36 - she/her - Boring adult, reclusive creator, and otherwise average individual. This blog is now mainly used for my writing, but sketches/art are occasionally posted as well. Most of my content is 18+ only, no minors welcome!
Hello! I'm Experi, and I have mild obsession with writing. I do as much of it as I can in my spare time, (we all know how crazy real life can be!) and it's about time I created a masterlist.
My writing tends to center around fantasy and/or supernatural genre, dark themes, m/m romance, and (currently, at least) a healthy sprinkling of slavefic. Most of my work is also 18+, so no minors welcome. If any of that interests you, check out my stuff below!
All of my writing can be found on my AO3, so feel free to check it out over there if you prefer!
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An Iron Blood Tale: Iron and Gold
Posted on AO3
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Original Work
Word Count: 186,946
Satus: Complete
Tags/Content Warnings: (abbreviated - see full list on AO3) m/m; whump; fantasy; master/slave; power dynamics; noncon; angst; magic; slow burn; slavery; explicit content
Summary: When Jerre's sheltered life in the quiet seaside village of Worthe is upended one chill autumn night, he's forced to leave the innocence of childhood behind. Captured and enslaved by the infamous Captain Arna Sindri, Jerre finds himself lost in a cruel world governed by strange creatures and unfathomable forces. His only hope for survival is to find some way out, and with the help of his fellow prisoner Emrik, Jerre is awoken to the existence of a mysterious power that he never before knew existed: magic.
There is an old adage, according to Emrik. The world's strongest forces may arise from the smallest of places. Soon enough, Jerre will learn just how clearly those words ring true.
**Posted in full on my AO3. Iron and Gold is book 1 of 2, and I'm currently working on the second installment, Soot and Blood (not yet posted)
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Rowan and Ash
Posted on AO3 and tumblr
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Original Work
Word Count: 29,844
Satus: Ongoing
Tags/Content Warnings: (abbreviated - see full list on AO3) m/m; whump; slavefic, master/slave dynamics, master/pet, captivity & restraints, self harm, power imbalance/power dynamics
Summary: When Ash takes drastic measures in the hopes of escaping his current master, his plan backfires and he suddenly finds himself under the ownership of the notorious Rowan Banks. Known amongst the upper classes as 'The Bulldozers,' Rowan and his brother Carver are corrective handlers, renowned for taking in the worst slaves and beating them back into line. However, when Ash arrives at the Banks brothers' home, he discovers that all the gossip surrounding the duo may not be precisely accurate…
**This story is currently ongoing. It can be read on my AO3, or here on tumblr:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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Wham, Bam!
Posted on AO3
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Original Work
Word Count: 50,744
Satus: Complete
Tags/Content Warnings: (abbreviated - see full list on AO3) m/m romance; fluff and angst; bullying; anxiety; some offensive language; minor violence
Summary: Harvey doesn't have much going for him. He's a quiet, nervous fellow who's resigned himself to a dead-end life in his forgettable Texas town. It's a pathetic existence, but survival is the name of the game, and he's willing to endure it if it means no one will hassle him—until one hot summer afternoon when the unexpected arrival of a pushy stranger tosses all that out the window. Something about the guy draws Harvey in, and he quickly realizes that some things are too good to let pass you by. It's a gamble, sure, but a little risk now and then won't kill him. Or so he hopes, anyways. It's amazing how much your life can change in just four days.
**Posted in full on my AO3
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Thanks for checking my stuff out! lmk if you'd like to be added to my writing tag so you'll know when I post anything new. I'd be happy to add you!
Onto chapter nine, in which Ash settles in and Jules gives Rowan a piece of his mind.
This story is also being posted on my A03
(If you’re wondering what the deal with this story is, or what’s going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)
This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!
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Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, anxiety...this chapter in pretty tame tbh
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 4,202
Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten
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As instructed, Banks called Doctor Curtis back in two day's time to clean the cuts and reapply the sealant. It was a wholly unpleasant experience, and not one Ash was looking forward to repeating every few days. The wounds were tender and sensitive to the slightest prod, but Doctor Curtis had a surprisingly gentle touch. His short, sturdy build and great, wiry grey beard didn't make him look as though he would, but he seemed to be on familiar terms with the Banks brothers and was therefore careful with their property. Ash supposed they'd probably worked together for a long time. Perhaps it was a relationship born of necessity. Perhaps the Banks brothers needed a doctor at beck and call, ready to come and patch up a broken toy at a moment's notice.
The pain medication was a wondrous, beautiful thing, and over the last few days Ash had become awed by the idea that free people could use such luxuries whenever they liked. It wasn't the first time he'd ever used it, but it was certainly the first time he'd been allowed regular access to it. There had been occasions at Sefton's when his physician, Doctor Abbott, had prescribed Ash medication, and Sefton had failed to administer it. Whether it had been intentional cruelty or plain negligence Ash didn't know, but he wanted to make sure that didn't happen now. He'd spent the last few days in quiet, rigid obedience, frightened that one small misstep would cause Banks to punish him by withholding the creature comforts that Ash was, tentatively, growing appreciative of.
Appreciative, and baffled by. It had been a confusing few days. In spite of Banks' talk of training and needing to know what you're comfortable with doing, Banks had hardly laid a hand on Ash—that was, nothing outside the usual, aimless touches he always did. Banks apparently enjoyed casual touch. He was always fidgeting with Ash's hair or brushing a thumb over his cheek, always petting him, until Ash had become so accustomed to it that he no longer flinched when Banks reached for him. Perhaps that was the point.
But Banks did not demand service from Ash, and he did not, as Ash had feared he would, fuck him while the wounds were still healing. He didn't even make Ash suck him again, which was surprising and, in truth, a bit alarming. Not that Ash wanted to have a prick shoved down his throat or be manhandled while the cuts were still raw—he was quite glad to be left alone, thank you kindly—but it did leave him wondering if Banks had been unimpressed with his first performance. That would be cause for concern. Useless bondslaves weren't tolerated. A slave who couldn't please his master was usually sold in short order, and Ash had already been sold to the people meant to fix that sort of thing. He didn't want to know what sort of 'corrective handling' was needed for a pleasure pet who couldn't suck dick satisfactorily.
It was better not to think about it.
In any case, Banks didn't mention it. He focused on other lessons instead. He started to enforce proper etiquette on Ash, no longer allowing small transgressions to slip past unmentioned. If Ash failed to answer a question with a formal Yes, sir or No, sir, it was corrected. If Ash tried to hide his face or turn away from Banks when he was feeling uncomfortable, he was ordered to face him. If they were in the same room together, Ash was expected to use proper form, standing with his hands neatly folded at his front or kneeling at Banks' feet with his back upright and straight, or Banks would chastise him. The corrections were always gentle, spoken in a calm, low tone and never harsh, but each admonishment set Ash's hair standing on end.
They spent most of their time just sharing space. Sometimes Master Rowan would have Ash kneel at his knee while he sat in the lounge or in one of the smaller parlors, simply enjoying the decoration of Ash as he read the newspaper or watched television, sometimes urging Ash to rest his head on his thigh so Banks could card his fingers through Ash's curls. Other times Ash was taken into the large office to sit quietly while Banks scribbled at his desk, sorting through letters, making phone calls, mumbling under his breath. Occasionally Banks would speak to Ash, making a dry remark about some petty comment made by this or that person in one of his letters, as if he expected Ash to find it funny. Ash had very little interest in the things rich people said to one another. He would smile politely all the same, and agree with Master Rowan if that seemed like what he wanted.
Perhaps Banks just wanted Ash to get used to his presence. In practice, though, all it meant was Ash constantly felt like he was walking on eggshells, always nervous he would say or do the wrong thing and pay the price. Lose his pain medication, or lose his meals, or, worse yet, be handed to Master Carver for punishment.
Master Carver. Just the thought of him made Ash shudder. They hadn't seen much of each other since the incident in the workshop. Master Carver was usually busy with Will, both of them locked in the workshop or, more worryingly, in Master Carver's bedroom, with Will's agonized moans bleeding through the closed door.
Will's odd words had stuck in Ash's mind ever since their first conversation. Ash was still confused as to how, exactly, Master Carver's methods could make Will trust him, but in the conversations they'd had since, sitting around the kitchen island at mealtimes while Jules made wry, quipping comments, it almost seemed like Will enjoyed the things Master Carver did to him, or at the very least had some complicated, not precisely unpleasant feelings about them.
Whatever the case, the prospect of being alone with Master Carver still terrified Ash. He reminded Ash of Priest, the chattel camp's holy man, and the wicked delight he'd taken in hurting the camp's prisoners. There were similarities between the two. While Master Carver wasn't as openly vile in his appreciation of torture and rape as Priest had been, he had the same calm, authoritative presence, and the same fondness for manacles, whips, and chains; the teaching of spiritual and behavioral obedience through flagellation, physical bondage, and getting fucked by his cock: that had been Priest's rationalization for his mania. Master Carver seemed much the same, he was just quieter about it. He'd found a way to hide his monstrousness in plain sight, in fine tailored clothes and wealthy society, rather than exiling himself to the slaving rings at the edge of civilization to slither among filth, as Priest had done.
Ash dreaded the day when Master Rowan deemed him ready to be handed off to his older bother. The threat of it was a shadow that loomed over him at all times, making him constantly, vaguely afraid.
Regardless, it didn't seem like that would happen anytime soon. Master Rowan had not brought it up again since those first days. If Ash ever saw Master Carver it was only in passing, or in the presence of Master Rowan. Sometimes, when Banks made Ash sit with him in the office, Master Carver would be at his own desk across the room, sorting through paperwork or making his own calls. Occasionally the brothers would speak to one another, musing on this matter or that. Ash always kept his mouth shut, happy to leave them to it.
The only person he really didn't mind spending time with was Jules.
Surprisingly, Ash found himself warming to Jules. It was true that Jules was someone to be cautious of, being a well-favored, indulged slave who was clearly precious to his master, but there was an open friendliness to Jules that was hard to dislike. He was kind to Ash, and often went out of his way to make Ash feel included. If Ash ever had time alone, Jules would invite him to tag along as he managed the household chores, and Ash, at first too nervous to refuse, found that he actually didn't mind helping fold laundry or polish silver. It gave him something to occupy his mind with, which was better than sitting quietly in his room, growing restless while his thoughts spiraled. Jules always filled the air with easy conversation while they worked, rolling through Ash's awkward silences with tactful grace.
If felt, sometimes, like a secret between them. Ash didn't know if Master Rowan would approve of such behavior. Sefton or Crowle would have never allowed it, but Jules didn't seem at all concerned about getting into trouble. In fact, it wasn't until earlier that day that Ash had finally learned Banks' opinion on the matter.
Late morning had found Ash at loose ends, Banks busy in the office making a slew of calls related to finding a buyer for Will. Master Carver and Will were apparently out of the house on errands all morning, which left the task to Master Rowan. So Ash, glad not to have to sit and listen to a string of one-sided conversations, was shooed from the office, and Jules swooped him up to ask if he'd like to help prepare lunch.
It turned out to be interesting work. Ash had never cooked a proper meal in his life, but Jules excelled at it, buzzing about the kitchen with ease, directing Ash on what to do and when, chatting merrily all the while. Ash helped measure ingredients, retrieve items from the pantry, stir simmering pots—he noticed, though, with a little pang of self-consciousness, that he was not asked to perform any task which required a knife. All the same, Ash found he was enjoying himself as rich scents filled the kitchen. That was, until Banks walked in.
Jules stopped mid-sentence in his description of the bustling Dower's Point fish market where he'd purchased the cod for today's stew, and looked towards the doorway. Ash froze mid-stir, dropping the wooden spoon into the bubbling pot and turning to face Banks guiltily, heart in his throat.
"Good afternoon, sir," Jules greeted. He gave a little bow, which Ash hastily mirrored, and turned back to his work at the counter chopping herbs. "Did you need something?"
Master Rowan's dark eyes flicked between them curiously before landing on Ash, and Ash felt his face heating, the hairs on his neck rising at the thought that he'd been caught doing something wrong. Jules certainly wouldn't get in trouble, favored as he was, so the blame would fall upon Ash—
"Form, Ash," Banks said gently, and Ash quickly corrected his posture, straightening and folding his hands at his front. Banks smiled. "Good boy. I only came for a drink, Jules. Just needed a break. You two look like you're having fun."
Jules smiled as Banks pulled a glass from the cupboard and went to the fridge for the pitcher of chilled water. "We are. Ash is a wonderful sous chef. Shall I do that for you, sir?"
"I've already done it, you lazy swine." Banks' lips twitched up in a wry grin as he replaced the pitcher. This was some sort of odd game between them. Jules would make some brazen, teasing remark to provoke Banks, and in turn Banks would call him a rude name or perhaps scold him, though never with any real anger behind it, and Jules would bask in the attention. Ash had yet to make sense of it.
Banks went to Jules and gave him a light tap on the cheek—a common jest between them, the imitation of a reprimanding blow—and looked at the ingredients spread across the countertop. "Well, good. I'm glad you and Ash have found something to keep yourselves occupied."
"Did you doubt we would?" Jules heaved a dramatic sigh as he chopped. "Aren't I always busy? I swear, you and Master Carver run me ragged, leaving me to keep this place running all on my own while you two have all the fun—"
"Shut up," Banks cut in, using the same hand he'd tapped Jules with to grab his ponytail and jerk his head round to face him. His voice was firm, but that small smile was still curling at his lips. "Enough of that, or I'll give you something real to complain about."
Jules set down the knife in his hand. "I wish you would," he said quietly, looking Banks in the eye.
Ash's mouth nearly dropped open. It was a recklessly bold thing to say. He waited, breath held, for Banks' reaction.
Banks smirked. He gave Jules' hair a little punishing tug, then leaned down to whisper something into his ear that Ash couldn't quite hear. Whatever it was made Jules flush brightly, and then Banks released him, stepping away with a satisfied expression. "Now behave yourself. You're setting a bad example for Ash."
Jules nodded, cheeks still red. "Yes, sir."
Banks touched his chin gently before turning to Ash. "You're being good for Jules, I trust?"
"Yes, sir," Ash answered quickly.
"Very good. And you're enjoying yourself, too?"
It was such an odd question that it took Ash a moment to stutter out an answer. "I—uh, yes, sir."
"Wonderful." Banks went to him and brushed a curl from his forehead, looking pleased. "I'm glad to hear it. There's no reason you two shouldn't get along, and since I apparently run Jules ragged, it seems he's in desperate need of the help. If my boys are happy, then I'm happy, too."
Ash blinked up at him. Banks wasn't angry? He—why not? Sefton or Crowle would have never…weren't Ash and Jules breaking the rules? What were the rules? What were Banks' expectations? What kind of household was he running? Jules and Ash had entirely different roles, yet there were times when it seemed like Banks wanted things from Jules that weren't expected or required of domestic slaves, and now here Banks was encouraging Ash to help with the housework. How was Ash supposed to please his master if he couldn't even make sense of what he wanted?
What exactly did Banks want from his slaves?
Unreadable as ever, Banks brushed another curl from his forehead. His dark eyes gave nothing away.
Unsure if some sort of response was expected, Ash lowered his gaze and mumbled a quiet "Thank you, sir."
Banks sighed and took his hand away. "Well, that's enough stalling, I suppose. These calls won't make themselves. Lunch at the usual time?" This last he directed to Jules.
Jules gave a small bow. "Of course, sir."
And with that, Banks left.
Jules stared after him a moment, still a bit flushed, then turned back to the herbs on the counter. "Such a nuisance," he muttered, smiling.
Ash, feeling a bit off balance, resumed stirring the pot of simmering stew. Did Banks want Ash to behave like a pet or not? Did he make Jules serve him in both ways, pet and domestic slave? Would he expect the same of Ash? That type of behavior was typically viewed as tasteless and cheap among upper society, and generally frowned upon.
Why couldn't someone just tell Ash what was expected of him, so he wouldn't have to incessantly worry that he'd do something wrong?
Ash set the stirring spoon down and stepped away from the stove. "May I be excused?"
Jules looked at him confusedly. "Excused? What do you—of course, you don't need to ask permission." A little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just want to go lay down."
"Did Rowan do something to upset you?"
The fact that Jules spoke their master's name without a formal title sent another reverberation of anxiety through Ash. "No, I'm fine. I just…" Ash groped for an excuse. "The smell. I'd like to go lay down."
"The fish? You don't like it?"
It was a thin lie, but it was all Ash could come up with. Jules looked like he was about to question him further, but then he let it go, offering a strained smile. "Of course. I'm sorry if it's bothering you. Maybe tomorrow I'll show you how to make doves in a basket? It uses squab. No fish." He rustled up a glass of water and handed it to Ash. "Here, take this. We've still another half hour before lunch. Go on and rest."
Ash took the water and headed for the safety of his small room.
***
It had been one of Rowan's least favorite sort of days: a day spent entirely bogged down in office work. And, what was worse, it was still going on.
With Carver busy putting the finishing touches on Will's training, much of the initial research on interested buyers had fallen to Rowan. Not that Rowan minded—they often shared the mundane tasks that needed doing in order to run their business—it was simply that he'd have much rather spent the day with Ash. Or to at least have had Ash by his side, a pretty face to look down upon between repetitive, boring phone calls, with his lovely, wild hair that always seemed in need of a good combing. But Rowan didn't fancy himself a cruel man, and therefore couldn't justify forcing Ash to sit through a whole day of networking, listening to him have the same conversation over and over again, calling the various dealers and agencies they worked with, compiling a pool of viable candidates.
You could have given him something to do, whispered a conniving voice in the back of his mind. Something to keep him occupied. Rowan had become very well acquainted with this voice over the last few days. It often uttered tempting suggestions about the things he could be doing with Ash—the things he very much wanted to be doing—but knew it was better not to do. He'd been weak that second day and enjoyed Ash's sweet mouth, yes, but Ash needed to properly heal before they could begin the more intimate aspects of their training. Doctor Curtis had made that very clear.
Still, that didn't stop Rowan's mind from unhelpfully supplying the image of Ash here in the office with him, tucked beneath the desk, tumbled curls in Rowan's lap and pretty, wet lips hard at work. It would make slogging his way through mundane phone calls much more enjoyable, anyways.
Rowan shivered at the fantasy, indulging it for a moment, then pushed it aside. Not yet.
He glanced at the clock on his desk—nearly half past eight in the evening—and shot a begrudging look at the pile of letters sitting right beside it, exactly where Jules had left them after collecting the afternoon mail. Rowan had decided to do a little more work after dinner, hoping to whittle the pile down, and was regretting it now.
Sighing, he took the next one off the stack and opened it.
He paused as he saw the handwriting, recognizing it immediately. I'm sorry I haven't written in so long, it read in its familiar, slanting script. With everything going on in Ebenshire we've been absolutely swamped, as you can imagine, and these protests on the capital certainly aren't helping…
Adrienne.
It had been a long time since they'd last spoken. That was nobody's fault, just the simple reality of being adults with busy lives. They were no longer university sweethearts with an abundance of free time and clever ideas about how best to waste it. Adrienne's work at the Dealer's Guild kept her occupied, and Rowan knew she was under a constant weight of stress, but she was tirelessly devoted to her work. That had only become more evident after her marriage to Ethan, who was, of course, intimately invested in their shared cause.
Ethan. The familiar pang of guilt and bitterness strummed through Rowan's chest at the thought of him, and he quelled it with practiced efficiency. It was silly to still feel any certain way about what had happened between them. It was all over with, ancient history, and what's more, Rowan's regrets were entirely pointless. Ethan had gotten everything he'd wanted. It had all worked out in the end.
He scanned through the letter, then read it a second time more carefully and set it down onto the desk. Adrienne wanted to come for a visit soon. She wanted to talk about something related to her work at the Guild, and Rowan had his suspicious about what that might mean. Ethan would surely come as well, as he always did whenever they had a project.
He stared at the letter for a long time. Carver wouldn't be pleased. He and Adrienne had always gotten on well enough, but there was bitter, bad blood between him and Ethan that Rowan doubted would ever fully heal. Perhaps he could try to pick a day when Carver would be out of the house. That way Rowan could use himself as a bulwark between his older brother and whatever it was Adrienne wanted to discuss.
He checked his calendar, then checked the calendar on Carver's desk, then returned to his own desk and began composing a response. He made sure to address both Adrienne and Ethan in his greeting, ever mindful of Ethan's inclusion.
He'd stalled out only a few sentences in, staring down sightlessly at the paper while he debated his words, when the office door suddenly swung open and Jules marched in, chin held high.
"Oh no," Rowan groaned. "I know that look. What have I done?"
Jules came to stand beside the desk, hands on his hips. "It's not what you've done. It's what you haven't done."
"And that would be?" Rowan braced himself. He wasn't in the mood for a fight, but he knew from experience there was no avoiding it. If Rowan ordered Jules to leave him be, the quiet, stoney reticence Jules would turn on him in response would persist for days until Rowan at last broke down and told him to speak his mind. It had happened before.
"Things aren't going well with Ash," Jules said. "He's not happy here. You haven't given him a reason to be."
"What? Don't be ridiculous. I've been nothing but gentle with him."
"Gentle is good, but you need to show him that you actually care about his wellbeing, too. You can't just give him orders all the time. You need to talk to him. Properly, I mean."
"Talk to him about what?"
"About what we can do to make him feel more comfortable." At Rowan's blank look, Jules rolled his eyes. "Look, it can be something small. Just show him that you want to do something to make him feel welcome. A small gesture."
"Such as?"
"Well, for starters, he doesn't like the food we're giving him."
"We're giving him excellent food."
"I didn't say we weren't. I said he doesn't like it."
Rowan gave him a flat look. "I don't care if he likes it or not, Jules. It's good for him. He needs it."
"Just because something's good for you doesn't mean you have to like it." Jules gave him a look, one of those looks, the ones that said he thought Rowan was acting like an ass. "When was the last time you stepped on that treadmill in the gymnasium?"
Rowan huffed. "All right, point taken. But it still doesn't change the fact that he's underweight. You know what Doctor Curtis said."
"I do."
"He needs fattening up."
"Yes, he does. I'm only saying that we should fatten him up on things he actually likes."
"Great Saints, Jules." Rowan set his pen onto the desk in exasperation. He clearly wasn't getting anything done until this was sorted. "And what does he like, exactly?"
"I don't know." Jules crossed his arms. "Perhaps you should ask him."
"Aren't you the one who does the shopping? You ask him."
"I could." He gave Rowan that look again. "But, with respect, I think you're missing the point."
"Oh?"
"I'm not the one he's scared of. Not really."
They stared at one another in stalemate. Jules was stubborn as ever, blue eyes flashing in that way that always snagged Rowan's attention most distractingly. Rowan opened his mouth to protest, but found no good rebuke. Silence held.
Well.
"Damn it." He slumped back into his chair and crossed his own arms, shooting Jules a pinched smile. "Carver's right. I've been too lenient with you. Spoiled brat."
"It's because you adore me, sir." Jules flashed a grin, then sobered up. "I mean it. Talk to him. If you want Ash to be happy here, you need to make some effort to actually achieve that. Show him you care. It's the only way he'll start to heal."
"Sod off with your good logic." Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right, you've made your point. I'll talk to him. Happy?"
"Exceedingly," Jules chirped, and strolled out.
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Thanks so much for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to the tag list for future posts. I would be happy to add you 😁
Onto chapter nine, in which Ash settles in and Jules gives Rowan a piece of his mind.
This story is also being posted on my A03
(If you’re wondering what the deal with this story is, or what’s going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)
This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!
_____
Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, anxiety...this chapter in pretty tame tbh
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 4,202
Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten
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As instructed, Banks called Doctor Curtis back in two day's time to clean the cuts and reapply the sealant. It was a wholly unpleasant experience, and not one Ash was looking forward to repeating every few days. The wounds were tender and sensitive to the slightest prod, but Doctor Curtis had a surprisingly gentle touch. His short, sturdy build and great, wiry grey beard didn't make him look as though he would, but he seemed to be on familiar terms with the Banks brothers and was therefore careful with their property. Ash supposed they'd probably worked together for a long time. Perhaps it was a relationship born of necessity. Perhaps the Banks brothers needed a doctor at beck and call, ready to come and patch up a broken toy at a moment's notice.
The pain medication was a wondrous, beautiful thing, and over the last few days Ash had become awed by the idea that free people could use such luxuries whenever they liked. It wasn't the first time he'd ever used it, but it was certainly the first time he'd been allowed regular access to it. There had been occasions at Sefton's when his physician, Doctor Abbott, had prescribed Ash medication, and Sefton had failed to administer it. Whether it had been intentional cruelty or plain negligence Ash didn't know, but he wanted to make sure that didn't happen now. He'd spent the last few days in quiet, rigid obedience, frightened that one small misstep would cause Banks to punish him by withholding the creature comforts that Ash was, tentatively, growing appreciative of.
Appreciative, and baffled by. It had been a confusing few days. In spite of Banks' talk of training and needing to know what you're comfortable with doing, Banks had hardly laid a hand on Ash—that was, nothing outside the usual, aimless touches he always did. Banks apparently enjoyed casual touch. He was always fidgeting with Ash's hair or brushing a thumb over his cheek, always petting him, until Ash had become so accustomed to it that he no longer flinched when Banks reached for him. Perhaps that was the point.
But Banks did not demand service from Ash, and he did not, as Ash had feared he would, fuck him while the wounds were still healing. He didn't even make Ash suck him again, which was surprising and, in truth, a bit alarming. Not that Ash wanted to have a prick shoved down his throat or be manhandled while the cuts were still raw—he was quite glad to be left alone, thank you kindly—but it did leave him wondering if Banks had been unimpressed with his first performance. That would be cause for concern. Useless bondslaves weren't tolerated. A slave who couldn't please his master was usually sold in short order, and Ash had already been sold to the people meant to fix that sort of thing. He didn't want to know what sort of 'corrective handling' was needed for a pleasure pet who couldn't suck dick satisfactorily.
It was better not to think about it.
In any case, Banks didn't mention it. He focused on other lessons instead. He started to enforce proper etiquette on Ash, no longer allowing small transgressions to slip past unmentioned. If Ash failed to answer a question with a formal Yes, sir or No, sir, it was corrected. If Ash tried to hide his face or turn away from Banks when he was feeling uncomfortable, he was ordered to face him. If they were in the same room together, Ash was expected to use proper form, standing with his hands neatly folded at his front or kneeling at Banks' feet with his back upright and straight, or Banks would chastise him. The corrections were always gentle, spoken in a calm, low tone and never harsh, but each admonishment set Ash's hair standing on end.
They spent most of their time just sharing space. Sometimes Master Rowan would have Ash kneel at his knee while he sat in the lounge or in one of the smaller parlors, simply enjoying the decoration of Ash as he read the newspaper or watched television, sometimes urging Ash to rest his head on his thigh so Banks could card his fingers through Ash's curls. Other times Ash was taken into the large office to sit quietly while Banks scribbled at his desk, sorting through letters, making phone calls, mumbling under his breath. Occasionally Banks would speak to Ash, making a dry remark about some petty comment made by this or that person in one of his letters, as if he expected Ash to find it funny. Ash had very little interest in the things rich people said to one another. He would smile politely all the same, and agree with Master Rowan if that seemed like what he wanted.
Perhaps Banks just wanted Ash to get used to his presence. In practice, though, all it meant was Ash constantly felt like he was walking on eggshells, always nervous he would say or do the wrong thing and pay the price. Lose his pain medication, or lose his meals, or, worse yet, be handed to Master Carver for punishment.
Master Carver. Just the thought of him made Ash shudder. They hadn't seen much of each other since the incident in the workshop. Master Carver was usually busy with Will, both of them locked in the workshop or, more worryingly, in Master Carver's bedroom, with Will's agonized moans bleeding through the closed door.
Will's odd words had stuck in Ash's mind ever since their first conversation. Ash was still confused as to how, exactly, Master Carver's methods could make Will trust him, but in the conversations they'd had since, sitting around the kitchen island at mealtimes while Jules made wry, quipping comments, it almost seemed like Will enjoyed the things Master Carver did to him, or at the very least had some complicated, not precisely unpleasant feelings about them.
Whatever the case, the prospect of being alone with Master Carver still terrified Ash. He reminded Ash of Priest, the chattel camp's holy man, and the wicked delight he'd taken in hurting the camp's prisoners. There were similarities between the two. While Master Carver wasn't as openly vile in his appreciation of torture and rape as Priest had been, he had the same calm, authoritative presence, and the same fondness for manacles, whips, and chains; the teaching of spiritual and behavioral obedience through flagellation, physical bondage, and getting fucked by his cock: that had been Priest's rationalization for his mania. Master Carver seemed much the same, he was just quieter about it. He'd found a way to hide his monstrousness in plain sight, in fine tailored clothes and wealthy society, rather than exiling himself to the slaving rings at the edge of civilization to slither among filth, as Priest had done.
Ash dreaded the day when Master Rowan deemed him ready to be handed off to his older bother. The threat of it was a shadow that loomed over him at all times, making him constantly, vaguely afraid.
Regardless, it didn't seem like that would happen anytime soon. Master Rowan had not brought it up again since those first days. If Ash ever saw Master Carver it was only in passing, or in the presence of Master Rowan. Sometimes, when Banks made Ash sit with him in the office, Master Carver would be at his own desk across the room, sorting through paperwork or making his own calls. Occasionally the brothers would speak to one another, musing on this matter or that. Ash always kept his mouth shut, happy to leave them to it.
The only person he really didn't mind spending time with was Jules.
Surprisingly, Ash found himself warming to Jules. It was true that Jules was someone to be cautious of, being a well-favored, indulged slave who was clearly precious to his master, but there was an open friendliness to Jules that was hard to dislike. He was kind to Ash, and often went out of his way to make Ash feel included. If Ash ever had time alone, Jules would invite him to tag along as he managed the household chores, and Ash, at first too nervous to refuse, found that he actually didn't mind helping fold laundry or polish silver. It gave him something to occupy his mind with, which was better than sitting quietly in his room, growing restless while his thoughts spiraled. Jules always filled the air with easy conversation while they worked, rolling through Ash's awkward silences with tactful grace.
If felt, sometimes, like a secret between them. Ash didn't know if Master Rowan would approve of such behavior. Sefton or Crowle would have never allowed it, but Jules didn't seem at all concerned about getting into trouble. In fact, it wasn't until earlier that day that Ash had finally learned Banks' opinion on the matter.
Late morning had found Ash at loose ends, Banks busy in the office making a slew of calls related to finding a buyer for Will. Master Carver and Will were apparently out of the house on errands all morning, which left the task to Master Rowan. So Ash, glad not to have to sit and listen to a string of one-sided conversations, was shooed from the office, and Jules swooped him up to ask if he'd like to help prepare lunch.
It turned out to be interesting work. Ash had never cooked a proper meal in his life, but Jules excelled at it, buzzing about the kitchen with ease, directing Ash on what to do and when, chatting merrily all the while. Ash helped measure ingredients, retrieve items from the pantry, stir simmering pots—he noticed, though, with a little pang of self-consciousness, that he was not asked to perform any task which required a knife. All the same, Ash found he was enjoying himself as rich scents filled the kitchen. That was, until Banks walked in.
Jules stopped mid-sentence in his description of the bustling Dower's Point fish market where he'd purchased the cod for today's stew, and looked towards the doorway. Ash froze mid-stir, dropping the wooden spoon into the bubbling pot and turning to face Banks guiltily, heart in his throat.
"Good afternoon, sir," Jules greeted. He gave a little bow, which Ash hastily mirrored, and turned back to his work at the counter chopping herbs. "Did you need something?"
Master Rowan's dark eyes flicked between them curiously before landing on Ash, and Ash felt his face heating, the hairs on his neck rising at the thought that he'd been caught doing something wrong. Jules certainly wouldn't get in trouble, favored as he was, so the blame would fall upon Ash—
"Form, Ash," Banks said gently, and Ash quickly corrected his posture, straightening and folding his hands at his front. Banks smiled. "Good boy. I only came for a drink, Jules. Just needed a break. You two look like you're having fun."
Jules smiled as Banks pulled a glass from the cupboard and went to the fridge for the pitcher of chilled water. "We are. Ash is a wonderful sous chef. Shall I do that for you, sir?"
"I've already done it, you lazy swine." Banks' lips twitched up in a wry grin as he replaced the pitcher. This was some sort of odd game between them. Jules would make some brazen, teasing remark to provoke Banks, and in turn Banks would call him a rude name or perhaps scold him, though never with any real anger behind it, and Jules would bask in the attention. Ash had yet to make sense of it.
Banks went to Jules and gave him a light tap on the cheek—a common jest between them, the imitation of a reprimanding blow—and looked at the ingredients spread across the countertop. "Well, good. I'm glad you and Ash have found something to keep yourselves occupied."
"Did you doubt we would?" Jules heaved a dramatic sigh as he chopped. "Aren't I always busy? I swear, you and Master Carver run me ragged, leaving me to keep this place running all on my own while you two have all the fun—"
"Shut up," Banks cut in, using the same hand he'd tapped Jules with to grab his ponytail and jerk his head round to face him. His voice was firm, but that small smile was still curling at his lips. "Enough of that, or I'll give you something real to complain about."
Jules set down the knife in his hand. "I wish you would," he said quietly, looking Banks in the eye.
Ash's mouth nearly dropped open. It was a recklessly bold thing to say. He waited, breath held, for Banks' reaction.
Banks smirked. He gave Jules' hair a little punishing tug, then leaned down to whisper something into his ear that Ash couldn't quite hear. Whatever it was made Jules flush brightly, and then Banks released him, stepping away with a satisfied expression. "Now behave yourself. You're setting a bad example for Ash."
Jules nodded, cheeks still red. "Yes, sir."
Banks touched his chin gently before turning to Ash. "You're being good for Jules, I trust?"
"Yes, sir," Ash answered quickly.
"Very good. And you're enjoying yourself, too?"
It was such an odd question that it took Ash a moment to stutter out an answer. "I—uh, yes, sir."
"Wonderful." Banks went to him and brushed a curl from his forehead, looking pleased. "I'm glad to hear it. There's no reason you two shouldn't get along, and since I apparently run Jules ragged, it seems he's in desperate need of the help. If my boys are happy, then I'm happy, too."
Ash blinked up at him. Banks wasn't angry? He—why not? Sefton or Crowle would have never…weren't Ash and Jules breaking the rules? What were the rules? What were Banks' expectations? What kind of household was he running? Jules and Ash had entirely different roles, yet there were times when it seemed like Banks wanted things from Jules that weren't expected or required of domestic slaves, and now here Banks was encouraging Ash to help with the housework. How was Ash supposed to please his master if he couldn't even make sense of what he wanted?
What exactly did Banks want from his slaves?
Unreadable as ever, Banks brushed another curl from his forehead. His dark eyes gave nothing away.
Unsure if some sort of response was expected, Ash lowered his gaze and mumbled a quiet "Thank you, sir."
Banks sighed and took his hand away. "Well, that's enough stalling, I suppose. These calls won't make themselves. Lunch at the usual time?" This last he directed to Jules.
Jules gave a small bow. "Of course, sir."
And with that, Banks left.
Jules stared after him a moment, still a bit flushed, then turned back to the herbs on the counter. "Such a nuisance," he muttered, smiling.
Ash, feeling a bit off balance, resumed stirring the pot of simmering stew. Did Banks want Ash to behave like a pet or not? Did he make Jules serve him in both ways, pet and domestic slave? Would he expect the same of Ash? That type of behavior was typically viewed as tasteless and cheap among upper society, and generally frowned upon.
Why couldn't someone just tell Ash what was expected of him, so he wouldn't have to incessantly worry that he'd do something wrong?
Ash set the stirring spoon down and stepped away from the stove. "May I be excused?"
Jules looked at him confusedly. "Excused? What do you—of course, you don't need to ask permission." A little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just want to go lay down."
"Did Rowan do something to upset you?"
The fact that Jules spoke their master's name without a formal title sent another reverberation of anxiety through Ash. "No, I'm fine. I just…" Ash groped for an excuse. "The smell. I'd like to go lay down."
"The fish? You don't like it?"
It was a thin lie, but it was all Ash could come up with. Jules looked like he was about to question him further, but then he let it go, offering a strained smile. "Of course. I'm sorry if it's bothering you. Maybe tomorrow I'll show you how to make doves in a basket? It uses squab. No fish." He rustled up a glass of water and handed it to Ash. "Here, take this. We've still another half hour before lunch. Go on and rest."
Ash took the water and headed for the safety of his small room.
***
It had been one of Rowan's least favorite sort of days: a day spent entirely bogged down in office work. And, what was worse, it was still going on.
With Carver busy putting the finishing touches on Will's training, much of the initial research on interested buyers had fallen to Rowan. Not that Rowan minded—they often shared the mundane tasks that needed doing in order to run their business—it was simply that he'd have much rather spent the day with Ash. Or to at least have had Ash by his side, a pretty face to look down upon between repetitive, boring phone calls, with his lovely, wild hair that always seemed in need of a good combing. But Rowan didn't fancy himself a cruel man, and therefore couldn't justify forcing Ash to sit through a whole day of networking, listening to him have the same conversation over and over again, calling the various dealers and agencies they worked with, compiling a pool of viable candidates.
You could have given him something to do, whispered a conniving voice in the back of his mind. Something to keep him occupied. Rowan had become very well acquainted with this voice over the last few days. It often uttered tempting suggestions about the things he could be doing with Ash—the things he very much wanted to be doing—but knew it was better not to do. He'd been weak that second day and enjoyed Ash's sweet mouth, yes, but Ash needed to properly heal before they could begin the more intimate aspects of their training. Doctor Curtis had made that very clear.
Still, that didn't stop Rowan's mind from unhelpfully supplying the image of Ash here in the office with him, tucked beneath the desk, tumbled curls in Rowan's lap and pretty, wet lips hard at work. It would make slogging his way through mundane phone calls much more enjoyable, anyways.
Rowan shivered at the fantasy, indulging it for a moment, then pushed it aside. Not yet.
He glanced at the clock on his desk—nearly half past eight in the evening—and shot a begrudging look at the pile of letters sitting right beside it, exactly where Jules had left them after collecting the afternoon mail. Rowan had decided to do a little more work after dinner, hoping to whittle the pile down, and was regretting it now.
Sighing, he took the next one off the stack and opened it.
He paused as he saw the handwriting, recognizing it immediately. I'm sorry I haven't written in so long, it read in its familiar, slanting script. With everything going on in Ebenshire we've been absolutely swamped, as you can imagine, and these protests on the capital certainly aren't helping…
Adrienne.
It had been a long time since they'd last spoken. That was nobody's fault, just the simple reality of being adults with busy lives. They were no longer university sweethearts with an abundance of free time and clever ideas about how best to waste it. Adrienne's work at the Dealer's Guild kept her occupied, and Rowan knew she was under a constant weight of stress, but she was tirelessly devoted to her work. That had only become more evident after her marriage to Ethan, who was, of course, intimately invested in their shared cause.
Ethan. The familiar pang of guilt and bitterness strummed through Rowan's chest at the thought of him, and he quelled it with practiced efficiency. It was silly to still feel any certain way about what had happened between them. It was all over with, ancient history, and what's more, Rowan's regrets were entirely pointless. Ethan had gotten everything he'd wanted. It had all worked out in the end.
He scanned through the letter, then read it a second time more carefully and set it down onto the desk. Adrienne wanted to come for a visit soon. She wanted to talk about something related to her work at the Guild, and Rowan had his suspicious about what that might mean. Ethan would surely come as well, as he always did whenever they had a project.
He stared at the letter for a long time. Carver wouldn't be pleased. He and Adrienne had always gotten on well enough, but there was bitter, bad blood between him and Ethan that Rowan doubted would ever fully heal. Perhaps he could try to pick a day when Carver would be out of the house. That way Rowan could use himself as a bulwark between his older brother and whatever it was Adrienne wanted to discuss.
He checked his calendar, then checked the calendar on Carver's desk, then returned to his own desk and began composing a response. He made sure to address both Adrienne and Ethan in his greeting, ever mindful of Ethan's inclusion.
He'd stalled out only a few sentences in, staring down sightlessly at the paper while he debated his words, when the office door suddenly swung open and Jules marched in, chin held high.
"Oh no," Rowan groaned. "I know that look. What have I done?"
Jules came to stand beside the desk, hands on his hips. "It's not what you've done. It's what you haven't done."
"And that would be?" Rowan braced himself. He wasn't in the mood for a fight, but he knew from experience there was no avoiding it. If Rowan ordered Jules to leave him be, the quiet, stoney reticence Jules would turn on him in response would persist for days until Rowan at last broke down and told him to speak his mind. It had happened before.
"Things aren't going well with Ash," Jules said. "He's not happy here. You haven't given him a reason to be."
"What? Don't be ridiculous. I've been nothing but gentle with him."
"Gentle is good, but you need to show him that you actually care about his wellbeing, too. You can't just give him orders all the time. You need to talk to him. Properly, I mean."
"Talk to him about what?"
"About what we can do to make him feel more comfortable." At Rowan's blank look, Jules rolled his eyes. "Look, it can be something small. Just show him that you want to do something to make him feel welcome. A small gesture."
"Such as?"
"Well, for starters, he doesn't like the food we're giving him."
"We're giving him excellent food."
"I didn't say we weren't. I said he doesn't like it."
Rowan gave him a flat look. "I don't care if he likes it or not, Jules. It's good for him. He needs it."
"Just because something's good for you doesn't mean you have to like it." Jules gave him a look, one of those looks, the ones that said he thought Rowan was acting like an ass. "When was the last time you stepped on that treadmill in the gymnasium?"
Rowan huffed. "All right, point taken. But it still doesn't change the fact that he's underweight. You know what Doctor Curtis said."
"I do."
"He needs fattening up."
"Yes, he does. I'm only saying that we should fatten him up on things he actually likes."
"Great Saints, Jules." Rowan set his pen onto the desk in exasperation. He clearly wasn't getting anything done until this was sorted. "And what does he like, exactly?"
"I don't know." Jules crossed his arms. "Perhaps you should ask him."
"Aren't you the one who does the shopping? You ask him."
"I could." He gave Rowan that look again. "But, with respect, I think you're missing the point."
"Oh?"
"I'm not the one he's scared of. Not really."
They stared at one another in stalemate. Jules was stubborn as ever, blue eyes flashing in that way that always snagged Rowan's attention most distractingly. Rowan opened his mouth to protest, but found no good rebuke. Silence held.
Well.
"Damn it." He slumped back into his chair and crossed his own arms, shooting Jules a pinched smile. "Carver's right. I've been too lenient with you. Spoiled brat."
"It's because you adore me, sir." Jules flashed a grin, then sobered up. "I mean it. Talk to him. If you want Ash to be happy here, you need to make some effort to actually achieve that. Show him you care. It's the only way he'll start to heal."
"Sod off with your good logic." Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right, you've made your point. I'll talk to him. Happy?"
"Exceedingly," Jules chirped, and strolled out.
_____
Thanks so much for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to the tag list for future posts. I would be happy to add you 😁
And we're finally onto chapter eight, in which we meet Will at last, and also Ash has a nightmare.
This story is also being posted on my A03
(If you’re wondering what the deal with this story is, or what’s going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)
This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!
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Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, mentions of restraints & physical punishment, mentions of past sexual assault/rape/torture (not explicit)
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3,523
Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine
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Jules came to his room some time later.
"Is everything all right?" he asked from the door, seeing Ash's face.
Ash was still shaken from earlier, but he didn't dare breathe a word of what had happened with Master Carver. Talking about it would involve admitting that he'd been caught eavesdropping, and he didn't want to risk having that reach Banks, if it hadn't already. He simply kept his mouth shut and nodded.
Jules eyed him a moment, then let it go. "Very well. How about some lunch? You must be hungry after being dragged about the house all morning." He stepped aside, waving a hand toward the hallway. "Come on, up you get. No more hiding in this room. Anyone who stares at these drab walls long enough runs the risk of going mad, I think. Come and eat with us in the kitchen."
The thought of hiding in his room was entirely more appealing than venturing back out into the house, but Ash kept that to himself as he unfolded from the bed. Jules kept up his usual stream of chatter as they walked to the kitchen, allowing Ash to stay quiet. "We're rather informal with meals. Lunch is usually around twelve-thirty or so, and breakfast nine o'clock, but it's not strict. If you turn up round the kitchen anytime near then you'll find a hot plate. The only meal you really must be punctual for is dinner, of course, which is six-thirty, since Madge comes in for that, and she won't stand for anyone missing a meal…"
In the kitchen Ash was surprised to find Will seated at the large island, looking shockingly well and not at all injured, already halfway through a generous plate and showing now sign of slowing down. He grinned sheepishly as they entered.
"Couldn't wait, could you?" Jules teased. He looked at Ash and gestured to the empty stool across from Will. "Go on, have a seat. I'll bring something over. Have you two had a chance to properly meet? Or have the masters been keeping you both too busy?" There was hot food on the stove, and as Jules spoke he pulled a plate down from the cabinet and began heaping it full. "Ash, this is Will, Master Carver's current project. He's been here, what would you say, a few months now?"
"Just about," said Will, swallowing another bite. His blue eyes were still a bit red-rimmed from earlier, but he seemed more or less recovered from his beating, voice steady and carrying no trace of distress. He'd clearly bathed, his fiery red hair damp and combed back from his face. "Actually, it's been nearly four months, now. Saints." He gave a wistful shake of his head and looked at Ash. "Sorry if Master Carver scared you before. He's usually nicer than that, he just gets protective. Especially after a training session."
Nice? Ash thought, remembering the welts on Will's back. "But—wasn't he hurting you?"
"Not really. Well, yes, but we'd already finished with that part. And afterwards he always makes it worth it." He smiled at Ash across the island, eyes bright and clear.
Ash blinked at him, completely baffled. What could he possibly say to such an absurd statement? Luckily Jules chose that moment to drop an overflowing plate down in front of him.
"You know the rules," Jules said. "Finish all of it. And if there's anything you'd like more of, just say the word." He went back for his own serving. "Will, go easy on Ash. He's new."
"I know. You just got here yesterday, right?" Will shook his head again. "Saints, I bet you're scared. I was too, when I came here. Terrified. People say the worst things about the Banks, you know? But they're really not so bad, and this place is like heaven compared to where I was before." He tilted his head towards Jules, who'd joined them at the island. "Jules remembers, right? I started off a mess, but I love it here now. Oh, what do you think of Master Rowan?"
"I, uh…"
"I think Ash is still trying to sort that out," Jules supplied helpfully.
Will nodded. "Fair enough. Isn't he handsome though? Nothing like my old master. Now he was a fucking prick. But I'm sure you know all about that." Will speared a vegetable and looked at Ash curiously. "I bet your old master was a prick too, wasn't he? He must have been, if you ended up here."
Ash darted a glance at Jules. It was dangerous to talk poorly of a master, even an old one, if there was any chance of it making its way back to the current master. Of course that rarely stopped slaves from gossiping amongst each other, but Ash didn't know Will or Jules well enough yet to trust them, and the last thing he needed was to get himself into trouble. Again.
Jules caught his glance and shrugged. "Don't mind me. I don't care what you say about Sefton, and even if I did, I'm sure Rowan would only agree with you."
Will's eyes went wide. "Lord Sefton?" He gave a theatrical little shudder. "Saints! I've heard nightmares. Luckily I've never met him. My old master, Lord Stratton, he wasn't exactly friends with Lord Sefton, but they knew a lot of the same people. Ran in the same circles. I've heard all sorts of awful stories. Terrible things. Like his dinner parties—"
Ash's throat went dry.
"—Lord Stratton always complained that he'd never been invited to one, but I was glad, because some of his friends had gone and their slaves would barely even talk about it—"
There was a sudden, awful lump in his stomach.
"—but when they did, the things they'd say would make you shudder. I met Lord Corwin's slave once, and he said—"
Lord Corwin. One of Sefton's closest friends. The sound of blood was loud in Ash's ears.
"—well, he said that they'd—"
"Will," Jules cut in, a noticeable edge to his voice. Ash flinched. "Not over lunch, perhaps?"
Will's mouth snapped shut and he looked down at his food. "Right, sorry. I didn't mean to…uh, sorry."
The silence that followed was heavy, and after a few moments Jules cleared his throat and nudged Ash's untouched plate. "Do you know that this is?" He pointed to the meat, long strips of glazed, pale flesh that Ash didn't recognize. "It's baked eel. Have you ever had it before? No? Well, it was common fare for me growing up. I'm originally from Laminster Call, you see, which is deep in the lower city. Ever heard of Mucktown? Same place. That's just what people call it when they think we're not listening. It's right on the water at the base of Colidwoll Bridge, and eels tend to gather on the muddy banks down there. Easy to cast a net out, so we ate them all the time. An under appreciated dish, if you ask me. Go on and try some."
As unappealing as that sounded, Ash was grateful for the abrupt change of subject. He lifted his fork with unsteady fingers and poked at the gelatinous meat, covered with some sort of brown, savory-smelling sauce, and tried to calm his nerves enough to force it down.
~*~
Lunch ended quickly, with Jules and Will doing most of the talking while Ash obediently cleared his plate. The eel was surprisingly inoffensive, but it was of no particular appeal, and he would have preferred not to eat it again if given the choice. Not that he would be.
Afterwards Jules herded them out of the kitchen to do the washing up in peace, and Ash suddenly found himself standing alone in the corridor with Will.
Will unhinged his jaw for a large yawn. "Saints, I'm exhausted. Are you heading back to your room? I'll walk with you. I could go for a nap."
Ash didn't know where else he might go. He'd already checked the front door, and the home felt otherwise too vast and extravagant to wander through aimlessly, nor did he have any interest in accidentally running into one of the masters. Not to mention his cuts were aching. He nodded, and they headed towards the slave quarters.
Will spoke up as they were crossing the lounge.
"Sorry about what I said in there." He flicked a timid look at Ash. "That was stupid. Sometimes I run my mouth without thinking. I'm bad about that. Master Carver says all the time that it'll get me in trouble if I'm not careful, but I really don't mean to do it. I just get nervous and, well." He shrugged. "We're working on that. I just have to try harder. Anyways, I'm sorry. Really." He offered a weak little smile, a peace offering that was surprisingly innocent on his boyish features. Now that his hair had dried it made a fiery halo about his head, illuminated by the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. Will was a very pretty boy. Ash wondered what humiliations he'd suffered at Lord Stratton's hands.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "You were right, anyways. Lord Sefton was awful. I'd just rather not talk about it, is all."
Will nodded. "I understand. When I first got here I couldn't talk about Lord Stratton, not for weeks. I didn't even want to think about him. But Master Rowan kept me busy, helped me forget. And Master Carver's teaching me new things now. How to be stronger. Smarter. It's been so different from how I thought it'd be. They've been such a help. "
Ash was reminded of Master Rowan's words from earlier. It will be a healing process, just like the scars. He swallowed. "Do you trust them?"
"Yes," Will answered without hesitation. "I do."
"Even Master Carver? Even after he—" Ash remembered the sounds coming from the workshop "—he beats you?"
"Yes. Especially after he beats me. That's when I trust him most."
It was such a bizarre answer that Ash was sure he'd misheard. He'd received many beatings from masters and handlers over the years, and none of them had at all made Ash trust the bastards who'd supplied them at all. Ash remembered one particularly bad night at Sefton's very early on, when Sefton had taken offense to the tone with which Ash had mumbled Yes, sir, and took a cane to Ash's back, then bound Ash's arms and legs so that Ash couldn't struggle while he raped him. Afterwards he'd thrown Ash into that small, cursed closet he used for punishment, and left him laying in the pitch-dark for hours, still bound, mind spiraling with awful, clawing memories of ropes and chains and flames. That'll teach you to disrespect your betters, Sefton had said. Ash certainly hadn't trusted him after that.
The lunch in his belly sat like a stone at the memory. He licked his dry lips. "What about…does Master Carver ever…tie you up? Does he—ever leave you like that?"
"Tied up? Sure, sometimes. Master Rowan, too, though not as much. He only does it when he needs to train a particular skill. But when Master Carver does it, it's—I don't know, different. He's got a certain way of making you feel. Like you're dreaming, but also awake. Wide awake."
Ash was beginning to consider the very real possibility that Will was a bit of a lunatic. "Doesn't that scare you?" They were nearing his room. "Doesn't he scare you?"
Will smiled, a tranquil little expression that was oddly out of place for their conversation. "Not really. I was scared at first, but now…I don't know, it's like he's teaching me how to be brave, or at least how to manage my fear. I'm still learning, obviously, but…it's strange. It's like he's given me more control, somehow, by taking it away. None of my past masters have ever done that before. No one has been like him." Will looked down at his feet as they walked, the little smile shrinking. "I think I'm going to be sad when he sells me. But I trust him. I know he won't give me to anyone who'll hurt me. He'll find the right master. I know he will." It sounded, just a bit, like he was trying to convince himself.
They'd reached Ash's room. Ash slowed, looking at Will, and let out a long breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have been spying. I won't do it again."
Will shrugged. "It's okay. I probably would've looked too. And don't worry about Master Carver, he wasn't all that angry. Like I said, he just gets protective. You'll see when you're with him."
The image of the workshop's chains and whips flickered through Ash's mind, and he shuddered.
Will stretched his arms over his head. "Saints, I'm tired. See you at dinner?"
Ash nodded and Will wandered off, heading for his own room.
~*~
The voices were laughing at him.
Ash couldn't see their faces. He never could. His tormentors existed only as rough hands, sneering laughter, hot pain. He was in the chattel camp, fires blazing in the distance, figures flitting past like shadows. The screams of other tortured souls resonated beneath the consuming roar of ravenous flame.
They laughed as they hurt him, the men of the camp, holding him down, pressing him into the damp grass, training him. Prettier word. The agony of it burned like fire. They called themselves handlers, and Ash never understood why no one corrected them, called them what they really were. Everyone knew it, and no one said it. Familiar, impotent rage rose within him. These men would be hanged if they did this to a free person, but Ash wasn't a person. He was an object, sold by his father for a pittance to pay a mere month's rent and meals. That was all his life was worth, apparently.
The hands pressed him into the dirt. Ash screamed.
One of them came forward and captured his face in cold hands, a strangely grounding sensation in the fog of torment, and spoke foul-smelling words against his face.
"Clever doll," the handler's voice said, scratching inside his head like thorns. "Pretty little doll. Don't you like this?"
Then the hands were gone, and the chains came instead.
He was in a dark place, perhaps one of those tents made of heavy, dense canvas, pitch black, no light. His hands and feet were bound, manacled to four posts driven into the ground so that he was spread face-down on the ground like an insect pinned to a board. There was a gag over his mouth and a metal chain around his neck, fastened somewhere above his head in the darkness. His stomach was a hollow pit of hunger. He was weeping. How long had they left him here? He couldn't remember, but he didn't need to remember. He knew what this was.
It was Saint Gideon's Martyr Day.
Ash pulled desperately at the chains. His skin itched with the terrible, curdling sensation of being restrained. His heart pounded wildly, and he dreaded the darkness, because he knew what lurked out there in the inky blackness—he knew who.
Priest.
Just thinking the name seemed to summon the man like a demon from the Abyss. Ash suddenly felt a presence behind him, hovering over him in the dark. Deep, vile laughter rumbled in his ears like thunder, and his skin crawled with cold terror. No. No, no, no—if the Saints were real, they would save him, they wouldn't let Priest take him—
"This one," said that deep, familiar voice. "He'll do nicely."
No—
Ash screamed behind the gag as the chain around his neck snapped tight, pulling him across the dirt ground. The manacles were gone, replaced by rough rope that lashed his wrists and ankles together so he couldn't flail. Priest's vile laughter filled his ears, pulling him deeper into the darkness, towards the fires of the Abyss.
"Crowle!" Ash screamed against the gag as the air began to warm. He had saved Ash from the flames last time. Please, oh please, let him save Ash again. "Crowle! Crowle!"
He was being dragged backwards, the sickening rhythm of the drums throbbing, the heat of the bonfire growing, the darkness beginning to recede as the wicked glow of flame swelled up.
"Gi-de-on!" The men of the camp were chanting in time with the drums, shouting the old hymn in drunken slurs. "Gi-de-on! Martyred here, on the pyre o-Tonn! O'er the flames he was taken upon, sent from the world by his carnal throng! The Saint of three days, of long battles unwon, the Saint of atonement o'er fire and stone! Despoiled three days, then burned alone! Atone! Atone! Weep for the Saint of charnel flame! Weep for his pain, Gi-de-on!"
Those terrible, familiar hands grabbed Ash's shoulders and hauled him up from the ground, spinning him round so that he could see the flames which would consume him. There was a narrow stone slab in front of the bonfire outfitted with chains, ready to hold him, to strap him down where he would be tormented, violated, torn apart for three days until at last Priest gave the order to throw him on the pyre.
Ash turned and looked up into Priest's face, praying for any hint of mercy in his vile, grey eyes.
It was not Priest's face who looked back at him. It was Carver Banks.
He scowled down at Ash, harsh in the bonfire's light. Ash froze. Was he still angry about the spying? Ash thought of the torture devices hanging on the wall in the workshop, the white walls washed in firelight in his memory. Was he going to punish Ash for his misstep after all? Was that why he'd chosen Ash for Saint Gideon's Day?
"No," Ash rasped, the gag gone. "No, please—I didn't mean—"
Master Carver scowled again and shoved him forward, towards the slab.
"No!" Ash shrieked. "I won't do it again, I won't, I'll be good, I promise—Saints, no, please!"
"Ash," said a firm voice, and he twisted around to see Master Rowan standing at this other side, looking down at him. He rested a hand on Ash's shoulder. "Stop making a fuss. It's going to be all right."
Hope swelled in Ash's chest. Master Rowan had shown him mercy before. He might do so again. "Please. Please don't make me, sir, I don't want to go. Please!"
"Relax, darling." Banks leaned down so that they were eye to eye. He smiled, but with his face half hidden in shadow from the Abysmal firelight, the expression was devilish, and Ash's blood went cold. "You're safe now. Come on." He grabbed Ash's arm and pulled him toward the fire.
"No!" Ash screamed. "No!"
The flames welled up before him, heat and thunder, and the stone slab's chains curled around him, and suddenly he was trapped, trapped, the men still chanting, Rowan and Carver Banks standing over him as the heat intensified, frizzling the air, burning, and Ash could see nothing but fire—
~*~
He bolted upright with a gasp.
For a moment Ash was disoriented before he remembered where he was. His small room was quiet, the door closed, and he was alone, panting in the dark. The cold sweat on his skin made him shiver.
A nightmare.
He ripped the bed's thin sheet away, unable to stand the sensation of it wrapped around him, and swung his feet down to press flat against the cool floor. He buried his head in his hands and took several long, deep breaths, fighting the urge to cry. His cuts throbbed viciously.
It had been a long time since he'd had one that vivid. Already the gruesome details were starting to fade, but Ash had had this nightmare enough times to know the details by heart. He'd been back in the chattel camp, and Priest was there, and it was Saint Gideon's Day. The Banks brothers had been there, too, and Ash had been terrified of them. He still felt the echos of that terror.
Ash was used to nightmares, but it wasn't often that he got night terrors anymore. What could have possibly caused it? Other than the events of that morning, the rest of the day had been uneventful. Master Rowan hadn't called upon him again, and Ash hadn't even seen Master Carver after the incident in the workshop. Dinner had been completely unremarkable, with the only occurrence of note being that he'd met Madge the cook, who'd seemed nice enough.
He pushed shaking hands through his sweat-damp hair and slowly lowered himself back onto the jumbled sheets, blinking up at the dark ceiling. He laid there for some time, unable to fall back asleep, the chant of Gideon's Hymn resonating inside his head to the angry beat of the drums, along with a strange, hazy memory of a smile half-hidden in devilish firelight.
_____
Thanks so much for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to the tag list for future posts. I would be happy to add you 😁
And we're finally onto chapter eight, in which we meet Will at last, and also Ash has a nightmare.
This story is also being posted on my A03
(If you’re wondering what the deal with this story is, or what’s going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)
This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!
_____
Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, mentions of restraints & physical punishment, mentions of past sexual assault/rape/torture (not explicit)
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3,523
Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine
_____
Jules came to his room some time later.
"Is everything all right?" he asked from the door, seeing Ash's face.
Ash was still shaken from earlier, but he didn't dare breathe a word of what had happened with Master Carver. Talking about it would involve admitting that he'd been caught eavesdropping, and he didn't want to risk having that reach Banks, if it hadn't already. He simply kept his mouth shut and nodded.
Jules eyed him a moment, then let it go. "Very well. How about some lunch? You must be hungry after being dragged about the house all morning." He stepped aside, waving a hand toward the hallway. "Come on, up you get. No more hiding in this room. Anyone who stares at these drab walls long enough runs the risk of going mad, I think. Come and eat with us in the kitchen."
The thought of hiding in his room was entirely more appealing than venturing back out into the house, but Ash kept that to himself as he unfolded from the bed. Jules kept up his usual stream of chatter as they walked to the kitchen, allowing Ash to stay quiet. "We're rather informal with meals. Lunch is usually around twelve-thirty or so, and breakfast nine o'clock, but it's not strict. If you turn up round the kitchen anytime near then you'll find a hot plate. The only meal you really must be punctual for is dinner, of course, which is six-thirty, since Madge comes in for that, and she won't stand for anyone missing a meal…"
In the kitchen Ash was surprised to find Will seated at the large island, looking shockingly well and not at all injured, already halfway through a generous plate and showing now sign of slowing down. He grinned sheepishly as they entered.
"Couldn't wait, could you?" Jules teased. He looked at Ash and gestured to the empty stool across from Will. "Go on, have a seat. I'll bring something over. Have you two had a chance to properly meet? Or have the masters been keeping you both too busy?" There was hot food on the stove, and as Jules spoke he pulled a plate down from the cabinet and began heaping it full. "Ash, this is Will, Master Carver's current project. He's been here, what would you say, a few months now?"
"Just about," said Will, swallowing another bite. His blue eyes were still a bit red-rimmed from earlier, but he seemed more or less recovered from his beating, voice steady and carrying no trace of distress. He'd clearly bathed, his fiery red hair damp and combed back from his face. "Actually, it's been nearly four months, now. Saints." He gave a wistful shake of his head and looked at Ash. "Sorry if Master Carver scared you before. He's usually nicer than that, he just gets protective. Especially after a training session."
Nice? Ash thought, remembering the welts on Will's back. "But—wasn't he hurting you?"
"Not really. Well, yes, but we'd already finished with that part. And afterwards he always makes it worth it." He smiled at Ash across the island, eyes bright and clear.
Ash blinked at him, completely baffled. What could he possibly say to such an absurd statement? Luckily Jules chose that moment to drop an overflowing plate down in front of him.
"You know the rules," Jules said. "Finish all of it. And if there's anything you'd like more of, just say the word." He went back for his own serving. "Will, go easy on Ash. He's new."
"I know. You just got here yesterday, right?" Will shook his head again. "Saints, I bet you're scared. I was too, when I came here. Terrified. People say the worst things about the Banks, you know? But they're really not so bad, and this place is like heaven compared to where I was before." He tilted his head towards Jules, who'd joined them at the island. "Jules remembers, right? I started off a mess, but I love it here now. Oh, what do you think of Master Rowan?"
"I, uh…"
"I think Ash is still trying to sort that out," Jules supplied helpfully.
Will nodded. "Fair enough. Isn't he handsome though? Nothing like my old master. Now he was a fucking prick. But I'm sure you know all about that." Will speared a vegetable and looked at Ash curiously. "I bet your old master was a prick too, wasn't he? He must have been, if you ended up here."
Ash darted a glance at Jules. It was dangerous to talk poorly of a master, even an old one, if there was any chance of it making its way back to the current master. Of course that rarely stopped slaves from gossiping amongst each other, but Ash didn't know Will or Jules well enough yet to trust them, and the last thing he needed was to get himself into trouble. Again.
Jules caught his glance and shrugged. "Don't mind me. I don't care what you say about Sefton, and even if I did, I'm sure Rowan would only agree with you."
Will's eyes went wide. "Lord Sefton?" He gave a theatrical little shudder. "Saints! I've heard nightmares. Luckily I've never met him. My old master, Lord Stratton, he wasn't exactly friends with Lord Sefton, but they knew a lot of the same people. Ran in the same circles. I've heard all sorts of awful stories. Terrible things. Like his dinner parties—"
Ash's throat went dry.
"—Lord Stratton always complained that he'd never been invited to one, but I was glad, because some of his friends had gone and their slaves would barely even talk about it—"
There was a sudden, awful lump in his stomach.
"—but when they did, the things they'd say would make you shudder. I met Lord Corwin's slave once, and he said—"
Lord Corwin. One of Sefton's closest friends. The sound of blood was loud in Ash's ears.
"—well, he said that they'd—"
"Will," Jules cut in, a noticeable edge to his voice. Ash flinched. "Not over lunch, perhaps?"
Will's mouth snapped shut and he looked down at his food. "Right, sorry. I didn't mean to…uh, sorry."
The silence that followed was heavy, and after a few moments Jules cleared his throat and nudged Ash's untouched plate. "Do you know that this is?" He pointed to the meat, long strips of glazed, pale flesh that Ash didn't recognize. "It's baked eel. Have you ever had it before? No? Well, it was common fare for me growing up. I'm originally from Laminster Call, you see, which is deep in the lower city. Ever heard of Mucktown? Same place. That's just what people call it when they think we're not listening. It's right on the water at the base of Colidwoll Bridge, and eels tend to gather on the muddy banks down there. Easy to cast a net out, so we ate them all the time. An under appreciated dish, if you ask me. Go on and try some."
As unappealing as that sounded, Ash was grateful for the abrupt change of subject. He lifted his fork with unsteady fingers and poked at the gelatinous meat, covered with some sort of brown, savory-smelling sauce, and tried to calm his nerves enough to force it down.
~*~
Lunch ended quickly, with Jules and Will doing most of the talking while Ash obediently cleared his plate. The eel was surprisingly inoffensive, but it was of no particular appeal, and he would have preferred not to eat it again if given the choice. Not that he would be.
Afterwards Jules herded them out of the kitchen to do the washing up in peace, and Ash suddenly found himself standing alone in the corridor with Will.
Will unhinged his jaw for a large yawn. "Saints, I'm exhausted. Are you heading back to your room? I'll walk with you. I could go for a nap."
Ash didn't know where else he might go. He'd already checked the front door, and the home felt otherwise too vast and extravagant to wander through aimlessly, nor did he have any interest in accidentally running into one of the masters. Not to mention his cuts were aching. He nodded, and they headed towards the slave quarters.
Will spoke up as they were crossing the lounge.
"Sorry about what I said in there." He flicked a timid look at Ash. "That was stupid. Sometimes I run my mouth without thinking. I'm bad about that. Master Carver says all the time that it'll get me in trouble if I'm not careful, but I really don't mean to do it. I just get nervous and, well." He shrugged. "We're working on that. I just have to try harder. Anyways, I'm sorry. Really." He offered a weak little smile, a peace offering that was surprisingly innocent on his boyish features. Now that his hair had dried it made a fiery halo about his head, illuminated by the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. Will was a very pretty boy. Ash wondered what humiliations he'd suffered at Lord Stratton's hands.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "You were right, anyways. Lord Sefton was awful. I'd just rather not talk about it, is all."
Will nodded. "I understand. When I first got here I couldn't talk about Lord Stratton, not for weeks. I didn't even want to think about him. But Master Rowan kept me busy, helped me forget. And Master Carver's teaching me new things now. How to be stronger. Smarter. It's been so different from how I thought it'd be. They've been such a help. "
Ash was reminded of Master Rowan's words from earlier. It will be a healing process, just like the scars. He swallowed. "Do you trust them?"
"Yes," Will answered without hesitation. "I do."
"Even Master Carver? Even after he—" Ash remembered the sounds coming from the workshop "—he beats you?"
"Yes. Especially after he beats me. That's when I trust him most."
It was such a bizarre answer that Ash was sure he'd misheard. He'd received many beatings from masters and handlers over the years, and none of them had at all made Ash trust the bastards who'd supplied them at all. Ash remembered one particularly bad night at Sefton's very early on, when Sefton had taken offense to the tone with which Ash had mumbled Yes, sir, and took a cane to Ash's back, then bound Ash's arms and legs so that Ash couldn't struggle while he raped him. Afterwards he'd thrown Ash into that small, cursed closet he used for punishment, and left him laying in the pitch-dark for hours, still bound, mind spiraling with awful, clawing memories of ropes and chains and flames. That'll teach you to disrespect your betters, Sefton had said. Ash certainly hadn't trusted him after that.
The lunch in his belly sat like a stone at the memory. He licked his dry lips. "What about…does Master Carver ever…tie you up? Does he—ever leave you like that?"
"Tied up? Sure, sometimes. Master Rowan, too, though not as much. He only does it when he needs to train a particular skill. But when Master Carver does it, it's—I don't know, different. He's got a certain way of making you feel. Like you're dreaming, but also awake. Wide awake."
Ash was beginning to consider the very real possibility that Will was a bit of a lunatic. "Doesn't that scare you?" They were nearing his room. "Doesn't he scare you?"
Will smiled, a tranquil little expression that was oddly out of place for their conversation. "Not really. I was scared at first, but now…I don't know, it's like he's teaching me how to be brave, or at least how to manage my fear. I'm still learning, obviously, but…it's strange. It's like he's given me more control, somehow, by taking it away. None of my past masters have ever done that before. No one has been like him." Will looked down at his feet as they walked, the little smile shrinking. "I think I'm going to be sad when he sells me. But I trust him. I know he won't give me to anyone who'll hurt me. He'll find the right master. I know he will." It sounded, just a bit, like he was trying to convince himself.
They'd reached Ash's room. Ash slowed, looking at Will, and let out a long breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have been spying. I won't do it again."
Will shrugged. "It's okay. I probably would've looked too. And don't worry about Master Carver, he wasn't all that angry. Like I said, he just gets protective. You'll see when you're with him."
The image of the workshop's chains and whips flickered through Ash's mind, and he shuddered.
Will stretched his arms over his head. "Saints, I'm tired. See you at dinner?"
Ash nodded and Will wandered off, heading for his own room.
~*~
The voices were laughing at him.
Ash couldn't see their faces. He never could. His tormentors existed only as rough hands, sneering laughter, hot pain. He was in the chattel camp, fires blazing in the distance, figures flitting past like shadows. The screams of other tortured souls resonated beneath the consuming roar of ravenous flame.
They laughed as they hurt him, the men of the camp, holding him down, pressing him into the damp grass, training him. Prettier word. The agony of it burned like fire. They called themselves handlers, and Ash never understood why no one corrected them, called them what they really were. Everyone knew it, and no one said it. Familiar, impotent rage rose within him. These men would be hanged if they did this to a free person, but Ash wasn't a person. He was an object, sold by his father for a pittance to pay a mere month's rent and meals. That was all his life was worth, apparently.
The hands pressed him into the dirt. Ash screamed.
One of them came forward and captured his face in cold hands, a strangely grounding sensation in the fog of torment, and spoke foul-smelling words against his face.
"Clever doll," the handler's voice said, scratching inside his head like thorns. "Pretty little doll. Don't you like this?"
Then the hands were gone, and the chains came instead.
He was in a dark place, perhaps one of those tents made of heavy, dense canvas, pitch black, no light. His hands and feet were bound, manacled to four posts driven into the ground so that he was spread face-down on the ground like an insect pinned to a board. There was a gag over his mouth and a metal chain around his neck, fastened somewhere above his head in the darkness. His stomach was a hollow pit of hunger. He was weeping. How long had they left him here? He couldn't remember, but he didn't need to remember. He knew what this was.
It was Saint Gideon's Martyr Day.
Ash pulled desperately at the chains. His skin itched with the terrible, curdling sensation of being restrained. His heart pounded wildly, and he dreaded the darkness, because he knew what lurked out there in the inky blackness—he knew who.
Priest.
Just thinking the name seemed to summon the man like a demon from the Abyss. Ash suddenly felt a presence behind him, hovering over him in the dark. Deep, vile laughter rumbled in his ears like thunder, and his skin crawled with cold terror. No. No, no, no—if the Saints were real, they would save him, they wouldn't let Priest take him—
"This one," said that deep, familiar voice. "He'll do nicely."
No—
Ash screamed behind the gag as the chain around his neck snapped tight, pulling him across the dirt ground. The manacles were gone, replaced by rough rope that lashed his wrists and ankles together so he couldn't flail. Priest's vile laughter filled his ears, pulling him deeper into the darkness, towards the fires of the Abyss.
"Crowle!" Ash screamed against the gag as the air began to warm. He had saved Ash from the flames last time. Please, oh please, let him save Ash again. "Crowle! Crowle!"
He was being dragged backwards, the sickening rhythm of the drums throbbing, the heat of the bonfire growing, the darkness beginning to recede as the wicked glow of flame swelled up.
"Gi-de-on!" The men of the camp were chanting in time with the drums, shouting the old hymn in drunken slurs. "Gi-de-on! Martyred here, on the pyre o-Tonn! O'er the flames he was taken upon, sent from the world by his carnal throng! The Saint of three days, of long battles unwon, the Saint of atonement o'er fire and stone! Despoiled three days, then burned alone! Atone! Atone! Weep for the Saint of charnel flame! Weep for his pain, Gi-de-on!"
Those terrible, familiar hands grabbed Ash's shoulders and hauled him up from the ground, spinning him round so that he could see the flames which would consume him. There was a narrow stone slab in front of the bonfire outfitted with chains, ready to hold him, to strap him down where he would be tormented, violated, torn apart for three days until at last Priest gave the order to throw him on the pyre.
Ash turned and looked up into Priest's face, praying for any hint of mercy in his vile, grey eyes.
It was not Priest's face who looked back at him. It was Carver Banks.
He scowled down at Ash, harsh in the bonfire's light. Ash froze. Was he still angry about the spying? Ash thought of the torture devices hanging on the wall in the workshop, the white walls washed in firelight in his memory. Was he going to punish Ash for his misstep after all? Was that why he'd chosen Ash for Saint Gideon's Day?
"No," Ash rasped, the gag gone. "No, please—I didn't mean—"
Master Carver scowled again and shoved him forward, towards the slab.
"No!" Ash shrieked. "I won't do it again, I won't, I'll be good, I promise—Saints, no, please!"
"Ash," said a firm voice, and he twisted around to see Master Rowan standing at this other side, looking down at him. He rested a hand on Ash's shoulder. "Stop making a fuss. It's going to be all right."
Hope swelled in Ash's chest. Master Rowan had shown him mercy before. He might do so again. "Please. Please don't make me, sir, I don't want to go. Please!"
"Relax, darling." Banks leaned down so that they were eye to eye. He smiled, but with his face half hidden in shadow from the Abysmal firelight, the expression was devilish, and Ash's blood went cold. "You're safe now. Come on." He grabbed Ash's arm and pulled him toward the fire.
"No!" Ash screamed. "No!"
The flames welled up before him, heat and thunder, and the stone slab's chains curled around him, and suddenly he was trapped, trapped, the men still chanting, Rowan and Carver Banks standing over him as the heat intensified, frizzling the air, burning, and Ash could see nothing but fire—
~*~
He bolted upright with a gasp.
For a moment Ash was disoriented before he remembered where he was. His small room was quiet, the door closed, and he was alone, panting in the dark. The cold sweat on his skin made him shiver.
A nightmare.
He ripped the bed's thin sheet away, unable to stand the sensation of it wrapped around him, and swung his feet down to press flat against the cool floor. He buried his head in his hands and took several long, deep breaths, fighting the urge to cry. His cuts throbbed viciously.
It had been a long time since he'd had one that vivid. Already the gruesome details were starting to fade, but Ash had had this nightmare enough times to know the details by heart. He'd been back in the chattel camp, and Priest was there, and it was Saint Gideon's Day. The Banks brothers had been there, too, and Ash had been terrified of them. He still felt the echos of that terror.
Ash was used to nightmares, but it wasn't often that he got night terrors anymore. What could have possibly caused it? Other than the events of that morning, the rest of the day had been uneventful. Master Rowan hadn't called upon him again, and Ash hadn't even seen Master Carver after the incident in the workshop. Dinner had been completely unremarkable, with the only occurrence of note being that he'd met Madge the cook, who'd seemed nice enough.
He pushed shaking hands through his sweat-damp hair and slowly lowered himself back onto the jumbled sheets, blinking up at the dark ceiling. He laid there for some time, unable to fall back asleep, the chant of Gideon's Hymn resonating inside his head to the angry beat of the drums, along with a strange, hazy memory of a smile half-hidden in devilish firelight.
_____
Thanks so much for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to the tag list for future posts. I would be happy to add you 😁
And we're finally onto chapter eight, in which we meet Will at last, and also Ash has a nightmare.
This story is also being posted on my A03
(If you’re wondering what the deal with this story is, or what’s going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)
This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!
_____
Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, mentions of restraints & physical punishment, mentions of past sexual assault/rape/torture (not explicit)
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3,523
Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine
_____
Jules came to his room some time later.
"Is everything all right?" he asked from the door, seeing Ash's face.
Ash was still shaken from earlier, but he didn't dare breathe a word of what had happened with Master Carver. Talking about it would involve admitting that he'd been caught eavesdropping, and he didn't want to risk having that reach Banks, if it hadn't already. He simply kept his mouth shut and nodded.
Jules eyed him a moment, then let it go. "Very well. How about some lunch? You must be hungry after being dragged about the house all morning." He stepped aside, waving a hand toward the hallway. "Come on, up you get. No more hiding in this room. Anyone who stares at these drab walls long enough runs the risk of going mad, I think. Come and eat with us in the kitchen."
The thought of hiding in his room was entirely more appealing than venturing back out into the house, but Ash kept that to himself as he unfolded from the bed. Jules kept up his usual stream of chatter as they walked to the kitchen, allowing Ash to stay quiet. "We're rather informal with meals. Lunch is usually around twelve-thirty or so, and breakfast nine o'clock, but it's not strict. If you turn up round the kitchen anytime near then you'll find a hot plate. The only meal you really must be punctual for is dinner, of course, which is six-thirty, since Madge comes in for that, and she won't stand for anyone missing a meal…"
In the kitchen Ash was surprised to find Will seated at the large island, looking shockingly well and not at all injured, already halfway through a generous plate and showing now sign of slowing down. He grinned sheepishly as they entered.
"Couldn't wait, could you?" Jules teased. He looked at Ash and gestured to the empty stool across from Will. "Go on, have a seat. I'll bring something over. Have you two had a chance to properly meet? Or have the masters been keeping you both too busy?" There was hot food on the stove, and as Jules spoke he pulled a plate down from the cabinet and began heaping it full. "Ash, this is Will, Master Carver's current project. He's been here, what would you say, a few months now?"
"Just about," said Will, swallowing another bite. His blue eyes were still a bit red-rimmed from earlier, but he seemed more or less recovered from his beating, voice steady and carrying no trace of distress. He'd clearly bathed, his fiery red hair damp and combed back from his face. "Actually, it's been nearly four months, now. Saints." He gave a wistful shake of his head and looked at Ash. "Sorry if Master Carver scared you before. He's usually nicer than that, he just gets protective. Especially after a training session."
Nice? Ash thought, remembering the welts on Will's back. "But—wasn't he hurting you?"
"Not really. Well, yes, but we'd already finished with that part. And afterwards he always makes it worth it." He smiled at Ash across the island, eyes bright and clear.
Ash blinked at him, completely baffled. What could he possibly say to such an absurd statement? Luckily Jules chose that moment to drop an overflowing plate down in front of him.
"You know the rules," Jules said. "Finish all of it. And if there's anything you'd like more of, just say the word." He went back for his own serving. "Will, go easy on Ash. He's new."
"I know. You just got here yesterday, right?" Will shook his head again. "Saints, I bet you're scared. I was too, when I came here. Terrified. People say the worst things about the Banks, you know? But they're really not so bad, and this place is like heaven compared to where I was before." He tilted his head towards Jules, who'd joined them at the island. "Jules remembers, right? I started off a mess, but I love it here now. Oh, what do you think of Master Rowan?"
"I, uh…"
"I think Ash is still trying to sort that out," Jules supplied helpfully.
Will nodded. "Fair enough. Isn't he handsome though? Nothing like my old master. Now he was a fucking prick. But I'm sure you know all about that." Will speared a vegetable and looked at Ash curiously. "I bet your old master was a prick too, wasn't he? He must have been, if you ended up here."
Ash darted a glance at Jules. It was dangerous to talk poorly of a master, even an old one, if there was any chance of it making its way back to the current master. Of course that rarely stopped slaves from gossiping amongst each other, but Ash didn't know Will or Jules well enough yet to trust them, and the last thing he needed was to get himself into trouble. Again.
Jules caught his glance and shrugged. "Don't mind me. I don't care what you say about Sefton, and even if I did, I'm sure Rowan would only agree with you."
Will's eyes went wide. "Lord Sefton?" He gave a theatrical little shudder. "Saints! I've heard nightmares. Luckily I've never met him. My old master, Lord Stratton, he wasn't exactly friends with Lord Sefton, but they knew a lot of the same people. Ran in the same circles. I've heard all sorts of awful stories. Terrible things. Like his dinner parties—"
Ash's throat went dry.
"—Lord Stratton always complained that he'd never been invited to one, but I was glad, because some of his friends had gone and their slaves would barely even talk about it—"
There was a sudden, awful lump in his stomach.
"—but when they did, the things they'd say would make you shudder. I met Lord Corwin's slave once, and he said—"
Lord Corwin. One of Sefton's closest friends. The sound of blood was loud in Ash's ears.
"—well, he said that they'd—"
"Will," Jules cut in, a noticeable edge to his voice. Ash flinched. "Not over lunch, perhaps?"
Will's mouth snapped shut and he looked down at his food. "Right, sorry. I didn't mean to…uh, sorry."
The silence that followed was heavy, and after a few moments Jules cleared his throat and nudged Ash's untouched plate. "Do you know that this is?" He pointed to the meat, long strips of glazed, pale flesh that Ash didn't recognize. "It's baked eel. Have you ever had it before? No? Well, it was common fare for me growing up. I'm originally from Laminster Call, you see, which is deep in the lower city. Ever heard of Mucktown? Same place. That's just what people call it when they think we're not listening. It's right on the water at the base of Colidwoll Bridge, and eels tend to gather on the muddy banks down there. Easy to cast a net out, so we ate them all the time. An under appreciated dish, if you ask me. Go on and try some."
As unappealing as that sounded, Ash was grateful for the abrupt change of subject. He lifted his fork with unsteady fingers and poked at the gelatinous meat, covered with some sort of brown, savory-smelling sauce, and tried to calm his nerves enough to force it down.
~*~
Lunch ended quickly, with Jules and Will doing most of the talking while Ash obediently cleared his plate. The eel was surprisingly inoffensive, but it was of no particular appeal, and he would have preferred not to eat it again if given the choice. Not that he would be.
Afterwards Jules herded them out of the kitchen to do the washing up in peace, and Ash suddenly found himself standing alone in the corridor with Will.
Will unhinged his jaw for a large yawn. "Saints, I'm exhausted. Are you heading back to your room? I'll walk with you. I could go for a nap."
Ash didn't know where else he might go. He'd already checked the front door, and the home felt otherwise too vast and extravagant to wander through aimlessly, nor did he have any interest in accidentally running into one of the masters. Not to mention his cuts were aching. He nodded, and they headed towards the slave quarters.
Will spoke up as they were crossing the lounge.
"Sorry about what I said in there." He flicked a timid look at Ash. "That was stupid. Sometimes I run my mouth without thinking. I'm bad about that. Master Carver says all the time that it'll get me in trouble if I'm not careful, but I really don't mean to do it. I just get nervous and, well." He shrugged. "We're working on that. I just have to try harder. Anyways, I'm sorry. Really." He offered a weak little smile, a peace offering that was surprisingly innocent on his boyish features. Now that his hair had dried it made a fiery halo about his head, illuminated by the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. Will was a very pretty boy. Ash wondered what humiliations he'd suffered at Lord Stratton's hands.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "You were right, anyways. Lord Sefton was awful. I'd just rather not talk about it, is all."
Will nodded. "I understand. When I first got here I couldn't talk about Lord Stratton, not for weeks. I didn't even want to think about him. But Master Rowan kept me busy, helped me forget. And Master Carver's teaching me new things now. How to be stronger. Smarter. It's been so different from how I thought it'd be. They've been such a help. "
Ash was reminded of Master Rowan's words from earlier. It will be a healing process, just like the scars. He swallowed. "Do you trust them?"
"Yes," Will answered without hesitation. "I do."
"Even Master Carver? Even after he—" Ash remembered the sounds coming from the workshop "—he beats you?"
"Yes. Especially after he beats me. That's when I trust him most."
It was such a bizarre answer that Ash was sure he'd misheard. He'd received many beatings from masters and handlers over the years, and none of them had at all made Ash trust the bastards who'd supplied them at all. Ash remembered one particularly bad night at Sefton's very early on, when Sefton had taken offense to the tone with which Ash had mumbled Yes, sir, and took a cane to Ash's back, then bound Ash's arms and legs so that Ash couldn't struggle while he raped him. Afterwards he'd thrown Ash into that small, cursed closet he used for punishment, and left him laying in the pitch-dark for hours, still bound, mind spiraling with awful, clawing memories of ropes and chains and flames. That'll teach you to disrespect your betters, Sefton had said. Ash certainly hadn't trusted him after that.
The lunch in his belly sat like a stone at the memory. He licked his dry lips. "What about…does Master Carver ever…tie you up? Does he—ever leave you like that?"
"Tied up? Sure, sometimes. Master Rowan, too, though not as much. He only does it when he needs to train a particular skill. But when Master Carver does it, it's—I don't know, different. He's got a certain way of making you feel. Like you're dreaming, but also awake. Wide awake."
Ash was beginning to consider the very real possibility that Will was a bit of a lunatic. "Doesn't that scare you?" They were nearing his room. "Doesn't he scare you?"
Will smiled, a tranquil little expression that was oddly out of place for their conversation. "Not really. I was scared at first, but now…I don't know, it's like he's teaching me how to be brave, or at least how to manage my fear. I'm still learning, obviously, but…it's strange. It's like he's given me more control, somehow, by taking it away. None of my past masters have ever done that before. No one has been like him." Will looked down at his feet as they walked, the little smile shrinking. "I think I'm going to be sad when he sells me. But I trust him. I know he won't give me to anyone who'll hurt me. He'll find the right master. I know he will." It sounded, just a bit, like he was trying to convince himself.
They'd reached Ash's room. Ash slowed, looking at Will, and let out a long breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have been spying. I won't do it again."
Will shrugged. "It's okay. I probably would've looked too. And don't worry about Master Carver, he wasn't all that angry. Like I said, he just gets protective. You'll see when you're with him."
The image of the workshop's chains and whips flickered through Ash's mind, and he shuddered.
Will stretched his arms over his head. "Saints, I'm tired. See you at dinner?"
Ash nodded and Will wandered off, heading for his own room.
~*~
The voices were laughing at him.
Ash couldn't see their faces. He never could. His tormentors existed only as rough hands, sneering laughter, hot pain. He was in the chattel camp, fires blazing in the distance, figures flitting past like shadows. The screams of other tortured souls resonated beneath the consuming roar of ravenous flame.
They laughed as they hurt him, the men of the camp, holding him down, pressing him into the damp grass, training him. Prettier word. The agony of it burned like fire. They called themselves handlers, and Ash never understood why no one corrected them, called them what they really were. Everyone knew it, and no one said it. Familiar, impotent rage rose within him. These men would be hanged if they did this to a free person, but Ash wasn't a person. He was an object, sold by his father for a pittance to pay a mere month's rent and meals. That was all his life was worth, apparently.
The hands pressed him into the dirt. Ash screamed.
One of them came forward and captured his face in cold hands, a strangely grounding sensation in the fog of torment, and spoke foul-smelling words against his face.
"Clever doll," the handler's voice said, scratching inside his head like thorns. "Pretty little doll. Don't you like this?"
Then the hands were gone, and the chains came instead.
He was in a dark place, perhaps one of those tents made of heavy, dense canvas, pitch black, no light. His hands and feet were bound, manacled to four posts driven into the ground so that he was spread face-down on the ground like an insect pinned to a board. There was a gag over his mouth and a metal chain around his neck, fastened somewhere above his head in the darkness. His stomach was a hollow pit of hunger. He was weeping. How long had they left him here? He couldn't remember, but he didn't need to remember. He knew what this was.
It was Saint Gideon's Martyr Day.
Ash pulled desperately at the chains. His skin itched with the terrible, curdling sensation of being restrained. His heart pounded wildly, and he dreaded the darkness, because he knew what lurked out there in the inky blackness—he knew who.
Priest.
Just thinking the name seemed to summon the man like a demon from the Abyss. Ash suddenly felt a presence behind him, hovering over him in the dark. Deep, vile laughter rumbled in his ears like thunder, and his skin crawled with cold terror. No. No, no, no—if the Saints were real, they would save him, they wouldn't let Priest take him—
"This one," said that deep, familiar voice. "He'll do nicely."
No—
Ash screamed behind the gag as the chain around his neck snapped tight, pulling him across the dirt ground. The manacles were gone, replaced by rough rope that lashed his wrists and ankles together so he couldn't flail. Priest's vile laughter filled his ears, pulling him deeper into the darkness, towards the fires of the Abyss.
"Crowle!" Ash screamed against the gag as the air began to warm. He had saved Ash from the flames last time. Please, oh please, let him save Ash again. "Crowle! Crowle!"
He was being dragged backwards, the sickening rhythm of the drums throbbing, the heat of the bonfire growing, the darkness beginning to recede as the wicked glow of flame swelled up.
"Gi-de-on!" The men of the camp were chanting in time with the drums, shouting the old hymn in drunken slurs. "Gi-de-on! Martyred here, on the pyre o-Tonn! O'er the flames he was taken upon, sent from the world by his carnal throng! The Saint of three days, of long battles unwon, the Saint of atonement o'er fire and stone! Despoiled three days, then burned alone! Atone! Atone! Weep for the Saint of charnel flame! Weep for his pain, Gi-de-on!"
Those terrible, familiar hands grabbed Ash's shoulders and hauled him up from the ground, spinning him round so that he could see the flames which would consume him. There was a narrow stone slab in front of the bonfire outfitted with chains, ready to hold him, to strap him down where he would be tormented, violated, torn apart for three days until at last Priest gave the order to throw him on the pyre.
Ash turned and looked up into Priest's face, praying for any hint of mercy in his vile, grey eyes.
It was not Priest's face who looked back at him. It was Carver Banks.
He scowled down at Ash, harsh in the bonfire's light. Ash froze. Was he still angry about the spying? Ash thought of the torture devices hanging on the wall in the workshop, the white walls washed in firelight in his memory. Was he going to punish Ash for his misstep after all? Was that why he'd chosen Ash for Saint Gideon's Day?
"No," Ash rasped, the gag gone. "No, please—I didn't mean—"
Master Carver scowled again and shoved him forward, towards the slab.
"No!" Ash shrieked. "I won't do it again, I won't, I'll be good, I promise—Saints, no, please!"
"Ash," said a firm voice, and he twisted around to see Master Rowan standing at this other side, looking down at him. He rested a hand on Ash's shoulder. "Stop making a fuss. It's going to be all right."
Hope swelled in Ash's chest. Master Rowan had shown him mercy before. He might do so again. "Please. Please don't make me, sir, I don't want to go. Please!"
"Relax, darling." Banks leaned down so that they were eye to eye. He smiled, but with his face half hidden in shadow from the Abysmal firelight, the expression was devilish, and Ash's blood went cold. "You're safe now. Come on." He grabbed Ash's arm and pulled him toward the fire.
"No!" Ash screamed. "No!"
The flames welled up before him, heat and thunder, and the stone slab's chains curled around him, and suddenly he was trapped, trapped, the men still chanting, Rowan and Carver Banks standing over him as the heat intensified, frizzling the air, burning, and Ash could see nothing but fire—
~*~
He bolted upright with a gasp.
For a moment Ash was disoriented before he remembered where he was. His small room was quiet, the door closed, and he was alone, panting in the dark. The cold sweat on his skin made him shiver.
A nightmare.
He ripped the bed's thin sheet away, unable to stand the sensation of it wrapped around him, and swung his feet down to press flat against the cool floor. He buried his head in his hands and took several long, deep breaths, fighting the urge to cry. His cuts throbbed viciously.
It had been a long time since he'd had one that vivid. Already the gruesome details were starting to fade, but Ash had had this nightmare enough times to know the details by heart. He'd been back in the chattel camp, and Priest was there, and it was Saint Gideon's Day. The Banks brothers had been there, too, and Ash had been terrified of them. He still felt the echos of that terror.
Ash was used to nightmares, but it wasn't often that he got night terrors anymore. What could have possibly caused it? Other than the events of that morning, the rest of the day had been uneventful. Master Rowan hadn't called upon him again, and Ash hadn't even seen Master Carver after the incident in the workshop. Dinner had been completely unremarkable, with the only occurrence of note being that he'd met Madge the cook, who'd seemed nice enough.
He pushed shaking hands through his sweat-damp hair and slowly lowered himself back onto the jumbled sheets, blinking up at the dark ceiling. He laid there for some time, unable to fall back asleep, the chant of Gideon's Hymn resonating inside his head to the angry beat of the drums, along with a strange, hazy memory of a smile half-hidden in devilish firelight.
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