Rowan and Ash - Chapter Seven
Onto chapter seven, in which Ash finally gets that haircut. I should probably make a masterpost for this story...I'll do that soon
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, off-screen but implied physical punishment, mentions of past sexual assault/rape (not explicit) Rating: Mature Word Count: 2,544
Chapter Six // Chapter Eight
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"There we are," Jules said with satisfaction, using the duster to brush loose hair from Ash's shoulders. "What do you think, sir?"
Ash blinked at his reflection. They were back in the slave quarter's small washroom, Ash standing naked before the large mirror with Jules smiling at him in the glass. Clumps of snipped hair scattered the tiles around their feet.
Banks smiled from the doorway, where he leaned against the frame with Ash's white shift draped over his crossed arms. "I think that's perfect," he said. "No shorter. Another masterpiece, Jules."
Jules grinned. "Thank you, sir. I do live to serve." He set the duster onto the counter and began fussing with stray curls, arranging them just so, eyeing Ash in the mirror. "And how about you? What do you think?"
Ash didn't know what he thought, surprised at the difference a simple haircut could make. Sefton, like most of his previous owners, had preferred a certain amount of length to Ash's hair—all the better to drag him around by, he supposed—and Ash couldn't remember the last time it'd been this short. Rather than the wild mass of curls he'd seen that morning, the mirror now revealed a pretty face unobscured by rogue tendrils, his boyish features neatly framed in a tidy chestnut halo. The style was still longer than a free man might wear, but not so long that Ash could tie it back. It made him look older, somehow. More his age.
Jules' hands stilled. "Oh, dear. You don't hate it, do you?"
Ash's heart skipped. "No! No, I like it. Thank you, si…Jules."
"Thank goodness. You had me worried there, a moment."
Banks watched the exchange and then moved away from the door, reaching for Jules to lightly brush his cheek, and then combed his hand back through Jules' dark hair to scoop up the low ponytail and let the glossy strands flow through his fingers like water. Jules made a faint noise and tilted his head into the touch. "Yours is getting quite long, too," Banks mused, repeating the motion, and this time Jules nearly purred. "I should take you for a cut."
"Take me however you like, sir," Jules said. Banks smirked and tapped him on the cheek, a parody of a slap.
"Cheeky brat," he mumbled.
Ash watched in the mirror, once again stunned by their strange rapport. It was odd that Banks not only tolerated Jules' back-talk, but seemed to indulge it; most masters hardly spared their domestic slaves a glance, much less treated them with affection. The fact was, if someone was rich enough to own slaves and wanted to fuck them, they could just buy a slave who was trained to fuck, rather than repurpose one who wasn't. It was considered unsophisticated to do otherwise. Then again, Jules had said last night that he'd been bought and reformed by Master Rowan. Perhaps part of that reformation had been a change in occupation.
Banks turned and caught Ash's curious gaze in the mirror. Ash flushed and quickly dropped his eyes.
Banks chuckled. "It's all right. I can't help but stare at him, too." Ash kept his eyes down and managed not to jump when a large hand buried itself in his hair, closing around a fistful of curls and tugging, ever so gently, at the scalp. "Perfect. Well done, Jules. Look up now, Ash. Let's have a proper look at you." The hand moved to his jaw and lifted his face to the mirror.
Two keen gazes stared back at him, one deep blue and the other piercing dark, and under the weight of their attention Ash was suddenly, starkly aware of his nakedness, of the faint flush that still lingered on his chest from Banks' ministrations in the bedroom, and of the ugly, grotesque cuts on his front. They seemed especially hideous now, as he saw himself standing before the composed men behind him. Compared to Banks' calm control and Jules' sleek beauty, he felt small and damaged, second-hand.
The cuts really would leave terrible scars. Once the Banks brothers were done with him, no one would want him. Or rather, no one kind. The only people who bought damaged goods where those who planned to break their playthings from the start.
Ash shuddered. Stupid, he thought again.
Banks was watching him, a small crease growing between his eyebrows. "Saints, we've really got to teach you to guard your face. What are you thinking about, Ash?"
Ash swallowed. He couldn't ignore a direct question. "Just that I'm thankful for your generosity, sir," he tried.
"Liar," Banks shot back, and Ash's stomach went through he floor. "You weren't. But I'll allow it for now."
"You're making his point about generosity," Jules noted.
Banks cast him a sidelong glance and looked back to Ash. "Well, let me tell you what I was thinking about. I was thinking that you're beautiful, and that I hadn't thought it possible for you to become more beautiful, and that I was very glad to be wrong." The hand on Ash's jaw brushed his cheek, thumb skimming the prickling flush. "What were you thinking, Jules?"
"I was thinking that Ash must be glad to have all that hair out of his face." Jules smiled into the mirror. "Oh, and also that he's beautiful, sir."
"There, you see? Arms up." Ash raised his arms slowly, wincing as the cuts pulled tight, and the world briefly vanished as Banks pulled the white shift over his head. "And down again. Very good, darling. Do you remember what I said before? About trusting me?" He settled his hands onto Ash's shoulders.
"Yes, sir."
"I know that will take time, but here's an easy thing to start with: trust me when I tell you that you're a pretty boy with a bright future, even if it doesn't feel like it now. Time will do you wonders. You'll see." He turned to Jules. "Lunch soon, I think?"
"Of course, sir. I'll just clean this up first."
"Thank you, darling." He turned back to Ash. "Take some time to relax, and feel free to go where you please. This is your home now. You're not a prisoner here, and I'd rather not keep you behind locked doors if I don't have to. You'll be a good boy?"
Ash nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.
"Very good. Don't make me regret that." He gave Ash's shoulder a gentle pat. "Now, there's a mountain of letters sitting on my desk I've been putting off for weeks. I'll be in the office if I'm needed." Banks smiled at Jules' respectful little bow and strolled out, leaving them alone.
~*~
Ash took Master Rowan's words to heart and quickly excused himself, abandoning Jules to sweep the washroom floor alone.
He left the slave quarters and padded toward the main living area, bare feet quiet on the hallway's cold hardwood and then completely silent on the lounge's carpeted floor. There was no one in here now, everyone busy in other parts of the home, and Ash paused in front of the great windows to look out at the sweeping view of Templhead's hazy skyline, the lower city's distant smog a low, sooty smudge on the horizon which gradually faded up to a bright, clear blue sky. He looked down and saw the residents of Dower's Point scurrying like ants on the street below, coming and going freely and breathing the city's exhaust-and-brine scented air, living as they pleased. Ash wondered if they thought at all about the feeling of wind and sunlight on their faces, or if they took those things for granted, as he once had.
He backed away from the window and turned to face the lounge.
The end table by the sofa was clean, Banks' morning tea and newspaper gone, no doubt whisked away by Jules while they were busy in the bedroom. The bedroom…now that they were over with, Ash considered the morning's events. Truthfully, servicing Banks hadn't been as awful as he'd feared. Pleasing a new master was always a frightening, tenuous balance of trying to learn his preferences without frustrating him—or worse, angering him—but luckily Banks had given instruction, which made things much easier. And he hadn't been rough with Ash, either. He hadn't fucked his throat raw as Sefton liked to do, or held Ash down and violated him like the camp handlers, or tied Ash up with ropes or chains, like Priest. No, Banks had been very calm, very clear, and had not indicated violence in any way.
At least for now, Ash thought, and wondered if that would last.
Banks had even used his own hand and allowed Ash to come, which Sefton had never permitted. Sometimes, as a means of torment, Sefton would paw at Ash until he was hard and then leave him tied up and untouched for hours, but that had been vastly preferable to some of Sefton's other tortures, and besides, getting hard had never been particularly enjoyable for Ash. He'd always viewed it as an unpleasant but necessary survival skill. That was Crowle's doing—while training in the Malderrian whorehouse before pimping him, Crowle had made sure to teach Ash's body to respond, even when he was terrified. Last thing I need is for you to piss off the wrong john by not stiffing up for his cock. Spent too much toff on this face to have it bashed in. It had saved Ash's skin more than once.
But Banks had been kind. He'd handled Ash carefully and been mindful of his wounds, and it hadn't been difficult at all for Ash to finish, which seemed to please Banks. Ash couldn't say he'd enjoyed it, exactly, but he'd been thrilled not to be hurt. Not to mention he'd learned at least one easy way to appease his master: act like he wanted it. It was a defense tactic that might come in handy later.
For now, there was something he wanted to see.
There were two tall, narrow bookcases against the wall on either side of the lounge's massive sofa, stuffed with thick volumes. Ash went to the one conveniently located closer to the entryway of the foyer, and pretended to study the titles on the shelves as he listened. The home was utterly silent around him. No sign of anyone close by.
Darting a quick glance toward the hallway to make sure Jules wasn't on his way back from the slave quarters, Ash slipped into the foyer and went to the front door.
It was pointless, he knew. He'd seen yesterday that a key was needed to operate the elevator, so even if he managed to get out of the penthouse he'd still be trapped on the floor, but his compulsive need to try was overwhelming. He went to the door.
There was a keyhole below the doorknob, but no visible lock. Ash recalled the click of the automatic lock as Jules had closed the door behind them, and wondered if the penthouse's front door had been designed that way, or if the Banks brothers had added it on their own.
He reached for the knob, the metal cool against his sweating palm, and turned it. It stuck, locked. He wrapped both hands around and gave a few good, firm tugs, careful not to rattle the heavy door in its frame too loudly, but to no avail. Ash let his arms fall. It was as much as he'd expected, but the reflexive, cold drop in the pit of his stomach still made him feel queasy.
He turned and headed for the slave quarters, leaving the foyer before he got caught.
~*~
On his way back to his room, Ash noticed the workshop door was open. It stood ajar in the plain, windowless hallway, the sounds of leather striking flesh no longer coming from within. Instead there were different sounds, softer ones, and Ash slowed as he neared the doorway, hearing a low voice drift from inside.
"It's all right, sweetheart," it was saying, once Ash was close enough to make out the words. "That was perfect. You did so well. So brave. My brave boy."
It wasn't Master Rowan's voice. It was Master Carver's. Ash hesitated, pulse quickening, and then stepped closer to peer inside.
A sharp chill shot down his spine as he saw the room beyond. The workshop was a large, windowless space with a tiled floor and sterile white walls, one of which was lined end to end with torture implements. Every tool made for the purpose of misery that Ash had ever known was there, as well as several more he'd never seen before. A few benches and pillories were speckled throughout the room, obviously meant to restrain a slave while he was being subjugated. They looked old and well-used. There was even a set of manacles bolted to the wall by chains and a whipping post in the corner. Ash went a bit dizzy.
Master Carver was sitting on a low bench in the center of the room, the sort with straps at the corners to hold a bondslave down, and huddled in his lap was a small figure that Ash recognized as Will, the red-haired boy. He was naked, his back to Ash, and Ash saw angry, raised red welts glowing on his pale skin, marring his back in a crosshatch pattern. Will was softly crying, little bitten-off hiccups that seemed loud in the workshop's cool air, and Master Carver was holding him, one arm curled around his hip to avoid the welts, the other stroking gently through his bright hair. As Ash watched Will wrapped his shaking arms around Master Carver's neck and clung to him tightly, burying his face against his master's broad shoulder. Master Carver turned to press a kiss against his temple and murmur more soft words against his ear.
"I'm sorry," Will was whimpering, barely audible. "I tried, I c-couldn't…"
"You did incredibly well, sweetheart. I'm so very happy."
Ash's heart was in his throat. It seemed an oddly fragile moment, and one he shouldn't be witnessing. He slowly stepped away from the door, holding his breath to try and keep quiet, but to his dismay a floorboard squeaked and Master Carver raised his head to glance over top of Will's hair and spotted him, dark eyes locking onto Ash.
Ash froze.
Master's Carver's stern face slammed shut. "Can I help you?" he snapped, the gentleness of a moment ago gone from his voice. Will went still in his arms, rigid and silent.
Ash's mouth was suddenly dry. "I, uh, I'm sorr—"
"Leave," Master Carver barked, and Ash jumped, lurching back from the door. "Now! Before I remove you."
Ash didn't need to be told twice. He went, hurrying to his room and closing the door behind him. He half-stumbled to the bed and folded himself onto it, shaking, and waited for the awful, inevitable sound of angry footsteps in the hall or the clatter of his door bursting open on its hinges, but neither came. Master Carver didn't chase him, and Ash was left to tremble in the oppressive silence of his room alone.
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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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