Rowan and Ash - Chapter Nine
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 😁
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