauging his reaction before breaking into a matching grin.
At the sight of it Spencer feels all the breath rush out of him, replaced by something hot and fierce. The difference from the earlier is striking; this smile is true and fearless, genuine in a way so little else around them is. Spencer never wants to see the other smile, the fake one, again.
They stand there, grinning at each other for a few long seconds. A discreet cough interrupts them.
“Ah, young sir has a good eye,” one of the silk-clad merchants says, hovering at Spencer’s left elbow. “One of our best new acquisitions, direct from the Northern Territories. A little rough perhaps, but…”
Spencer is not interested in hearing anything the trader has to say. He keeps his eyes on the man in front of him.
“I’m Spencer,” he says. “What’s your name?”
Behind him, the merchant gasps. Spencer has just stepped so far outside the custom that even his high status and fat purse may not keep him out of trouble.
“I do not need to tell you,” the man says quietly. He sounds very sure of himself. Spencer likes that.
“No, you don’t,” he agrees. “But I would like it if you did.” It’s not a command or even a request; Spencer is simply stating a fact.
The man regards him, eyes serious. “Jon,” he says finally. “My name is Jon.”
Spencer nods. “Take what you want,” he says, tossing his purse to the vendor without looking. The coins make a distinctive jingling sound, bright and sharp like chimes in the wind. “He’s coming with me.”
Fin.