wardennolonger | (no subject)

(no subject)

[Continued from here!]

Consciousness came sluggishly, reluctantly. Details filed in one after another; the hard tile floor, the furnace-heat of a close, firm body, and the tastes and aches of fantastic sex were among the first to occur to his waking mind. Before long, Anders was aware that something had gone very, very wrong. Before he was even fully awake he knew he had to leave, had to move (while he still could), but couldn't just fling himself up.

They were intertwined, intimately so. It took great care and precious seconds for Anders to carefully draw his arms from around Cullen's shoulders, his legs from the warm tangle of warm knees and thighs together, and creep, ever so slowly, from the circle of Cullen's arms. Each moment he suffered consciousness in the slumbering Templar's embrace lit the bright sensory memories of their desperate joining. Anders could feel the words he had spoken, taste Cullen's skin and feel the tantric rush of the man's bliss all in painfully recent memory. Cullen's warmth lingered even as he scrambled from the bathroom floor, reeling back and out of the small room.

Anders wanted to crawl out of his skin more than ever before.

'What have I done?' the thought whirred above the strict demanding urgency to move; there was no getting away from it. He had no time to considers the hows and whys, though. It didn't matter what manner of magic (or otherwise) had caused the encounter; the moment was what mattered.

Anders did not dress properly; grabbing whatever was closet at hand. Hotel clothing from random drawers would suffice. 'Move' the command came from deep, deep within him, the urgency becoming dark and vicious. He watched his hand extend and pull open the door. He was almost free... and so was it.

That thought paused him at the open door. It was not so much a decision to stay, as a very significant moment of indecision. 'Move', roared everything inside him, 'MOVE NOW.' But the blood had tasted so sweet, the rage so dark, the pleasures and pains blurring and confusing. Anders clenched his fists, anger and indecision clashing enough to tremble the lean waning muscle on his long limber frame.

"I won't stop trying until you do."

"Then... I will try."

Was this giving up? Could he really trust himself alone with Justice, now that he had allowed himself to doubt?

Or was it all just madness?

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The cold awoke him. No, he thought when his mind kicked into wakefulness from the haze of exhausted sleep. Not cold. Lack of heat. Heat from... He sat up abruptly. His hand slid under him and nearly had him crashing back down to the floor on his elbow. The pool of sweat, blood, and semen under him was still sticky slick from his body heat, not yet dried. He shook his head hard, as much to negate what he remembered as to clear it. A glance up at the cracks in the wall tile and the long streak of bright red told him he wasn't wrong. The demon inside the mage had tried to kill him and almost succeeded. His free hand lifted to brush at his uninjured throat. He could still feel the cool tingle of the healing kiss.

He climbed to his feet and snagged up the Tevinter collar on the way. Likely, the abomination--Anders, the thought intruded unwelcome--was long gone. He'd have to hunt for him in the bowels of the hotel and pray to the Maker he hadn't harmed anyone yet. The enormity of what they had done together was too fresh and raw for him to want to try to make sense of it. Something had happened. Something that wasn't them. There was no other explanation. So why did he ache at the thought of his name on the man's lips and the way he had looked at him?

He hurried from the bathroom and stopped in his tracks. He wasn't too late. Anders stood at the door. He knew he should smite him before he could take another step. It was the smart thing to do. If he no longer felt the crushing, humiliating waves of desire coursing through him stronger than electricity and hotter than flame, then it was a good bet the mage didn't feel it either. He was dressed. He was leaving.

Cullen folded his arms. It felt more like an attempt to hug himself. Any attempt at modesty in the moment would be complete farce. They had seen more of each other than was visible with him standing there. It wasn't modesty. He swallowed, not quite trusting his voice. "Leaving?" It should have come in harsh challenge with the muscle and will to back it. He was too confused to rally so quickly.

He took two steps forward and forced himself to drop his hands back down to his side. "Do you think that's wise?" The collar dangled from his fingertips. He was aware of it with no real intention of using it. Not forcefully. Not yet.

The sound of Cullen's voice was enough to stir up a torrent of conflicting emotions; the constant low-burn of hatred smouldered under too fresh memories of the previous night. He turned to face Cullen sharply; his hard amber eyes resembled those of a cornered animal. There was fear, rage, and hatred, but also a very real hesitation and confusion. It was revolting to him that such thoughts had somehow wormed inside of his head, just as real and valid as the hatred had always been.

The sight of Cullen's bare skin did nothing to ease his conflict. The memories were to fresh not to blaze across his senses at the slightest inclination. The tastes and scents of their revels lingered there, maddening. Anders swung a foot back in a wide step towards the door, but went no further for the moment. He faced Cullen with a splintering defiance, trying so bravely to hide his poisonous confusion.

The fact that the Templar's voice did not quite command played tricks in his mind. Could it be that Cullen was trusting him to make the right decision? Only a fool would think something had changed... right?

The question strained him; thus far Justice had been whispering softly. It would have been easy to think that was because the creature was trusting, complaint... but no. It had almost killed him. And the whispers began to swell. With a wince he placed a hand to his ear, as if that would somehow block it out. His gaze flickered between Cullen and the collar.

"And approaching me so openly when I've the means to strike back is a shinning example of wisdom? Step back Cullen," even in threatening he slipped; that name on his lips; such a strange unsettling taste. He held up a hand, yet no magic surged to it. He was grasping, but he lacked fire; he was tired, confused, starving, and so unsure of which way was up.

For that moment he remained in the doorway, keeping Cullen's gaze, trapped in indecision. There was a part of him now that feared what Justice would do if free of his leash, and as much as he wanted to deny it, it was there.

He watched him closely and wondered if he knew how much of himself he wore in his eyes. Perhaps it was just that over the intensive amount of time they had spent together, he had learned to read him. He saw the conflict and fear. He felt echoes of it in himself. Being attached to an enemy captive was madness, every bit as unwise as Anders said. His eyes hardened when he saw the gesture against his ear. What was the demon telling him? Just because its influence had retreated during...whatever that was...he knew it didn't mean that it was excised from him. It was never so simple.

He took another step forward and held his gaze. "What are you afraid of?" By all rights it should have been a taunt, a challenge. That was the fabric of their interactions, the warp to the weave. He dug for the authority he commanded and continued coming up dry. "Is it what I'll do to you in here, or what you'd do out there?" He jutted his chin to gesture past him toward the hallway.

"I think we both know what you'll do out there, sooner or later." Yet again he drew closer. His hands remained at his side, the collar an inert threat. "You know what I'm trying to do here. You claimed to have the same goal." He let out a breath on a soft huff through his nostrils. His head hurt. He hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep yet. "Was that a lie? Just a way to get me to shut up and leave you alone until you could plot an escape?"

He stopped again. If he wanted, he could have reached out to touch him. ~~He did want, even now.~~ Although he was naked and Anders clothed, he felt as though he had power here, power without force which was an odd sensation, unfamiliar. "If you try to go, you know what I'll have to do. I'm not going to do it unless you force my hand. If I'm as cruel as you believe, as heartless, why would I hesitate when I have ample excuse?"

Anders was far too worn and raw to consider how much of his inner conflicts were reflected by his expression. He was giving Cullen something to work with, something to manipulate, but his slipping grip on himself allowed for little else. The Templar had footing in the doubt he'd planted and nurtured. The closer Cullen stepped, the louder, darker and deeper those whispers became. The chance for freedom was slipping, and whatever the thing was inside Anders, it could see that. It urged him, much less gently, to move or strike.

The intention of a sneer curled the corner of his mouth at the mention of fear. Was he just that readable? Could he not even compose himself before an enemy? But... who was the real enemy?

Thick charged silence continued to be Cullen's only answer. Thoughts of their carnal bliss continued to rudely intrude his frantic indecision. Cullen's bare chiseled body probably allowed him more influence than he realized.

No, it wasn't a lie. The answer needed be said out loud for it to have the desired effect. The Fade-beast roared and riled against the severe incline towards Cullen's point of view, and this time it was loud and clawing for control. His body was weak from strain, hunger, and extreme excursion; he grasped with one hand to brace the door-frame.

For a long moment, he stood just like that.

Then, the other hand he turned, changing what was a threatening, pose one little inclination at a time, until it was an open palm. Tiny blue fissures opened and shut across the skin of his arms like jagged blinking eyes. He didn't-- couldn't answer the man directly. Couldn't begin to fathom an answer without imagining Compassion and Trust and other such things he dare not allow himself to believe.

"Just... give me the bloody thing," a wince as he lowered his gaze just a fraction; it felt like something was kicking inside his ribcage. "Quickly."

He watched him every bit as closely as he seemed to, not for the first time wishing that mind reading wasn't such a forbidden talent. It would have made his job worlds easier. He didn't want to believe that the demon would allow the mage control. Such belief was dangerous, potentially deadly. He wanted his resistance even less. Wouldn't an excuse to end this be easier? He flinched at the thought, rejecting it more viscerally than he should have. At one point, he wouldn't have needed to ask himself that question at all. Now?

His heart hammered hard enough in his chest that his pulse was visible at his throat. He wound himself tightly and steeled himself for what might be necessary after all. He was telling the truth about staying his hand until forced. The blue lines and black mist curling from within them made him believe that moment was close upon both of them.

He couldn't hide his surprise at the hand extended in supplication rather than aggression. He swallowed thickly and closed the rest of the distance. The collar was light to be such a thing of weighted import, slender and innocuous. It had the potential to be the power of life and death, although he now knew that it wasn't enough to stop the demon entirely. He was going to have to trust Anders to help him with that. He passed it to his waiting fingers and stepped back again.

He felt a shiver ripple down his body, from head to toe. He didn't know if it was discomfort with the proximity and the clear threat, or the incidental brush of their fingers in the transfer. He didn't want to think about it too closely. The crisis point wasn't past yet. He waited to see what he'd do with the item of binding, whether he'd destroy or don it willingly.

To say the Fadething was allowing control was not quite correct; Anders felt it twist and kick at his insides, clawing for control, shrieking and roaring inside his head. His own revulsion with himself felt like a manipulation of the creature, and who could honestly say it was not? When his gaze slid he saw the throb of Cullen's pulse and they remembered the way teeth cut and flesh tore, the way his blood tasted. It was wholly disorientating; too horrible, too wonderful.

It relieved some of the pressure (lust of various shades, hunger, madness) when Cullen stepped back. Anders regarded the thing in his hand, drawing the pendant up into his fingers.

Crush it.

His fingers clenched.

CRUSH IT.

Cullen's touch resonated through him, rippling the Fadething's influence. The pendant slid from his fingers, which held the looped chain. One tiny agonizing inch at a time he took the chain in both hands, lifting it over his head. Small wisps of Fade-fog curled from his ragged breath as a tremor paused his arms, dangling the chain just under the amber of his eyes.

Here he looked Cullen straight in the eyes, his own amber riddled with tiny blue fissures. What would show on the Templar's --on Cullen's-- face in that crucial moment?

It seemed to him Anders moved almost in slow motion. Every pause, every new line and crack that opened and coruscated across his skin, within his eyes, had him fearing the worst. That the demon would reign ascendant. That he'd once more be in a fight for his life and that of everyone beyond that door when he was already exhausted and wrung out to the core.

Unconsciously he nodded encouragement, the faintest of movements. He didn't dare to apply any force now to a balance he saw as fragile. If either the mage or the demon perceived he was trying to tell them what to do, it could provide enough resistance and anger for the creature to take full control.

Had he been wrong about the man who existed before the possession? He had never seen any mage fight so to retain selfhood after being overtaken. Was the farce he had begun in the name of punishment becoming reality? What if he could genuinely help him? He was too raw to hide his internal conflict behind a stoic Templar demeanor. It showed plainly, and again he gave the smallest of encouraging nods. Do it. Please.

He wasn't forcing him, wasn't even raising a hand. What else could it be but trust that he could-- no, that he would do the right thing.

'When did donning a collar become the right thing?' raged a voice at the back of his head; it might have been Justice, it might have been his own. The fact that they were sometimes indistinguishable fed nicely into his doubts.

Cullen's gentle assurance did more than a forceful hand ever could; it confused him. Whether it had been a selfish intention or not, the man had managed to drive a divide between Anders and the Fadething. Whether with Cullen or not, it was a reality the mage had to cope with. ~~Might it be the slightest bit easier with Cullen than without?~~

It was difficult to deny he would have-- could have lowered the chain one more inch without meeting that unnameable amber gaze. He could see the conflict so plainly on his face, and there was no denying his sincerity; thus the Fadething's last desperate kick (a powerful, bone-splitting urge to bite out the Templar's throat) was utterly horrifying.

His fingers unraveled and the pendant fell back into place; in a second, it was done. Anders felt... strangely numb. His rage and disbelief balanced perfectly his relief to no longer be a serious threat. He felt inert, unmovable, and suddenly bone-tired weak. Little by little, the tiny fissures and cracks knit themselves together; the blue receded from his eyes.

"... and now?" just above a whisper.

He frowned not because he didn't know the answer to that question but because he did. First things first, though. He approached him and stepped just to the side to push the door shut. They didn't need a stray wanderer coming by and complicating matters. He locked the deadbolt and the top latch. Standing closer to him now, with the maddening effects of whatever had come over them absent, he noticed how thin and drawn he was. How pale. He needed to start feeding him more, or he was going to kill him.

He resisted the impulse to put his hand to his shoulder. They had already engaged in far too much intimate touch. They needed their barriers back in place. He couldn't possibly help him if he was also confused and losing his way. "Go sit at the table for now. I'm going to order us some food." After their exertions, he felt a deep gnaw of hunger. Food would settle both of them a little more.

He decided not to say anything further just yet. In the past, he had never told him what was coming next or what to expect. He didn't think it would be a good precedent. He waited near the door hoping he'd just do as he suggested. He didn't want to start turning it back into matters of coercion and resistance yet. If his hand was forced, he knew he would. It was an exhausting prospect.

The door locked with a jarring sort of finality. It was getting to the point where it was incredibly difficult to pick apart what he was feeling. What exactly was he so angry at? What was he afraid of? Where his feelings his own, or not? Anders was too tired, weak, and hungry to keep trudging through the swamp of it.

Cullen's words brought much more relief than they should have; a small part of him as relieved to be allowed to sit at the table, and while he knew he shouldn't be feeling anything remotely like gratitude, he was (for that moment, at least) to tired to keep much of a censor on what went on inside his own head. He'd feel better after he ate, he warily assured himself. Things would be clearer.

Anders moved easily to the table and sat. Awareness of his various aches and pains flickered. He resisted the urge to adopt a restful posture, placing his head down or resting it in his hands, as if that one tiny thing might make him any less vulnerable here.

His eyes, unable to close, kept straying to Cullen. The man's nudity made his own skin warm and itch beneath his clothes. After so long without, wearing anything at all felt sort of... unnatural. His disgust with himself had little space to bloom with his base needs took up so much of his attention.

For the moment he remained quiet, keeping no subtle watch on the other man.

Cullen watched him settle then walked over to the bed to sit at the edge. He was adept with the use of the phone now. He ordered a large quantity of food with a couple of different options for Anders, both soup and another bowl of oatmeal. He knew better than to tax his system with anything too solid or filling. Perhaps in time he could build him back toward that again if he ever gained better control of the demon. If not, he'd have to keep him weak and wasted.

He could feel him watching him without having to see it directly. That wasn't anything unusual anymore. He knew he occupied most of the man's thoughts, the constant wonder and worry of what he'd do next, if he was displeased, if he was ignoring him. He had insinuated himself thoroughly into Anders' existence. An ufortunate side effect was that the reverse was also true. It took active, concerted attention to break a man, not a task for the lazy or faint of heart. There was no starting the process and then stopping halfway, or what remained would be twice as dangerous as what he started with.

He walked over to the dresser and dug out a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms to tug on. He had no particular care for how he looked in front of the hotel staff as long as he gave a nod to some sense of modesty. He was sure at any rate that they had seen far worse. He considered his options before coming to take a seat at the table with his captive. He imagined it would throw him off balance more than he already was. It was such a departure from the norm for them now. He hid his physical discomfort, tenderness from their wild exertions on the bathroom floor. It had been a very long time since he had been taken in such a way and perhaps never with such ferocity. He felt faint heat at the base of his balls just from thinking about it and thrust the thoughts away quickly. It was hateful and humiliating to realize he was under his skin in a way he hadn't been before.

He regarded him silently and contemplated whether to allow him some clothing from this point further or if he should make him earn that right above and beyond what he had already done tonight in putting on the amulet. A petulant part of him thought he should do the latter in no small part because he resented the residual attraction.

[ooc: Hey! Sorry for the extended delay-- I had a series of shitty/busy days XD;;]

The silence should have been uncomfortable, but it was so familiar. Sitting across the table from Cullen, though? It was a radically different perspective than that he had been trapped in for so long. He was already spinning his wheels, and this was just one more thing that his tired muddled mind would struggle blindly to decode. It did somewhat imply that Cullen was treating him better because he had done what he did, lending another layer of truth (or at least, something that felt like it) to the things Cullen had told him.

That wasn't to say he was without a voice of resistance; part of him still feared manipulation, but it was more appealing to believe that someone held out hope for his redemption.

Thoughts of the previous night kept rudely intruding; it was impossible to silence them with the staring subject within arm's reach before him. Severe hate took energy and he had little of that, but this new experience was going to haunt him. He wanted to ruin that absurdly handsome face as much as he wanted to again taste him. It was difficult to trust his own revulsion for the man when he knew just who (or what) might be the source. It had very nearly killed the Templar and it might have been whispering, feeding his anger, encouraging him to lash out...

It was exhausting, but the very worst part was the fleeting urge to rest his head on Cullen's broad shoulder. Anders straightened his posture in rebellion of the insane notion. He didn't want to spend any more time inside his own head.

"Well, isn't this nice," his usual biting sarcasm had much lost its edge; for the most part he sounded tired and edgy.

(OOC: I'm sorry you had some shitty days. I'm pretty slow, too, so it's all good.)

He watched him straighten and wondered what that was about. Surely he didn't have a sudden attack of worrying about his posture, not when he had spent so much time slumped over in his bonds. Naked. Helpless. He swatted the intrusive thoughts away in a flash of internal irritation. Besides, hadn't he preferred him more as an active participant in their degradation?

"Is it?" he asked, his gaze sharpening slightly. He recognized sarcasm, no matter how flat or tired. He instinctively turned it around on him. Not giving him time to answer, he continued. "It could be. Nice. You and I both clothed. Both interacting as civilized men in a civil setting. You know we're not there yet." If they needed any proof of that it was in the cracked tiles of the bathroom wall and the bloody smears that made the entire room look more like an abattoir, much of that blood his own.

A knock on the door interrupted any further commentary. He stood and moved to answer. As happened daily, an employee brought in a cart and set all of the food out on the table. Fish and vegetables for Cullen, chicken soup and oatmeal for Anders, and a large pitcher of ice water. Cullen followed to lock the door behind the man and returned to the table. He picked up the soup spoon and held it out to Anders silently.

[ooc: Awww it;s okay ^^ some of them were just busy! It wasn't all bad XD Thank you, though! ^^ ]

He might almost retorted; told him that he'd obviously made some bloody progress because not only was Cullen still alive to snark at him, Anders had just willing put back on his own leash. But that was all wrong-- that wasn't progress... was it? Anders felt unclean from every single thing under his skin, and it was getting increasingly difficult to name the source of the displeasure.

Thankfully, the knock on the door saved him from his almost-answer. Anders shut his mouth and struggled to muster the energy for a distasteful look, but his hunger was dominating most of his remaining energy.

His hostilities were burning out, little by little. Just one more thing to revile himself for. It was becoming quite the expansive list.

For a moment he blanked completely; he'd no idea what to do with the spoon. His mind went sputtering for a moment before his hunger commanded he do the easiest thing: take the spoon.

Anders hesitated only a moment before doing so; unsure if he could trust the gesture. The way the warmth of Cullen's fingers sparked across his own was wholly disorientating. Anders had to look away for just a moment; had to swallow the knot in his throat. The silence was getting to heavy for him; it made the residual tastes and scents loud in his head. He fumbled for something that was remotely non-aggressive, not wanting to jeopardize his food.

"Thank you."

A frown; that wasn't right.

He hadn't expected their hands to touch. If anything, he believed that Anders would go out of his way to avoid it. He wanted to resent him for it. If it had happened a few days ago he might have believed it was deliberate provocation. They were both too wrung out for that right now. Again he felt the unwelcome intrusion of touch memory, those hands elsewhere wringing such pleasure out of him it was obscene. What between them wasn't obscene? He added the inappropriate spark from the touch to the list.

"You're welcome." He reached for the water pitcher and poured both of their glasses full. Then he determined to focus himself on his meal and do his best not to watch or engage the mage. That part of it proved easier. He was hungry enough that once the taste of the food hit his tongue, he had a mind for little else. He didn't forget manners or gulp it down. Intead he plowed through it steadily the same way he did in the mess hall back home.

The plate was cleaned by the time he sat back and finished off his water. He absently wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it aside. Only then did he focus on Anders to gauge his progress through his meal. He debated what had to come next. The clothes off, most certainly, but he intended to sweeten that pot just a little. He had earned himself a couple of permanent upgrades to his living situation, unless he reverted to bad behavior and necessitated it all being taken away again.

"We're not going to be able to leave your hands free yet." He decided to start there. The sleeve cuffs were a necessity for as long as the creature could cast through him using his body as a conduit. Not to mention it made him horrifically strong on a purely physical level. He didn't fancy daily fights for his life. Sooner or later, his luck was going to run out.

Maybe Anders was to bone-tired for fine motor function, maybe a small part of him wanted the contact. He didn't think much about it; just tried not to let him limbs quake with hunger as he took the bowl of soup and slowly, carefully, steadily fed himself. The food tasted amazing, and he didn't even fathom that it could have been drugged via the hotel's meddling staff. It didn't matter; if he didn't eat, he'd die. Chicken soup never tasted so incredible.

When he glanced down at his spoon however, what he saw was the bloody chunk of a half chewed human ear. The spoon dropped with a clatter as he pressed his eyes shut. Horrifying as the little brain blip was, he still wanted to eat very badly, so was quick in opening his eyes once more.

Just normal chicken soup. Was the Fadething crossing wires in his head? Was he just so turned around that he was starting to lose his grip? Tentatively he fetched the utensil, keeping his gaze firmly on his foot.

"Maker forbid; I'm already battling the urge to gouge your pretty eyes out with my spoon," he swallowed, and winced. "That... was a joke, so we're clear." Talking --about anything at all-- was much better than considering the fact that he was either saddled with a demon or losing his mind. He'd been in Cullen's company long enough to know how he was going to respond, so he decided to beat him to it. "And no, I needn't any examples of why you've decided it's a necessary torture."

There was hardy any real fire behind his words; be barely managed tired petulance. Still, he understood the necessity, and that showed grimly on his face as he ate. He didn't refuse, didn't protest further.

He jerked his attention to him at the clatter of the spoon, his lips pursing slightly. Yet again he wished that he knew what was going on in that head of his. Was it exhaustion? The demon? Something else? He thought he'd need to keep a closer eye on him in the coming days, especially now that his focus had shifted. Was he committed to something beyond revenge? It was difficult to comprehend in the face of the lost, and perhaps he was damning himself for it. Yet, the Maker was merciful. What kind of Templar would he be if he were to set himself above the constraints of his creator?

He frowned deeply, his eyes narrowed. "A poor jest all things considered." He let out a small huff of air through his nose and sat back, folding his arms.

Now that he was done with his food, he found his attention compelled more toward his captive. He looked beyond wretched. The healing of their various wounds had done nothing to take the pallor from his cheeks or the dark shadows from beneath his eyes. He was cleaner than before, yes, but some small smears of blood showed from beneath the clothing from their sprawl on the soiled tiles. He didn't envy housekeeping that mess.

He stood abruptly and moved over toward the foot of the bed to examine the current bindings and how he had the knots configured. Some adjustment would allow Anders the freedom truly to lie down. He was going to need that if there was any chance of him regaining some of his mental strength. He couldn't be too broken, or he'd have no prayer of fighting the thing lurking within his psyche, out of Cullen's reach but never far from the mage.

He'd just have to be sure the bindings weren't so permissive that the man could grasp him in the middle of the night and pull him down to him in some way. The cuffs would help to prevent that. He fished a new pair of metal ones out of the box in the closet since the others had been snapped. They jingled in his hand before he turned and tossed them down to the floor at the foot of the bed. They were for later.

[ooc: AGAIN, I SORRY. ORZ ORZ ORZ. RL again... good things this time! Had a guest for a while... it was... enjoyable... >:D

Also, this!]

Anders might have taken some meager comfort from the fact that he and Cullen were together on this thin cracking ice, but even that in itself was off, somehow.

"You should know better than most how little control I have over my mouth," though the tone was bitter, mostly in content with the way the words made his face heat as they rolled off his tongue. Anders pressed his mouth into a thin hard line, turning his gaze coldly to something in the corner and again reminded himself of the many pros of silence with Cullen. Just eat, you fool.

And he did. Within minutes the soup was gone, and while he was tempted to eat the oatmeal too he was already feeling full; a consequence of slow starvation, no doubt. Perhaps he would be allowed to eat it later? The request tasted sour as he held it on tongue.

Like always, he watched. The cuffs threatened silently, twisting Anders' stomach in a way that was almost certainly contempt. The Intermission was ending, the lights lowering. It was Beginning again, and that made everything he'd done so much more real.

Fadething was no comfort.

Anders swallowed.

'Might I interrupt your plans to violate me?' was the natural and severely sarcastic formation of the query in Anders' mind, but he really wanted to eat that food, and a tiny part of him (likely that which remembered and had reveled so in Cullen's intimate, carnal entanglements) thought that maybe, the man might now be willing to not starve him.

"Pardon," short, somewhat curt, but a vast improvement on its original, "might we save that for later?" he'd formed his question not without some serious thought. 'We' was crucial; much less presumptuous than 'I'.

Anders would rather not consider how why it was he made such an effort to engage the man. Now he had a practical reason, but even before that he'd had to say something to him. None of the possibilities sat well with the mage.

((I'm glad you had fun! And I've always liked that song. It's a good fit, too.))

One eye narrowed slightly more than the other. "Odd you'd say that. I recall you have very precise control when you want to." It came out before he had full time to consider it, but now that it was between them he was content to let it stand. They could dance around the issue and pretend that they hadn't been brought to shameful heel by something beyond them both, or they could address what happened like men and agree that in the end it didn't mean a damned thing ~~even if it did in ways he couldn't yet shake.~~

He glanced down at the cuffs and back up to him. "I thought that much was obvious. I'm not approaching you with them in hand, am I?" There was also the matter of the longer leather sleeves that kept him from shifting or moving his hands too much. They still lay where they had been discarded at the foot of the bed before the incident.

He approached the table again, this time remaining standing. "Are you done eating?" He tipped his chin toward the full bowl of oatmeal. "It doesn't look like you've touched that yet."

[ooc: Oh, I had criminal amounts of fun XD; Thanks!!! <3]

Anders would have much preferred the option of ignoring (or ideally, repressing) the sick delights they'd shared that night, but it was difficult when Cullen threw it in his face like that. The extra sting was the implication that he could do so at all; was that night something Cullen could remember so casually, so easily? That was a train of thought he immediately derailed. It made him feel... weak, somehow.

Anders pressed his mouth into a thin hard line. His patience was far too thin for this.

"I was speaking of the food," he made his best effort for civility, and it showed very slightly. "I'm finished," he confirmed shortly, his look faintly contemptuous. Why was his heart pounding so? Hatred, he assured himself with waning strength. No, said a different perspective, something else.

Anders swallowed, resenting Cullen for all the new ways he was under his skin. In spite of his physical weakness and inner conflict he stood, faced Cullen directly, and forced himself to look hard into his eyes. This had become Anders' choice, somehow. The least he could do was face Cullen as if it did not disorient him so.

He nodded. He thought as much. An entire bowl of soup was more than he had been allowed for days. It had looked hearty, not just thin broth with a few pallid chunks of meat. He read a degree of defiance in his stance. He stepped in close enough to invade his personal space. "If that's the case, then you're overdressed for the occasion. You should correct that." He left the implication in the statement unsaid. Or I will.

He didn't feel the same enjoyment in his control as he had before. Their long interlude in the bathroom had seen to that. There was something equalizing about being used together. He was going to have to dig deep within himself to find and retain his desire for authority. Without it, he couldn't hope to succeed at the task he had set for himself.

He kept his expression neutral as he trailed his gaze over his dark clad form. He looked more severe in the clothing than without it. Would there ever come a time the two of them could be nearly civilized with one another? He wondered. He doubted. The demon would never rest. The former conclusion he had reached stared him starkly in the face. He wad going to have to break its tool enough that Anders wouldn't be an effective vessel. Was that possible without driving him into abomination territory forever?

He'd sooner kill him than that. He remained stoic. Waiting either to have the obedience he had demanded or to take it by force.

He didn't have the energy for the kind of defiance he would have liked; his body was still processing that it had been fed. He wasn't ignorant of his fragile state, either; one carefully placed blow to the stomach would likely make him loose his lunch, which was something he very much wanted to avoid. Once again backed into the least unpleasant option (no matter how slight the margin) Anders set his jaw and drew a carefully measured breath.

Having the man in his space was so much more disorienting than before; he'd now the chore of quelling the memories his proximity called. The feeling of taking him was that which haunted most viciously, perhaps because he knew it would never happen again.

You chose this, murmured something dark at the back of his head, and it didn't matter just who it came from, because it was true.

Anders thought it unwise to continue to entertain thoughts that were severe enough to churn his stomach. With a quiet petulant huff he pulled the baggy shirt over his head, shucking it and placing it over the back of his chair. It was unsettling how the familiarity was almost comfortable. He paused after the baggy sweats had pooled at his feet, his hands on the waistband of the underwear he'd found.

It occurred to him that modesty was quite ridiculous at this point, and he had so little of it left for his captor. He'd already seen everything. It was easier than it should have been to slide the cottony things down his legs. He kept his gaze to himself as he undressed, unsettled by how easily the obedience was coming to him.

But what would rebelling for the sake of it really accomplish?

In seeing him stripped, he was suddenly aware of everything that fouled his own skin. His back itched where bodily fluids had dried and were beginning to flake. They smeared Anders, too. "You'll want to wash, I'm sure. I'll allow it before we have to bind you again." He didn't want the visual reminders of all of the different ways they had taken one another apart in pleasure as well as pain.

"Come." He gestured toward the bathroom. He didn't like the idea of returning to it so soon. It didn't matter what he wanted. It needed to be done. The longer they waited the harder it would be to get the filth off.

"You can use the shower. I don't want the door closed, or the curtain. I need to be able to watch you." He tried not to think of what that would entail or how it might affect him. What was important was that Anders didn't have a chance to remove the pendant or do anything else that might give the demon power again.

Cullen knew this meant he would have to put his own wash off until after he had him chained again. It was a sufficient compromise. The only other option was showering together. That was utterly out of the question. He frowned with the awareness that he had thought of it at all.

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