#tigerverse

Poor thing must have a fever, she notes. Worry stirs up in her heart—has she failed to take care of him properly? What will Papa do with him?

Ash groans and tries to lift himself to all fours, but his muscles seem to give out. He slumps back to the bedding, shivering so deeply that it rattles his teeth. His eyes flutter open briefly—glassy and wet—but he can’t keep them open long before he slips back into feverish sleep.

Faye anxiously twists the oak-leaf pendant on her necklace, a nervous habit she knows she should break. It’s not proper to let her emotions control her, but can she really be blamed? She’s not even 200 years old—practically a child among elves. She still has so much to learn.

Papa will know what to do.

She calls out to Ozmund, who leaves his breakfast with a sigh. When he sees the pet, shivering and sweating in a heap, his annoyance softens a bit.

“Oh, the poor dear got himself sick. I can see you’re worried about him, aren’t you?” he asks, dropping a comforting hand on the top of her head. Ducking to hide her face, she replies with a small nod. “And I suppose you want me to make it all better?”

The condescension in his tone shames her just as intended. She swipes the tear pricking in the corner of her eye and collects herself. “No, sir. Not unless that is your wish as his master. But . . .” She hesitates, unable to stop herself. “I would like to at least make him more comfortable, if his master allows it.”

She wouldn’t dream of disobeying Ozmund. To go against her father is like going against the Weave itself: unnatural, impossible to fathom. If she wants to be powerful like him some day, to be an heir worthy of his legacy, she must learn everything she can from him—even the parts that hurt her tender heart.

He smiles, patting her head carefully so as to not displace her braid. “Alright, then. You may take him to my lab. We’ll see what we can do about this fever. Cover up, though—it won’t do for both of you to get sick.”

Faye clasps her hands in front of her chest, as if in prayer. “Thank you, Father!” She withdraws a handkerchief from her pocket and ties it over her mouth and nose. Though she doubts he’s contagious, Ozmund is right to suggest caution.

She conjures a cloud of shimmery green magic to slip beneath Ash and gently lift him from his cage. With its help, she can carry him like a bride with ease, despite his enormous size. What a gift such magic can be—allowing her to care for a pet so much larger than herself. Faye is grateful for it as she carries him down the winding corridors, deep into the lower levels of the estate.

The last time Ash was in Ozmund’s lab, he was much more . . . feisty. He hadn’t yet learned how a pet is supposed to behave, or exactly what Ozmund was asking of him. He fought back, struggled, even cursed at his master—Faye recalls how shocked she was to witness it. At the time, he swore he wouldn’t let them study him. Ozmund reassured her that he would come around in time. She still hopes that’s true; what could be better than learning everything there is to know, especially about her favorite pet?

She carefully lowers Ash onto the stone table in the middle of the room. For a moment, she considers whether she should secure him with the restraints at each corner, but decides against it. The poor thing remains curled into himself, hugging his own shoulders as if to hold himself together through the violent shivers.

Although she knows it won’t do much, she brushes his sweaty hair off his skin. Even with his brows so furrowed—either from pain or his fitful dreams—Faye is transfixed with Ash’s face. Papa always had good taste in pets; handsome faces and beautiful figures were a common sight in these halls. But something about the rugged, animalistic nature of Ash’s appearance was different to her. If only she could see those pretty green eyes—not the jeweled emerald green of her father’s magic, or the newly-sprouted leaf green of hers, but a distinctly human green. The kind she’s never seen in an animal. Touched by nature, but not quite a part of it.

“I see you still haven’t broken that habit, then.”

Ozmund’s voice breaks Faye’s unfortunate focus. She fiddles with her braid nervously, unable to make eye contact.

“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” She’s grateful for the makeshift mask covering most of her face; it would be impossible to hide the embarrassed pink staining her cheeks.

“You can’t go getting yourself all in a fuss every time a pet so much as sneezes,” he chides, searching the cabinets for various tools, which clink one by one onto a clean metal tray. With his back still turned, he continues, “It’s just like the girl, with the broken leg. She might’ve never walked again if I didn’t stop you from carrying her everywhere.”

Faye couldn’t help herself—then or now. Any wounded little creature, no matter how wild or how civilized, called to her deep down in her soul. She likes to think herself a scholar, but truthfully . . . Her sincerest desires are much more domestic. If only she had something of her own to care for, someone to dote on and spoil! Then, perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to focus on her duties. Perhaps she could compartmentalize this yearning and be as detached as Ozmund. But when she looks at Ash—so frail and pitiful in this state—it seems impossible to put emotion aside.

Ozmund is right, though. Papa is always right. And she must lean on his guidance, lest she be led astray.

“There’s no need to pout, child. Look at me,” Ozmund softly orders; an almost hypnotic force pulls her eyes up to attention. “Keep yourself busy and let the urge pass. If you want to help him, you’ll take advantage of this opportunity, instead of wearing yourself thin by fretting.” He crosses over to her, tapping her hand where it twists the end of her hair and presenting the tray of tools. “Now, be a good nurse and check his vitals, please.”

A task. Tasks are good. Faye can focus when she has something to do. She can’t worry about this pet and treat his illness at the same time; a scholar must remain unbiased, unburdened.

Still, she muses as she warms the thermometer in her hand, a little kindness never hurt. He hardly seems to notice when she slips it into his bum, and she’s glad for it. At least he’s sleeping.

While she waits for the thermometer to reach its final measurement, she listens to his heart and lungs. Just like most animals, his pulse is much faster than a typical human’s—and even more so now. His breathing is labored, but relatively clear. His skin is clammy and a sickly off color; though he’d become paler from all the time away from the sun, the only color that’s returned now is a worrisome red to his cheeks. When she finally retrieves the thermometer, it’s just as expected: a fever, and quite a high one at that. She recalls that his baseline temperature was higher than expected as well; perhaps that is another quirk of his biology. Before she loses the numbers in the jumble of her thoughts, she jots them down on her notepad.

As she hands over her findings to Ozmund, Ash begins to stir. Reflexively, she casts a blanket of heavy, leaf-green magic over him, holding his weak form in place. His hands sweep the stone table as his eyes struggle to wrench open, and she can hear the hitch in his breath as his fingers trace the drainage channel. Panic overwhelms him, and he fights against the magic to pick his head up.

“Wh-where—?” he whimpers, before horror dawns on his face. “No. No! Please! Plea-please don’t kill me!”

Kill him? Faye’s hand shoots to her heart in shock. She would never! But then again . . . Papa has put down pets before. Only if they were dangerous, though, or outlived their usefulness. Or, she realizes with renewed fear, if they were too sick to be healed.

She steals a glance to Ozmund, watching his expression for some kind of answer. Denial, she hopes, but even a confirmation would at least assuage the anxiety of not knowing. Instead, all she finds is the same smooth, calculating nonchalance he always wears.

Ash continues to babble pleas and apologies as Ozmund crouches down to pet his feverish cheek.

“Hush, darling,” Ozmund soothes. “Your body isn’t used to the outdoors anymore, is it, pet?” He strokes Ash’s sweaty hair and tuts in disapproval. “No, that’s right. The shock of it all has made you quite ill. But don’t fret, my little housecat. You belong right here with me, don’t you?”

In the haze of delirium, Ash half-nods. Faye can see that he’s too far gone to understand, but at least he seems settled. His incoherent begging quiets to occasional sniffles and squeaks, and he sinks back under the weight of the magic holding him in place. As Ozmund leaves his side and returns to his brewing potions, Faye catches Ash almost reach to grab at the hem of Ozmund’s sleeve, but he seems to change his mind at the last moment.

“Here,” Ozmund calls from behind her. He hands over a vial of ugly yellow liquid. “Give this to him. Make sure he drinks it all.”

“Yes, sir.”

She doesn’t immediately recognize the foul-smelling concoction; it doesn’t appear to be any potion he’s taught her yet. Is it new—or just so niche she hasn’t had a need to learn it yet? It doesn’t matter now. Just focus on the task at hand, she reminds herself.

Ash’s bleary eyes follow her as she reaches to lift his head. His mouth lulls open almost on instinct, and she nudges his chin to encourage him.

“That’s it: open wide for me, sweetie. This should help you feel better.” She tips the contents of the container into his mouth, pressing his chin back into place and pressing her thumb to his lips. At the turn in his expression, she smiles apologetically. “I know, baby. I know. You have to drink it, though. Be good boy.”

Having little other choice, Ash chokes the potion down. His throat briefly protests, but the effects of the potion soon become evident. Before she can even take her hand away from his face, his muscles start to droop. His eyelids sag, and his breathing slows to low, effortful huffs. Barely a moment later, he’s already deeply asleep.

An errant thought overtakes her, and she finds her fingers slipping to the curve of his neck. Yes, definitely asleep. His pulse still thuds vigorously under her touch, just less franticly than before. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her father, but . . .

Ash is special. Special to her, certainly, but also different from Ozmund’s other pets. Though she doesn’t know all the details, Faye is aware of the history between them—how Evius was ungrateful for Ozmund’s tutelage and ultimately rejected his love, and how Ash was the one to seduce him away. No other pets have had such a direct tie to her father; none have been someone he might consider an enemy. Despite how well he’s cared for his newest acquisition so far, she can’t help but wonder if revenge is part of the agenda. Does it serve Ozmund better to simply eliminate him, rather than rehabilitate him?

It’s not her place to make that call, of course. It’s not even proper for her to express how much she enjoys this pet’s company, though she can’t ever seem to tamp down her excitement over it. If only she’d had the chance to meet him before all of this, back when he still had those adorable stripes and furry little ears. Would he have been more pliable back then—so much easier to train, more receptive to the care she has to give? Could she have had him for herself, if he hadn’t slighted Ozmund?

His pulse still thumps under her finger, steady and peaceful now in sleep. She hopes he rests more soundly than before—it seemed like he was struggling with a nightmare when he awoke. Does he not feel safe and provided for? Does his subconscious still fear them? Faye had thought they’d made progress; selfishly, she thought he’d started to think of her fondly, too.

No, she corrects herself, I must not covet what hasn’t been given to me. His devotion must be first and foremost to his master. She shakes off her wild, wandering thoughts and settles back into her proper role. What was that new potion, anyway?

“Sir?” she asks as she returns the empty vial. “What is this? It smells familiar—almost like an herb, perhaps?”

His eyes crinkle when he smiles. She likes that; not many people make her father smile that way. “Good observation. It’s made with coriander—far too much of it, in fact. I call it ‘devil’s herb.’ I’m sure you can guess why.” The proud glint in his silvery eyes sharpens into something more . . . malicious.

It takes a moment, but Faye puts the pieces together. “Did he make this with you? Evius, I mean?” It makes sense; after all, Evius had trained under Ozmund as his apprentice for many years before their romantic relationship began. Of course, he’d only been a teenager at the time, so she supposes mistakes were bound to happen. “I know coriander often has a mild sedative effect, but I never thought it could work so quickly.”

“That’s right. Evius was practicing with a sleep potion—nothing too complicated. His mistake in measurements led to that foul concoction. I’ve been perfecting the formula ever since.” He rests his hip against the counter and folds his arms. “Nothing to be done for the taste, unfortunately, but that’s what makes it so effective. I’ve found much success with it as a sedative, with the knock-on effect of hydration and improving overall constitution. Now, what else does the little patient need?”

She runs down the checklist in her head. “Well, his vitals are mostly okay, but the fever is quite bad. I should probably also do a physical exam to check for injuries or signs of infection. Assuming there’s nothing else going on, I’d like to bring down the fever and, if it’s alright, maybe something for pain?” Her teeth worry a ridge into her bottom lip, and she once again fiddles with the end of her braid.

For a moment, she very nearly holds her breath, awaiting Ozmund’s reply. She locks in on the quiet, even sound of Ash’s breathing, slowing her own in response. If her father says no, she will obey. If he corrects her or chastises her, she will accept his criticism with grace. That is what it means to be a good pupil; that is what it means to be a good daughter.

After an agonizing second of contemplation, Ozmund speaks. “Alright, then. I’ll leave this to you.” He pats her shoulder as he passes by, heading for the door. Before he leaves, though, he turns back for a moment. “Make him as comfortable as you like, but do remember: never, ever remove those bindings. Even in the state he’s in now, that boy is stronger than you can imagine. Be smart, child.”

A small part of her resents that remark; does he not trust her? Has she not proven herself to be faithful and obedient? She thinks better of that feeling, though—as always, he’s right. One can never be too careful, after all. Besides, there’s more important things to focus on: her patient needs her. So, she simply smiles behind her handkerchief and promises, “Of course, sir.”

When he finally leaves, she catches her breath. His watchful eye always makes her jittery and prone to mistakes. She works best left to her own devices. And now, without appearances to keep, she winds her long brain into a bun to keep it off her shoulder, pinning back her bangs as well. Though she dislikes the boyish effect it has on her face, keeping her hair out of the way helps her think clearly. But with Ash deeply sedated and no one to watch her, she can relax.

Her shoulders sag from their stiff, perfect posture, and she sighs. “Just the two of us now, pet,” she says, though she knows he can’t hear her. For just a moment, she allows herself to rest against the table, her fingers brushing against his bright pink cheek. “You’ll feel better soon, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.”

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-

So what, then? If he can’t be set free, what would at least make his life as Ozmund’s pet more bearable?

The final day comes and goes without fanfare. Everything had been a struggle after his body was battered with electricity; though he’d been healed of the burns and permanent damage, his brain is muddier than ever, and his muscles alternate between pain and tingling numbness. And yet, he almost feels proud of himself—he’s done everything right, stomached more pain than he could imagine, and he’s finally, finally going to reap the reward.

Like most nights, Ozmund ushers him to the bed. Ash doesn’t hesitate this time. His chest is puffed with confidence; though he plays polite as he’s expected, he can barely contain the smugness he feels towards Ozmund. At last, he has a leg up—a sliver of power and control he’s desperately craved since he was captured.

“I must say, pet, I am impressed.” Ozmund wraps an arm around Ash, pulling him closer to his chest. “Not every pet can learn to be obedient so quickly. I suppose that’s what makes you special, isn’t it?” He taps Ash’s nose. The whiplash of such an affectionate gesture throws Ash for a loop; he can never quite get used to Ozmund’s hot-and-cold temperament. “Such a good little kitten—you’ve served me well these past weeks and suffered so beautifully. It’s only fair that I reward you in return.”

Ash’s heart leaps into his throat. He wasn’t lying! Ash did as he was told, and now Ozmund has to fulfill his part of the deal. But as Ash opens his mouth to reply, Ozmund cuts him off.

“Ah, don’t tell me your wish just yet, my love.” He lifts Ash’s chin, nuzzling in close to drip soft kisses across his cheek. “Take your time to think. It can wait till the morning.” He continues to savor Ash’s skin, his hands drifting along Ash’s neck and down his chest. The pride Ash had bundled there sinks deep into his gut; this isn’t how it was supposed to go. “I have another promise to keep first.”

Renewed fear seizes Ash’s muscles, freezing him in place. What promise? With the way Ozmund’s hands linger on him—too tender, too intimate—his stomach turns at the realization.

Ozmund has only fucked Ash a few times since that first awful violation; he assumes Ozmund wanted to keep him in a usable state as long as possible. Though it was always painful and humiliating, Ozmund had limited his brutality with Ash’s insides. Instead, he mostly abused Ash’s mouth or kept him bound in lewd poses, spilling pools of his seed on Ash’s skin.

But, because Ozmund has given Ash’s body time to heal, Ash knows he’s in good shape to be used again. So, as Ozmund’s hands travel to his hips—still unnervingly soft and gentle—he tries to steel himself against the oncoming assault. His eyes squeeze shut, and he bites against his cheek to brace for the pain of intrusion.

But the pain doesn’t come yet. Instead, feathery-soft kisses land on his eyelids, followed by slender fingers stroking his hair.

“There’s no need to be afraid, love,” Ozmund purrs, barely above a whisper. “Come now, open your eyes. That’s it—relax, darling.” Ash does as he’s told. Even so, he can feel the sting in his nose that tells him tears are on the way.

Come on, he begs his body, don’t do this. It’ll only make this worse.

Ozmund guides Ash down onto his back, wrapping his arms as if to cradle Ash within them. Despite his enormous size compared to Ozmund’s lithe, shorter figure, Ash still feels fully engulfed by him. If it wasn’t Ozmund—if it wasn’t this terrible monkey’s paw he’s found himself in—he would almost feel comforted. Ozmund’s knuckle brushes away the wetness pricking at the corner of Ash’s eye.

“You may cry, if you must, but you have nothing to fear, pet. As I’ve told you time and time again: I am a fair master. I will always give you what you deserve.” Ozmund’s words seem threatening—how many times has Ash heard them before a punishment? And yet, his tone is . . . kind. Earnest. Ash’s gut twists anxiously. “I promised that, as long as you are obedient, I will keep you all to myself.” Once more, he takes to Ash’s jaw, pressing kisses against Ash’s stubble. “You are mine to cherish. Mine to mold into perfection. Mine to shower in praise and pleasure. And as long as you’re mine, I’ll make sure you will enjoy our time together, too.” He holds Ash’s cheek, bringing their faces nose tip to nose tip. “As long as you’re mine, you can take your lover’s place in my bed. I’ll be just as good to you as I was to him.”

Lurid images flash in Ash’s imagination before he can stop them: Ozmund and Evius, breathing heavily into one another; sweat breaking on Evius’s coppery skin, his teeth biting into his perfect, plump lip; the sounds of ecstasy slipping from him with every connection of their hips. Ash’s cheeks burn at the thoughts as he tries to shove them away. He doesn’t want to think about that—not about Evius, or the things they did together, or what Ash will have to endure as Evius’ “replacement.” His stomach is sick at the thought of it.

Despite his disgust, Ash’s body can’t help but respond, and Ozmund takes notice.

“So hard already, pet?” he teases, lightly tracing the outline of Ash’s erection. “Does that excite you, thinking of how I satisfied him? I’ll show you exactly how I made love to him—how I can love you, as long as you allow it.”

Allow it?! Ash silently fumes, knowing his permission has never been asked nor needed for any of this. His protests mean nothing; his begging and pleading means nothing. Ozmund does as Ozmund pleases, only using his asinine rules to somehow make Ash “deserve” it: to make every punishment Ash’s fault, and every unwelcome pleasure something he “earned.”

His anger is interrupted by a cold, wet probing at his entrance. Not forceful, not painful, but startling nonetheless. Ozmund rests a hand on his belly as he jumps in surprise. Ash realizes Ozmund’s other hand has slipped between his legs, slowly working him open with a lubricated finger.

“Easy, pet. Be still.” His finger slips in easily; Ash is begrudgingly grateful that the plug forced inside him every day has stretched him out a little. Ozmund curls and uncurls his finger, barely brushing Ash’s prostate. “Evius took a little time accommodating to my size as well. I’d have him riding my fingers for hours till he was finally ready—of course, he was a drooling mess by then, the silly thing.” His free hand explores Ash’s chest, thumbing over his nipples until they stand in firm peaks. As he slips another finger inside of Ash, those peaks become almost painfully hard.

Slowly, devastatingly slowly, Ozmund stretches Ash’s entrance. Without the pain he’s come to expect, he’s brought back to the memory of his limited time with Evius. How gently he worked Ash open, letting Ash’s anxious mind catch up with his willing body—Ash had always been so nervous, so scared of the unfamiliar pleasure Evius brought into his life. As the memory subsides and he becomes aware of his body once more, he swallows the sick rising up in response.

His stomach twists with the third finger Ozmund wriggles into him. Whines begin to escape from Ash’s throat, too overwhelmed with the intrusive sensation to fight them down; Ozmund gently shushes him and lavishes him with praise.

“That’s a good boy,” he soothes, rocking his hand carefully back and forth. “Yes, you’re almost ready, darling. I know you must be desperate, aren’t you?”

Ash’s breath hitches in response. “Desperate” could be the word for it—desperation to be away from Ozmund, away from his practiced hands, away from the pressure building in his belly, away from the thoughts Ozmund is planting in his head. His lip wobbles; he clamps them shut to keep the tears at bay a little longer.

He wants to beg Ozmund to stop—to cry and plead for this horrible violation to end—but he knows it’s useless. He knows his words mean nothing to Ozmund; he’d only ensure a worse punishment for daring to resist Ozmund’s “kindness.” Why can’t he just beat him? Break his bones, tear his flesh, anything at all besides this? Ash can get used to being treated like a dumb animal—that was all too familiar. But instead, he’s forced into the role of a lover, when he’s barely had a chance to experience it outside of this cruel charade. How can something so foreign, so tightly entwined with his deepest anxieties, ever become tolerable?

After far too long, Ozmund finally removes his hand from between Ash’s legs. In spite of himself, the absence almost makes Ash feel a bit . . . empty. The imaginary Evius in his head whines in lustful complaint; Ash’s cock twitch involuntarily at the sound. Neither have to wait long, though. Ozmund repositions himself, one hand cradling beneath Ash’s head, the other slicking up and down his length where their hips nearly meet.

“Deep breaths, beloved,” he instructs Ash, both stern and gentle. “You have to relax, or it’s going to hurt.”

Ash tries his best to breathe despite the terror pounding in his heart. You have to relax. You have to relax. He repeats the phrase in his head over and over as he wills his muscles to unclench. Even so, he can’t help but keep his eyes shut tight. Ozmund’s thumb rubs his temple, as if to smooth the furrow of his brow.

“It’s alright,” he shushes. “Breathe.”

This time, he penetrates Ash with little resistance. There’s no burning, no tearing, no pain at all. After a few gasping breaths to collect himself, Ash lets a word slip out before he can stop it:

“Fuck!” He clamps a hand over his mouth as he realizes what he said, and what that meant.

It didn’t just not hurt—it felt good. Is this what it’s meant to be like? How it would feel with Evius? Is this . . . how Evius felt with—

Ozmund chuckles. “You may speak freely, pet. At least, when you’re in my bed.” He pulls Ash’s hand from his mouth, instead interlacing it with his own on the sheets. “I told you, this is how I treat my lovers. I never hurt Evius—I wouldn’t dream of it.” A wry grin curled his lips. “Well, except when he asked.”

His hips roll into Ash with a careful, measured pace; he pushes himself deeper until he finally bottoms out. Ash’s heels scramble to find purchase on the slippery sheets—anything at all to pull away from Ozmund, away from the overwhelming sensations clouding his mind. Ozmund hooks an arm under Ash’s knee, lifting his leg to move in closer.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” he coos. “To be in his place, to see what he saw, to feel what he felt?” Ash can only huff and groan in time with Ozmund’s precise movements. “To know just a taste of what I gave him. Isn’t that right, love?”

It is. The thought of Evius, splayed out beneath Ozmund, slowly worked into a whimpering puddle of pleasure—it’s more than Ash can bear. He squeaks out a broken “Yes” between stilted breaths. All the physical torture, he has proven to himself he can weather. But this mental torture, this cruel reminder of exactly what’s been ripped away . . . He doesn’t know how to withstand it.

Ozmund frees his leg, instead winding himself closer to Ash. His lips graze Ash’s neck, his breath not quite hot on Ash’s flushed skin. “But you don’t want it to stop, do you?”

Doesn’t he?

Doesn’t he want Ozmund to leave him be, to stop touching him? Doesn’t he want him to stop talking about Evius? Doesn’t he want this whole humiliating ordeal to be over with?

And yet . . . He can’t deny how his heart aches at even the mention of Evius, or how the thought of him in ecstasy—no matter the source—brings his body to attention. He also can’t deny how his body responds to every thrust of Ozmund’s hips, every roll of pressure deep in his core. He can’t deny how arousal drips from his untouched cock, much as he’d like to.

“I—I don’t know,” he whimpers. He squeezes his eyes shut again, grasping at the sheets to steady himself against the unyielding build of pleasure.

It’s not fair. Why is Ozmund letting him feel good—why is he making him feel good? He hates Ozmund, for all of it. Not just today and the confusion he’s putting in Ash’s head, but everything he’s ever done. Abandoning Kane only to try to kill them later, betraying Evius for his own gain, all the pain and abuse he’s inflicted on Ash since his capture—how can Ash ever put that aside? How can he ever separate that from the man pressed against him, whispering praise into his ear and forcing moans from his lips?

I hate you I hate you I hate you, he repeats in his mind.

“Poor thing,” Ozmund purrs, more than a hint of teasing in his voice. “You’re not meant to make decisions like this. You don’t even know what you want.” He looms over Ash, corralling Ash’s head between his arms. “But that’s okay. I’m here, pet. I’ll do all the thinking for you.”

With that, he picks up his pace. Somehow, he never breaks a sweat, never seems exerted or out of breath—as if it takes no effort at all for him. Meanwhile, Ash squirms beneath him, barely holding himself together. He curses under his breath, when he’s able to say anything at all; mostly, all that slips out is a grunted “ah-ah-ah” with each meeting of their hips. Ozmund traces every inch of Ash with his hands. Ash’s skin ignites with sensation that overwhelms his frazzled brain. Each touch, so unwanted but so enticing, pushes him further and further into a foggy, unreachable state of mind.

Ozmund takes his time, working Ash to the brink only to pull back at the last second over and over again. The pleas in his thoughts of “don’t” and “stop” shut down, too lost in the depths of Ozmund’s practiced touch to protest. All the while, Ozmund assaults his ears with praise:

“Good boy.”

“You’re doing so well.”

“Such an obedient pet.”

Ash’s body tightens at the mounting pleasure. Pathetic whines tumble from his lips without his control, humiliation burning hot in his cheeks. Encouraged by his reaction, Ozmund pounds into him with renewed energy. He murmurs deep in Ash’s ear, “Evvy would be so proud of you, wouldn’t he?”

A sob chokes Ash’s chest at that thought. He’s done well to hold his tears until this point, but the burning lump in his throat threatens to overtake him now. Would he? Would Evius be proud to see Ash like this—writhing in unbearable pleasure wrought by the person who brought him so much pain? So soon after they had finally confessed their love for one another, before Evius even had a chance to claim him in this way? Would he be proud of Ash’s obedience, his submission to Ozmund purely for his own survival and a wish for less pain?

How far has he sank? What the hell is even left of himself at this point? His strength, his courage, his dignity—it’s all gone.

Ozmund steals his focus back as he holds Ash’s face in a stern grip.

“Look at me, darling. As long as you stay obedient—as long as you devote yourself to me—you’ll never want for anything, or anyone, else. Remember who makes you feel this way. ” He forces Ash to meet his eyes, locking him in place as he pushes Ash closer and closer to the edge. “Come for your master, my love.”

As if on command, Ash’s muscles spasm in absolute ecstasy. His back arches off the bed, his head tilting back as far as Ozmund will let it, still maintaining his hypnotic eye contact. Ash can’t look away, much as he’d like to; instead, rivulets of tears pour out beyond his control as he stares into Ozmund’s sharp gray eyes. Sobs wrack his chest with each wave of overwhelming pleasure. Something halfway between an anguished wail and a heady groan erupts from his throat, a steady stream of whimpering following behind. Ozmund fucks him through the orgasm as he reaches his own; he spills inside Ash with each thrust, forcing rope after rope of cum from Ash’s cock and onto his belly.

It is, unquestionably, both the best and worst orgasm of Ash’s life.

He continues to shiver and sob as Ozmund pulls out of him, curling Ash into his chest in some sadistic, intimate embrace. Ozmund kisses his head and brushes his hair from his face—still so tender, so gentle. As his body calms, Ozmund continues to lavish him with praise. Even his frantic breaths are lovingly shushed until they finally ramp down to quiet shuddering.

After a moment of rest, Ozmund’s patience begins to feel more like growing tension.

“You know,” Ozmund starts, letting his hand wander across Ash’s neck, “normally, I wouldn’t let Evius stop at just one release.” The hair on Ash’s neck stands up, and his stomach twists in knots. “I couldn’t bear to let the poor thing go without squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of him.”

Not again. Please! He can’t take can’t take any more confusing, overwhelming pleasure tonight. His tears nearly renew at the thought alone.

Ozmund continues, “But, I suppose that’s enough for tonight. I think I’ve proved my point, haven’t I, pet?”

Ash nods instinctively, letting out a silent sigh of relief. If there was a “point” to this whole exercise, Ash assumed it was two-fold: first, giving Ash the carrot to complement the stick, showing him how at least Ozmund won’t make his rape physically hurt anymore like others would. And second, reminding Ash how pathetic he is that he will never satisfy Evius like Ozmund did. Not that he’s had much chance to try, or ever will again. Hope leeches from his body every second he spends in this nightmare.

“Rest for now, sweet boy.” Ozmund’s warm, unwanted hands pet his head. “And in the morning, you can tell me what your wish is.”

Ozmund cleans the mess from Ash’s body with magic before tucking him beneath the luxurious bedding. No crate for him tonight. He’s grateful for the ability to stretch out and to be warm and comfortable, but thinking about the cost brings bile up into his throat. And staying in Ozmund’s bed is nearly as bad on its own: as an elf, Ozmund doesn’t truly sleep. He only meditates for a few hours, leaving the rest of the night open for his hands to wander and his eyes to linger on Ash’s sleeping form.

As Ozmund returns from redressing in his silky dressing gown, he settles beside Ash, a book in one hand and the other threading lazily through Ash’s hair. Ash’s skin crawls, but he submits to the easy reassurance. He’s done well. He can survive this another day.

The empty husk of Ash’s useless body lays limp in Ozmund’s arms, his connection to the present starting to wane. His consciousness is hanging by a thread; the cloudiness that protects his mind hovers just out of reach, ready to block his thoughts at any moment. His body is coming down from the rush and crashing hard; his bullied psyche has nowhere else to retreat. All he can think of is tomorrow—when finally, finally, his suffering might be worth it.

What is it I want?

When the time comes, over breakfast the next morning, he finally has his answer. The one thing—the one taste of freedom—Ozmund might be willing to grant him. He steels up his little remaining hope and bravery, and speaks his first full sentence in weeks:

“I want to go outside.”

-

Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba @tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515 @jumpywhumpywriter @torturedsamaritan (great timing btw lol)

-

Ash stiffens for a moment; was he told something he wasn’t meant to know? Would he be punished for it? How did Ozmund even find out?

“Yes, I have ears everywhere, pet.” Ozmund chuckles, brushing his fingers over Ash’s thigh in a way Ash assumes is meant to be reassuring. “Alas! Silly girl got ahead of herself; I suppose she gets her impatience from me. But it’s true—I was planning on striking something of a deal with you, love.”

A nervous shiver ripples up Ash’s arms. His stomach flips with anticipation, the hazy glow of the charm spell still dulling the worst of his fear and, perhaps, even filling him with a sick sense of hope. Ozmund hadn’t gone back on any of his promises—or threats—so far. Can Ash trust him to keep his word?

“Yes, Master?” Ash chokes, his heart pounding in his throat.

Satisfaction blooms on Ozmund’s face—Ash isn’t quite sure whether it’s from his obedient submission or the palpable anxiety emanating from his body. “Look at you,” Ozmund coos, tracing the goosebumps on Ash’s arm, “so excited, you’re practically bristling. Lucky for you, my challenge won’t be too difficult. Or, rather, it shouldn’t be.” He cups Ash’s cheek in his slender, elegant hand, his eyes holding Ash’s in a hypnotic gaze. “All you have to do is obey. Isn’t that easy? Just do as you’re told for the next two weeks, and I’ll give you anything your little heart desires.”

Anything? Ash’s breath catches in his throat. But as he goes to open his mouth, Ozmund interrupts him.

“Within reason, of course,” he corrects. “I know what you desire most of all, little cat, and that’s the one thing you simply cannot have.” His thumb grazes over Ash’s shaky lip. “No, you aren’t going home, my sweet. This is your home for as long as I’ll have you. The sooner you make peace with it, the better.”

Tears spring up in the corners of Ash’s eyes, wetting his lashes as he ducks his gaze to hide his disappointment. What could he ever want but to go home? How can he make peace with being held hostage, constantly abused and violated and treated as an animal for others’ amusement? How can he even pretend to tolerate this insanity? Because I have to, he reasons. Because I am an animal.

Ozmund brushes the wetness from his cheek. “I know, pet, I know. Now, pay attention—I won’t repeat myself.

“Over the next two weeks, Faye will continue to train you. You will submit to her training, regardless of what she instructs you to do. She will not harm you—aside from your pride and little shocks for correction. You will not harm her or speak out of turn.

“I will have guests visiting during this period. You will allow them to touch you and hurt you in any way I permit. I decide what you can and cannot tolerate, and I will enforce that myself. You will not fight back or argue—and, unless instructed otherwise, you will not beg or plead for mercy.”

Ash’s heart thumps faster and faster in his chest as Ozmund speaks. It isn’t much to remember—after all, what’s so complicated about “be quiet and take it?” But in practice . . . It goes against all his hard-learned survival instincts.

Ozmund rests his hand along Ash’s neck; Ash struggles to control his increasingly panicked breaths. “Oh, don’t be too frightened, darling. No one is going to kill you, and no one is going to fuck you except for me.” He smirks, pulling Ash closer. “I suppose I’m greedy that way. As long as you behave, I’ll keep that all to myself. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it. Of course,” he continues, his voice darkening, “should you step too far out of line, I can always turn you over to anyone who wants a taste. All my guests, the servants—I can’t imagine they’ll be gentle. Perhaps that fate awaits you if you fail my challenge. You wouldn’t want that, would you, pet?”

“N-no,” Ash whispers. “No, Master.”

Ozmund presses a kiss into Ash’s cheek. “I thought not. Then get on your knees and show me how much you want me.”

-

By morning, the magic quelling Ash’s panic has subsided. He awakens in his cage—blissfully alone and untouched, but with his heart and mind suddenly racing.

I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! Terror overtakes his thoughts, and he struggles to catch his breath against the crushing weight pressing into his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, as if to literally hold himself together. I just want to go home . . .

Ozmund’s words float back to the surface: He can never go home. But, if he can make it through the next two weeks, then maybe . . . Maybe he can come up with something, find some way to escape.

Okay, stay calm, Ash coaches himself. Just think. What can I ask for that can help me get out? Taking off the chains? Doubt he’d go for it. And if he saw me transform, that’d just push him harder to study me. Ash is sure Ozmund’s promise of “anything, within reason” isn’t as literal as it sounds. Ozmund probably expects him to ask for something trivial, like good food or a bigger cage—either that, or he just wants Ash to profess his deepest desires only to be turned down.

Ash flinches in surprise when the cage door suddenly opens. He’d been so lost in his own racing thoughts he hadn’t noticed Faye coming to retrieve him. He tries to calm the thudding in his chest as he crawls out and obediently kneels at her feet.

And so, day one begins.

-

Without the charm spell keeping him drifty and confused, Ash has to focus much harder on maintaining his composure. Pain flares across his skin and deep into his muscles—a reminder of the abuse Ozmund and his sadistic cohort inflicted on him only a few days prior. And with each passing day, the abuse only grows more and more confident; more and more creative.

One afternoon, a lady friend visits Ozmund for tea. An exquisitely lithe and tall elf; she puffs rings of smoke from her long cigarette. When she twirls her finger, the rings glow pale purple and morph into shapes in the air. She leans deeply on her elbows, speaking close to Ozmund in an excited foreign tongue. Sylvan, Ash assumes. He doesn’t know much of it, only a few phrases he’s picked up from Kane—mostly swears. Even so, it’s obvious he is the topic of conversation. Her sharp, lilac eyes dart down to him at Ozmund’s heel, hungry and cruel.

She barks a command in Sylvan, snapping her fingers and pointing to the space in front of her. Ash hesitates, looking to Ozmund first. Ozmund nods him forward.

“Sit up and hold out your palms,” he translates.

Ash complies. For a split second, he eyes the sweets on the table. Is she going to offer him a treat? A few guests have been kind like that, so maybe—

The burning ember of the cigarette presses into Ash’s palm. He barely catches the startled yelp that rises in his throat, managing only a tight-lipped groan instead. By the time she dabs the still-warm butt into his other hand, he can breathe through the pain without flinching.

It’s not that bad, he coaches himself. I’ve had worse. It’ll be worse if I don’t take it. Just be a stupid animal and take it.

-

By the end of the first week, Ash is getting used to the routine. A moment of quiet in the morning with Faye, stretching against the renewed strain in his muscles; long, mind-numbing swathes of boredom at Ozmund’s feet, interrupted only by the occasional hands petting or hitting him; each evening, training his gag reflex, his posture, his obedience, anything Ozmund or a guest might ask of him. It almost feels good not to think in those passing hours. If he can look past the indignity, the humiliation, the fact that Ozmund owns him—it can be nice to give his mind a break.

He’d been pushing himself for so long, chasing some elusive goal of intelligence, and for what? To impress the people who already liked him just the way he was? To prove to himself he wasn’t some abominable beast? Whatever magic he’d learned is useless by now anyway; Ozmund had destroyed his spellbook weeks ago. Ash has no power without it. No power, no rage, and no help: what’s the point in trying to fight?

Nights, of course, are different. Whether Ash is entertainment for Ozmund’s friends or used as his personal stress relief, Ash can’t manage to turn his brain off through it all. Not when he’s bent over a table and beaten with every implement they can find; not even when his chastity cage is finally removed. He is awake and aware for every second—every lash of pain on his thighs, and every shuddering, unwanted orgasm pressed from his body. He holds strong, though, and never fights back. It still isn’t the worst he’s been through. He can still take it.

-

The worst comes later, well into the second week.

Ash’s arms are stretched high above his head. The chains on his wrists hold him aloft, latched to a hook somewhere high on the ceiling. Despite his height, his feet find little purchase on the cold marble floor; he stands on the very tips of his toes, his arms forced to bear nearly all his weight.

It’s not a punishment, Ash knows. It’s just entertainment—something for Ozmund and his guests to ogle while they enjoy their dinner. He’d been made-up and dressed in carefully draped sheer fabric, artfully placed on display like a living statue. He supposes these guests simply prefer their art to writhe and whimper rather than stand still. Even so, he tries his best to keep quiet and move as little as he can.

Conversation floats in and out of Ash’s attention as his ears begin to ring; it gets harder and harder to focus as his chest grows heavier and heavier. His breath picks up speed, and he stretches to reach the floor. He’s not gonna let me suffocate, right? Ash glances to Ozmund, who merely smirks in response. He promised no one would kill me—did he not include himself?

Before Ash can fully work himself into a panic, hands are suddenly on him. A woman in Weaver robes thrums down his ribs, making his stomach flutter; someone he can’t see traces the shaking muscles of his back. A fist connects with his side, forcing strained breath from his already-taxed lungs. It’s easier to take the pain than it was before—at Ozmund’s last party, he’d been so weak that his body couldn’t tolerate anything. But now, decently-fed and hydrated, he can withstand nearly as much as he could in his prime. After all, he’d been in plenty of fights—both real and for practice—and taken hard hits with ease. His body is trained for this kind of abuse.

However, with his chest compressed from his unbearable position, he can only cough and gasp in response. His arms tug against the chains, trying to find any purchase to relieve his over-stretched diaphragm. All the while, hands continue to explore him. Scratching, grasping, pulling—his nerves are overwhelmed with sensation. It takes all his concentration to simply stay conscious through it all, and that concentration is fading fast. Black tunnels surround his vision now, his hearing all but gone. The last thing he sees before his eyes slip closed is Ozmund finally rising from the head of the table.

Ash awakens on the floor, a cold sweat beading across his skin. His arms ache as if they’d been yanked from their sockets, and bruises are starting to bloom all along his torso. He coughs against his burning lungs; despite the pain in his chest, he can finally catch his breath. But as his eyes swim into focus, he realizes his torment is not yet over.

“Oh good, he’s still alive,” a voice laughs above him. He doesn’t recognize it; he’s seen so many new people in the past few weeks that they barely register in his memory.

“We’d hate to break your new toy so quickly,” another voice adds. This one is strange: it rumbles like a thunderstorm, as if powered by a gale of wind. Ash presses to his hands and knees with a quiet groan. A heavy boot drops onto his back, forcing him back down to the ground. The same crackling voice cheerfully reprimands him, “Stay down, pet.”

His eyes flicker to the owner of both the voice and the boot: a woman with blue-gray skin and windswept silver hair. Some kind of storm elemental, he’s sure. She flashes a shark-like grin to the others—a vague crowd Ash can’t identify well from the ground—and retrieves a strong-smelling lump from the table. He recognizes the smell, some edible root Kane taught him to harvest. The pumpkin bread from Solmar smelled vaguely of it, though Ash can’t quite recall the name.

“He knows commands, right?” the woman asks Ozmund. “The usual ones?”

Ozmund hums in agreement. “That’s right. He may not be the quickest learner, but I think we’ve made good progress. Go ahead, be my guest.”

Her wicked smile grows wider. “Perfect. Watch this.” She snaps to get Ash’s attention. “Pet! Present yourself.” Ash does as he’s told: he presses his chest to the cold floor, stretches his arms above his head, and raises his backside with his knees spread wide. “Good boy,” she coos as she circles him. “We’re gonna have some fun.”

She pops the ever-present plug out of his ass and tosses it aside. Before he has a chance to enjoy the relief, she replaces it with the thick, gnarled root from the table. She pats his backside as if he were a horse.

“Stay.” The direction of her voice then shifts to address the “people” in the room, not Ash. “Give it a few minutes and it’ll be a riot,” she laughs.

As the crowd buzzes around him—occasionally hitting him or groping him or wiggling the intrusion shoved inside him—he wracks his brain for anything he can remember about this root. What was it called? What did Kane warn him about it? He knows he has to peel it and shave off little pieces to add to his food, so what else . . .

A whine builds in his throat as the sensation begins to take affect. Burning. Touching the peeled part with bare skin will burn: that’s what Kane taught him. Shoving a peeled root inside him—within minutes, his muscles are shaking and he’s sweating. His hips can’t help but move, trying and failing to alleviate the pain rippling from his core. The more he fights it, the more contact it makes with the delicate skin it’s pressed against.

His squirming must be exactly what the woman wanted; her laughter thunders above him.

“Look at him, trying to get away!” Her boots stomp closer, reaching below his head to prop up his chin on the toe. With her lips pouted in faux sympathy, she prods, “Does it hurt, baby? Aw, I know, I know. But you’re gonna be good and stay put while I make it worse, won’t you?”

Hot shame flushes Ash’s cheeks, and he ducks his eyes as he nods. It already stings so badly, how much worse can she make it? He doesn’t have to wait long to find out: after a quick ruff of his hair, she lets his head drop back to the ground and crushes her boot on his hand.

He bites down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Through his shuddering breaths, he manages to fight down his scream.

From the tips of his fingers, ripples of heat cascade down his arms and into his body. The sensation reminds him of the bite in the air before a lightning strike. All his body hair stands on end, his skin pinching into goosebumps. He doesn’t even have a chance to brace himself before—

CRACK!

Electricity jolts him from head to toe. His heart flips in his chest, pounding rapidly to reset its rhythm, knocking the breath from his lungs. All his muscles clench and release at once; he loses his position for a moment, his knees scrambling to keep himself in place. Pain radiates in waves over him: first, the hot electric fire in his skin; then, the aching of his muscles and the thud to the floor; and last, the searing burn in his backside as he tightens around the root.

“See?” the woman roars to the crowd. “Watch how he squeezes the ginger when I zap him!”

The spectacle does appear to amuse the others, and they join in on the fun. They kick at his ribs, attempting to knock him off balance. They strike his thighs and feet with belts and canes. The even use their own magic to provoke him with electric zaps. Ash can barely catch his breath between the torment. And all the while, they’re laughing—laughing at how pitiful he is, at how he yelps in pain, at the shivering of his cold, bruised, nearly-naked body.

When their lust is finally sated and most have moved on to drinking in the parlor, Ash notices a puddle beneath him. His head is so foggy, he can’t remember where it came from. It doesn’t matter—the last guest to leave reminds everyone for him.

“Hey! Looks like you shocked him so hard he pissed himself!” Ash doesn’t recognize the voice anymore, only that it’s walking away from him. He’s too tired to think—too tired to do much more than struggle to hold himself up.

Someone finally removes the ginger root from his ass. He doesn’t dare move, barely letting out more than a sigh with the intrusion finally gone. A hand pets his head. Gently, almost . . . Loving.

“Well done, pet.” Ozmund. Even deep below the waves of exhaustion and pain, Ash can always recognize him. “Sit up for me.”

Though his muscles shake and every bone in his body hurts, Ash sits up, kneeling with his bruised bum resting on his ankles. His half-lidded eyes find Ozmund, who seems pleased for once. Ozmund cups Ash’s cheek in his hand, and Ash leans into the comfort. Just for a second, he promises himself.

Ozmund places a kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair behind his ear. “You’ve done so well. I think you may just get that reward, after all. My sweet, pathetic little pet.”

Ash has never seen such pride on Ozmund’s face. He’s not so sure that’s a good thing.

-

Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba

“Animals need sunlight,” Ash continues, “and fresh air. To feel the dirt and grass.” At Ozmund’s piercing stare, his eyes dart back to his hands in his lap. Was he off-base? His voice warbles against his Adam’s apple. “I-I . . . I need it.”

Ash braces himself for the mocking and pain he expects to come, very nearly flinching when Ozmund’s hand comes to rest on the top of his head. Ozmund pets Ash’s hair and—when Ash is brave enough to look up—curls his lips into a placid smile.

“You’re right, pet. I can’t keep my kitten locked away indoors all the time—and how brave you’ve been to endure it without saying a peep!” He coos and ruffles Ash’s hair. Ash can’t quite make heads or tails of his condescending tone; is this cruelty or care? Either way, he lets out a breath of relief. Ozmund continues, “I apologize for neglecting this need, my sweet. Give me a few days and I will rectify it.”

It was so easy. Concerningly easy. Did Ozmund somehow know what he wanted, before he even realized it? The thought worries a knot in Ash’s gut.

With a quick peck to Ash’s forehead, the conversation is over, and he buries his fearful thoughts for the time being. If he can just go outside, maybe he can find some way out—some way to escape Ozmund’s estate.

-

Bright warmth awakens Ash, penetrating deep into his bones and loosening them from the chill of the drafty manor. As his eyes flutter open, he is suddenly aware of the hard, prickly ground beneath him—nothing like the padded floor of his cage or the plush expanse of Ozmund’s bed. No, this is something else entirely. Something . . . familiar. He stumbles blearily to his hands and knees, searching the floor for some explanation. Not floor—ground. The smell quickly follows as his still-sleepy eyes come into focus: grass. Cool, prickling green grass.

In his half-asleep daze, he wonders for a moment if he’s not still dreaming. Or had he been set free—rescued, even? As he reaches up to rub his eyes and clear his vision, the illusion is quickly shattered. His hand stops short of his face, pulled taut by a length of the same fine, golden chain always encircling his wrists and neck. It’s connected to something else now, rather than just to his other wrist. He attempts to stand, realizing too late that this chain binds his knees, ankles, and wrists in a tight arc—just short enough to force him on all fours.

What the hell—? Claustrophobic panic bubbles in his chest for a moment, caught off guard and off balance by the sudden pull.

He tests the limits of his movements, stretching each limb until the bindings stop him short. With the length of the chain, he can only manage to awkwardly crawl across the grass; even if he could roll back onto his heels and pull himself up, he’d have to walk in a narrow shuffle and bend at the waist.

As Ash gets his bearings, he can’t help but chastise himself. Of course there’s a catch. He huffs through his nose. How stupid could I be?

Of course Ozmund would find some way to twist his words. Of course he would take any opportunity to crush Ash under his heel. But still, Ash admits, at least I’m outside.

He fills his lungs with the fresh, clean air—finally full for the first time in what feels like months. His fingers dig into the earth, working their way beneath the grass to the cool, damp soil below. The smell stabs a pang of sadness into his chest. How long has it been since he’s actually felt grass?

It was just after mid-winter when the party left Evius’ hometown in the south. Then months on the ship heading north, and a couple weeks in the Midnight Tundra—surrounded by only sea or snow. And now, stuck in Ozmund’s manor for . . . How long has it been? Two months? Maybe more? Time has started to pass faster and faster for him, the horrors of each day becoming almost mundane. However long it’s been, it’s long enough that his eyes hurt from the overbearing light of the sun overhead. Even the birdsong and insect chirping overwhelms his sensitive hearing in a way it never did before the weeks of excessive quiet.

Based on the heat of the day and the flowers in bloom across the expansive garden, Ash assumes it must be spring—maybe even summer. Spring . . . Has my birthday passed already? He and Kane always celebrated it around the Equinox, since he isn’t too sure of the day. He guesses he’d be about 29 now, give or take.

Old for a tiger. Would be relatively young for a human, assuming he survives to celebrate another birthday.

He has to survive. He has to find a way out.

Focus, he coaches himself, echoing Kane’s constant refrain. Use your head.

Blotting out everything else, Ash scans his surroundings. The lawn is expansive, but Ash can just make out the limits far on the horizon. High stone walls back against a dense pine forest to the west and north; to the east, he can hear the chuffing and trotting of horses.

That must be the stables, he notes. From the party’s last visit—back when Evius was still Ozmund’s pawn—Ash remembers a coach house on the edge of the property. If he could only snag a horse, maybe he could get some distance before they realize he’s gone.

That’s a lot of staff to get past, though, plus keeping the horses quiet . . . Could be tricky.

The bigger issue is the lack of cover; most of the yard is lined with stone walking paths and low-lying plants. A few small fruit trees dot the rows, but they’re hardly sized for a grown man to hide in or behind. Any sizable trees or bushes hug close to the perimeter, which Ash notes could help him scale the walls. Monitoring the garden is a panopticon of a gazebo, elevated by a small dais and decorated with tumbling ivy. Someone seated at the outdoor dining table there could theoretically see clearly in every direction.

Someone like Ozmund, who is currently being served his midday meal at said table, along with Faye. He’s never taken his meal outdoors before—is this something he usually did before capturing Ash? Neither of them seem to acknowledge him in any way; if anything, they seem to be pointedly ignoring him. He’d expect the silent treatment from Ozmund, but from Faye? As much as he hates to admit it, a tinge of hurt chokes his throat.

Even so—even if they ignore him—Ash wonders if he’s meant to be there with them. Isn’t he supposed to sit by Ozmund’s feet? Isn’t he supposed to be fed, too? His stomach groans. Since he woke up outside, Faye didn’t feed him breakfast. Does this mean he’s not getting lunch, either?

Driven by something he can’t quite place—hunger, obedience, yearning?—he crawls clumsily towards the gazebo. With the chains limiting his movement, he can only trundle slowly across the grass. Pebbles and grit bite into his palms and knees, leaving angry red indentions when he brushes them out. The pain only amplifies as new particles simply replace the old with each awkward step. Even when he finally reaches the stone tiles, they offer little relief. What looked smooth from a distance is actually rough, harsh stone, the white squares heated intensely by the midday sun.

Just keep moving. Don’t think, just move.

His pace is gruelingly slow, which only gives him more time to notice all the servants flitting from tree to tree, bush to bush. Picking fruit, pruning branches, cutting flowers—how many people does Ozmund employ to keep this estate running? And why do they all look past him, glassy-eyed and bored? Shouldn’t just one—anyone—recognize the absurdity of his condition? Or is it quite normal for Ozmund to leave naked, shackled men roaming his garden? A sinking feeling in Ash’s gut fears the latter. Ozmund has been alive for hundreds of years, at least. How many people has he abused in all those centuries? How many more has he convinced they deserved it?

By the time Ash is barely halfway there, he notices a kitchen maid approaching the dining table. She starts to clear away empty dishes and serving plates. When she retreats, all that remains are the teacups and saucers—not a scrap of food left.

Not much later, Ozmund and Faye leave as well, without so much as a glance in his direction.

Indignant tears sting the corners of Ash’s eyes. Didn’t I do good? Haven’t I followed all the rules? Why—? He cuts himself short, brusquely rubbing the wetness away. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve survived worse.

And it’s true; he’s been no stranger to hunger, even in the past few months. A couple skipped meals won’t kill him, though his stomach does squeeze pitifully against itself in protest. But at the moment . . . He feels terribly lost—and terribly alone.

With no further reason to keep trudging along the rough pathway, Ash returns to the slight relief of the grass. Maybe he can still learn more about his surroundings, find some weak spot to exploit. That’s what he hopes, anyway, as he marches beneath the shade of the perimeter wall. Whether he can find an opening or not, he realizes his chains will still pose an issue. Could he even get on a horse with his half-bound posture? Maybe if it’s already tacked, but if he has to ride bareback, there’s no way. As he pauses to rest and clean out his palms and knees, he tests the chain’s strength.

A faint green warbling emits from the length between his wrists when he wrenches them apart, sending a nauseating jolt through his body. The links, however, don’t seem to budge. Obviously, some sort of magic reinforces their strength, but is it beyond his own abilities? He debates on trying again with full strength, but thinks better of it.

I need more time to figure a way out, he reasons. A mistake now means losing what little freedom he’s earned—freedom he needs to construct his plan. So he’ll bide his time for now.

And time is the one thing he has plenty of. The day stretches on, the sun lowering behind the tops of the trees, and still he’s left alone outside. He’d settled in a heap next to a decorative pond, watching the fish swim in circles through the duckweed. Boredom came quickly after he’d investigated all he could find—more high walls, more wide open spaces, more roving servants at every turn—and sleep comes quickly after that. He naps off and on throughout the afternoon, waking at the sound of footsteps passing by or the hunger pangs he tries to ignore. Despite the utter humiliation, he even finds a secluded place to hide and relieve himself once the urge grows too strong.

Is this what Ozmund thinks a pet should do outside? He wonders idly. Dogs are at least given something to chew or a ball to chase, aren’t they? Not that he wants to be treated like a real pet, of course. Of course not. But if he is an animal like Ozmund says, is he not meant to run? Climb trees? Hunt prey? That’s what tigers do, after all. That’s what Mama Tiger taught him when he was a little cub. Yes, he was hairless and awkwardly shaped for a tiger, but she still tried her best to teach him how to survive. If she were here now, what would she tell him? What wisdom would his mother share?

Fight, Moss Pelt. Tear and claw and maul—fight with everything you’ve got.

He can’t let her down. He’ll bide his time, keep his head down, and fight for his freedom. He won’t die here. He won’t die Ozmund’s pet.

Before night falls once more, Ash takes another lap of the perimeter, searching high and low for any avenue of escape. A loose stone in the wall, a gate with a faulty latch, a tree easy enough to climb—anything he might have missed or overlooked. Despite how neurotic Ozmund seems about perfection, Ash has found several potential avenues of escape in just this one day. It’s odd; Ash would have assumed something like this wouldn’t slip Ozmund’s notice. But with so many people roaming around all day, somebody is bound to fix them eventually.

Ash’s stomach gurgles uncomfortably. He’s grown too used to regular meals; after not eating all day, he’s starting to get lightheaded and shaky.

Maybe it’s . . . not so fine. He pants, bile fighting to rise in his throat. A cold, clammy sweat erupts on his skin as he wobbles back to the spot he woke up, sinking on his side in the cool grass. Defiant tears slip out before he can stop them, and he quickly rubs them away.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. He wouldn’t abandon you like this. Why would he?

The empty contents of his stomach spill out onto the grass, heaving in waves until his diaphragm squeezes uselessly against nothing.

Stupid stupid stupid—idiot cat! He wasn’t being nice; he doesn’t care! Don’t forget what he’s done.

A stream of light washes over Ash as a door opens nearby. He’s almost ashamed to be seen like this—filthy, limp, useless. Footsteps thud towards him, reverberating into his head through the ground, but he’s too weak to raise up to meet them. Someone clips a leash onto his collar.

“Come on, then, darling.” Ozmund’s smooth, breathy voice rumbles in his ear. “Playtime’s over.”

-

Training Ash, at least, is a pleasant endeavor. He arrives in her quarters after dinner that night, well-fed and dizzy from a head full of magic. A charm spell, she’s sure, judging by the glassy stare and pink flush painted on his cheeks. She’s surprised; Ozmund had seemed against the idea thus far. Perhaps the little kitty has more fight in him than it seems, she reasons. Her confidence remains unshaken, though. If anything, this should make her job that much easier.

“Here, kitty,” she calls him, pointing to the ground by her feet. He clumsily crawls into place, and she ruffs his hair in praise. His overheated cheek presses into her hand as he chases the affection, too giddy from the magic to control himself. “Oh, you’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you? Be a good boy for me, and you can have all the attention you want, sweetheart. Now, sit pretty, my dear.”

Ash looks up at her with a dumb, drowsy stare. It’s unfortunate; Faye hates to bring out punishment so quickly. Maybe he just needs a reminder. I’ll give him another chance.

She lifts his chin with one hand, pressing his shoulder up with the other, forcing him to sit up. “Sit pretty, sweetie. Bum down, chin up. Now lift your little paws to your chest—that’s it.” He settles into the pose, still absently rubbing his face into her hand. “That’s better. But you need to pay attention, little one. Your Master doesn’t have the patience I do.”

Perhaps I should lift the Charm a little, she wonders. He can’t follow orders like this. The thought is shut down as quickly as it comes; this is how Ozmund sent him, so it must be how he wants him. Papa knows best, she reasserts herself. I’ll follow his judgment. If a pet needs discipline, I must provide it.

“Let’s try this one more time. Down, kitty.” She lets go of Ash’s chin and arcs her hand down, pointing to the floor. Dazed but pliant, Ash falls back onto his hands and knees. “Good! Now, back up. Sit, sweetie.”

He follows the line of her hand as she lifts it once more, his bottom coming to rest on his heels exactly as expected. Faye breathes a quiet sigh of relief. No punishments yet. Instead, she fishes out a paper bag of tiny baked treats and pops one into Ash’s mouth.

“Open. There you go, kitty. A little pumpkin bread for a good boy.” She’d done her research well; most pets respond best to something familiar—a little taste of home.

A stray tear slips out of Ash’s eye as the flavor hits his tongue, and for a moment, his glassy eyes seem terribly sad. Faye pulls him close to her chest, wiping away the tear and placing gentle kisses on his head. “Oh, it’s alright, sweetheart,” she coos. “I know, I know. Don’t worry, pet. You can have as much as you want—as long as you follow instructions.” She holds his pitiful face in her hands, little hiccuping sniffles jostling his giant form. “Isn’t that easy? So much nicer than getting shocks from your collar, isn’t it? You just have to do some itty bitty little things for me, and I’ll feed you lots of treats.”

From within her grasp, Ash nods, his lip still trembling. With one more quick kiss, she frees him back to his proper position. The bait has been set; now, she just has to see if he’ll bite.

She takes him through the easy tasks again first: come, sit, down, open—the ones she and Ozmund use nearly every day. Despite the obvious haze disrupting Ash’s thoughts, he manages these orders with relative ease. Sloppy and clumsy, but prompt, and that earns him more bites of sweet pumpkin bread.

Now for the real test.

Faye takes his leash and commands him to follow her. She walks him up and down the hall, keeping him tight at her heel, until they reach the bathroom. Oblivious, the giddy tiger only hesitates once she leads him past the baths, past the vanity where he’s groomed, and into the private commode chamber. His eyes grow wide, and fearful whimpers slip from his throat as Faye secures his leash to a hook above the seat, forcing him in place.

“Go potty, pet,” she commands, still cheerful despite his growing panic. His bushy brows furrow as if deep in thought, and his eyes flicker between her and his exposed body. “Yes, sweetheart, I do have to watch. How else will I know if you’ve relieved yourself? I can’t send you back to your master if you’re not clean and empty, silly thing.”

He continues to shuffle uncomfortably, his shyness temporarily overpowering the magic keeping him at ease. So shy, Faye chuckles internally. They always are at the start. As she waits for him to relent, he turns his back to her instead, hiding himself as he fights with the cage around his cock. Cheeky boy.

Faye leans around his side, one hand on his lower belly and the other reaching for his cage. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie—you must need help with that tricky little thing in the way, don’t you? Here, I’ll take care of it.” She holds him firmly in her hand, shushing his stammering, whimpered protests. With her other hand, she presses deeply onto his bladder.

Ash’s hands fly to his face to cover his embarrassment as he is relieved against his will. Meanwhile, Faye mentally notes his progress—a bit dehydrated still, but easily remedied. As the stream slows to a stop, Ash shivers. Adorable.

“There you go, sweetheart. All better.” She steers him around by the shoulders and presses him down to sit. “Now be a good boy and finish up.” At the pitiful frown growing on his face, she can’t help but laugh. “Don’t look so glum, kitty—maybe next time I can take you outside to go on the grass like a real pet, hm? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

After Ash is done—having ducked his head and closed his eyes the entire time—Faye orders him back to his hands and knees. Under the bright lights of the main bath, she gives him a new command:

“Kitty, present yourself.”

It’s new, of course, so she doesn’t expect much from the pet. Still, she’s delighted to see him cautiously attempt a pose he thinks might please her. Watching her face for reactions, he raises up into a sit and spreads his knees, fiercely blushing. Although Faye appreciates the unimpeded view, it’s not what she’s looking for.

“Good try, sweetie, but not quite. Down.” He lowers himself to his hands once more, and she guides him with nudges from her shoes. “Chest to the floor; arms above your head. Keep that bum up, love. And spread your knees nice and wide—wide—wider—there you go!” She gives his bottom a firm rub and a few pats in reward. “Good boy! Now, let me make sure you’re clean and check your injuries, and then you’ll get two tasty pumpkin treats.”

His backside is still bruised and torn; though Faye knows a manual clean is more thorough and better for a pet’s training, she tidies him with a quick breeze of magic to spare his skin. Ozmund had discouraged her from healing Ash with magic—it’s too quick, he insisted. Pets can become spoiled and forget their punishments if they’re relieved of pain too soon. Instead, she merely dabs a salve over Ash’s chafed, off-color skin, murmuring reassurances at his muffled winces.

“That’s a good boy,” she soothes. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in a couple days. In the meantime, though, you’ll have to find other ways to serve your Master.” She helps him up from the slippery floor of the bath and ushers him the way they came. “Come, pet. I’ll show you what to do.”

Back in her quarters, Faye commands Ash to sit by the foot of her bed. She perches on the edge, splaying the volume of her skirt behind her and hiking the hem above her thighs. How far can she push him before he starts to truly resist? He nearly caved at the embarrassment of toileting in front of her—would the promise of pumpkin bread treats get him over this last hurdle?

“Naturally, you’ll be pleasuring parts other than my own,” she chuckles, admiring the confusion on the poor pet’s flushed face. “Not to worry, sweetie—magic can help with that.”

Faye cups her hand on her hips and focuses. A shimmering column of pale, leafy green magic grows in her hand; its form warbles and shifts until it settles into the sloping, familiar shape of a phallus protruding from the ruffles of her skirt.

“We’ll start with a small one—just big enough to be a challenge. Go ahead; feel it, pet,” she gently commands. He hesitates, his paws hanging limply at his chest and his eyes growing round and watery. She tuts affectionately. Poor, simple thing. “Like this, see? You know how to do this, don’t you?”

She takes his hand and glides it up and down the shaft. Although the magic appendage only transfers a vague pressure to her body, the sight alone provokes a flood between her thighs. To see something so strong—so virile—looking up at her with those wet, pleading eyes; it’s nearly enough to set her off on its own.

But, alas, there is still training to be done. Faye steadies herself; now’s not the time for self-indulgence.

“That’s a good boy, aren’t you?” she coos, petting Ash’s cheek and brushing his soft black waves behind his ear. “We’ve got one more new command to practice tonight, sweetheart. It’s going to be difficult, but I know you can do it, can’t you?” He nods absently, ducking his gaze. Even so, he can’t resist leaning into her touch. “Alright, then. Put your hands in your lap and open up for me.”

Ash clumsily follows her instructions, his mind and body clearly at odds. Faye can see why he tried to hide his face from her—tears had begun streaming down his cheeks, a silent flow he can’t seem to stop. She sighs, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket.

“Go on, then—blow your nose, pet. This won’t be any more pleasant if you can’t breathe through it.” As Ash composes himself, she continues, “I’m not trying to hurt you, dear. I’m sure that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Do you think I want you to be punished? Hm?”

She can’t quite tell whether he shakes his head or simply shudders from behind the handkerchief, his eyes still puffy and red.

“I don’t, sweetheart. I promise. I want you to be happy.” She strokes his hair, letting her thoughts wander. “You know, you could truly enjoy it here, if you wanted. Your master has so much to give. He doesn’t always want to hurt you, either, you know. In fact, he told me he plans to offer you a reward the longer you remain obedient.” Ash perks up slightly under her touch, and she realizes the slip of her tongue. “Ah, perhaps I’ve said too much. Best to let him explain in his own time. Still . . .” She smiles, rubbing his cheek with her thumb. “Don’t lose hope, little one. It doesn’t have to be so bad. Now: shall we return to our lesson? Our time is running short.”

Although she still wouldn’t say Ash is jubilant, or even eager, to follow her commands, he at least manages to cease his weeping long enough to receive instruction. He once again presents his open mouth, his hands firmly planted out of the way between his thighs. She taps his tongue, prompting him to stick it out farther and providing a slick path for her shimmering green phallus. As she slides into his mouth and deeper into his throat, she gives him the new command:

“Hold it.”

Quick, panicked breaths pant from his nose, and his throat attempts to reject her. She firmly holds the back of his head in place, allowing it to only buck slightly before sinking back.

“Hold it, pet. Breathe through your nose. You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Tears once again prick up in the corners of his eyes; this time, at least, they’re somewhat expected. Still, Faye must teach him how to conduct himself. She wipes them away with her thumbs, maintaining her grip on his head.

“No, sweetie—no tears. You can’t breathe if you’re crying. Keep holding it, just a little bit longer. Ten more seconds, okay?”

She can feel his arms shaking, struggling desperately to keep his hands down, as she inches just slightly deeper and deeper. Again, his shoulders wrench forward from gagging, and again she holds him still. When the last few seconds finally pass, she only backs out of his throat, leaving her shaft filling his mouth until she gives him the release command.

“Off.”

Faye pulls out of his mouth; a wave of coughing and gasping follows in the wake, but she’s overall impressed with Ash’s progress. She dismisses the magic phallus in a glittery green mist and grabs the pouch of treats.

“You did so well, pet,” she coos, petting his hair and offering him the bag of sweets. “Here. Just like I promised—a reward for good behavior.” He carefully cups the bag in both hands, glancing back up to her as if to ask permission. “Go on, those are for you. You earned them. There’s only a few—I don’t want you getting a tummyache—but next time you might get some more, hm?”

As he sheepishly pokes into the pouch and inspects the contents, Faye can’t help but smile. He’s so cute. And to think, just a few days ago, he was so defiant! Papa’s system really works, she thinks. It’s a shame to see such a pitiful thing get banged up and hurt, though. Why can’t he just be good like this all the time? Ash’s eyes flick up to meet hers as he gingerly pops a piece of pumpkin bread in his mouth, as if he could feel her watching him. Faye simply pats the bed next to her in response.

“Come on up, kitty. Let me give you a cuddle before it’s time to go.”

Drawing him over her lap, she lets her hands wander across his body. Goosebumps follow the trail of her fingers; poor thing must be cold without any clothes, she laments. She considers covering him with a blanket, but to what end? He’ll have to get used to being bare anyway, and she won’t have any eye candy to enjoy. Even if she isn’t allowed to actually play with him just yet, she can at least give herself something to think about later. Instead, she simply amuses herself tracing the curve of his muscles beneath his still-dehydrated flesh. What she wouldn’t give to have a pet like this all her own, to use as she pleases. Patience, she reminds herself. As long as he behaves, you’ll get your turn. Papa knows best.

-

Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba

@tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515 @jumpywhumpywriter (hi! welcome to my inconsistent posting schedule!)

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He tries to take a deep breath—his lungs ache like he’s barely caught his breath for hours—but his heart thumps off-rhythm instead, making him gasp and cough. The coughing only serves to pound against his aching head, dizziness overtaking his vision and ringing nagging in his ears. His trembling muscles start to give way beneath him, but something seems to catch him before he collapses to the ground. It’s almost like a warm, staticky cloud, holding him up with gentle pressure. He manages to wrench his eyes open just enough to see the floor further than he expects. Shimmery green magic swirls under his chest, like a giant hand cradling him in its palm.

“Poor thing,” Faye tuts sympathetically. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you taken care of.”

The cloud of magic scoops him up in a barely-visible bridal carry, supporting his limp body as if he weighs nothing. Faye’s arms slide beneath him, but his skin is cushioned from the direct contact by the magical barrier between them. She guides his floating form to a smaller bath than he’s used to—still lavish and well-fashioned like every other room in the manor, but smaller nonetheless.

As she lowers him into the lukewarm bath, sensation rushes back to his body all at once. His skin—now streaked with hot, red lines—burns horribly. His hands and feet are nearly purple from where the lightning entered and exited. He’s sure they would hurt even worse if they weren’t tingling with pins and needles. But as the water works to cool the stinging pain, it’s merely replaced by a frantic itching. He tries to stay still, to remain stoic and obedient like he’s supposed to, but he can’t stop the endless tremors wracking his body.

Faye kneels by the tub and pours a flask of sparkling blue liquid into the water. She stirs it in with her hand, cupping her fingers to bring some up to Ash’s face. As the shimmery water washes over his cheek, the burning in his skin begins to fade.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she soothes, gently wiping his face with a cloth dampened from the bathwater. “I know it hurts. I put a special potion in the bath just for you—it should make it all better.”

It certainly isn’t quick, but the potion does eventually lessen the pain all over Ash’s body. His skin loses its glossy, red sheen and settles back into his natural tan, and the lines branching up and down fade until they’re barely visible. Even his inflamed, damaged hands and feet return to their normal color; the lashes all along his back and legs sew themselves shut and shrink into nothing.

Once his burns are healed, Faye warms the bath with more shimmery green magic. Ash sinks deeper into the water; he didn’t realized how tightly his muscles had been cinched until the warmth relaxes them. He didn’t realize how exhausted he truly was, either—if not for the lingering pains and uneven thumping of his heart, he could hardly stay awake. Faye’s quiet humming helps, too: some folksy tune he swears he’s heard before but can’t quite name.

A pang of loneliness stabs his fluttering heart. How long had it been since he’d heard music? How long since he’d fallen asleep to Kane’s somber pan flute? How long since he’d watched Evius dance, illuminated by the light of a campfire? How long would it be till he sees it again? If ever . . .

Faye’s hand on his cheek startles him back to the present. She’s wiping wetness from his eyes, tears he didn’t realize he’d been shedding; his body shakes with sobs he didn’t realize he’d been fighting.

“Oh, sweetie,” she shushes. “You’re done for tonight, baby. It’s all over. Papa—I mean, your master—said he was proud of you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He sits up and hugs his knees to his chest, nodding absently before resting his forehead on them. What does it matter? It’s just pain now or pain later. Pain upon pain upon pain. Pain of his body or pain of his mind—doesn’t matter, Ozmund will find a way to use both.

Faye puts him to bed in his cage early that night. She even tucks a blanket around him, apparently another privilege he had to earn. But despite the warmth and promise of safety for the night, he can’t help but rock himself to sleep with the shaking of his silent sobs.

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Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba @tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515 @jumpywhumpywriter

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