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Anders was exhausted. He was usually exhausted but it wasn’t so much that he had stayed up too late, too many nights in a row, because Justice was pushing him as much as it was a bone tired, muscle exhaustion. There was sand in his boots, having found its way in through holes in the sides. There were sunburns, on his ears, on his face, his hands, on wherever there was a gap in his old, worn out clothes. He had been eaten up, bites that itches on his arms and back, from when he had been stupid enough to wear his night clothes when they were at camp. His bad knee felt like it was going to give out on him. His head was pounding. His fingers felt stiff and pudgy from how he had clung to his staff. His elbow was slow from having to turn it around so much with casting in close quarters, having to strike enemies with it.
He just wanted to go to bed. Hawke invited him to cards later, as a cool down and a debrief, trying to keep him from self sabotaging, and Anders knew that he needed to go, that, otherwise, Isabela would take his cut and she hadn’t even been on The Wounded Coast with them. But he needed a bath. That was the first thing, and then they had to work on the manifesto. It would never be read if there were only a few copies and there were some things he thought he could word better.
So he waved them off and promised that he would come by once he was cleaned up and there was some chuckling because they all agreed, behind his back, that it didn’t matter how many baths he took. He was a mess, his hair greasy and pulled back because it just got in his way, not because he took care of it, his clothes more holes than not and so old that there was no way to fully get the scent of blood and medicine out of them. He lived in a sewer. He would always be unclean.
Still, he would try, and maybe he could sneak in a nap, before he got back to work. He went through Lowtown alone, supporting himself more and more fully on his staff, and he watched his feet. They ached too. If he didn’t watch them he would step in something worse than sand and he didn’t want to fall down the steps from his knee giving out or his exhaustion.
Yet he could not go back to The Clinic.
In front of it, lounging back, arms crossed over his chest, one leg cocked, was the most beautiful elf that Anders had ever seen. He lowered his head, like a beat dog, as he approached. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want Fenris upset with him for being gone longer than he said he would be, that he came back in no shape to be a proper lover. He wanted to be a proper lover, he would do anything to keep Fenris pleased with him, and he knew that he failed on every front. He had given Fenris his body for a place to stay that wasn’t The Clinic. Had given him control so that he could see Fenris without finding fear and hatred in his eyes. Had given him love so that he wouldn’t be alone. Seeing him here, so nonchalant, Anders immediately wanted to grovel at his feet, to beg him for reprieve, just for a while, from being himself and thinking.
Fenris looked at him and there was a slight change in his expression. The bottoms of those big green eyes flattened. He was pleased. It was the expression he had when he was given a compliment that he truly accepted or when he bit into the perfect apple. And that look was directed at Anders.
“Amatus, finally, you have returned after all,” Fenris said, pushing off from the wall to look him over. He always gave Anders an inspection when he returned. “You are well?”
“I am exhausted,” Anders said, honestly. “And I’m behind in my work. I’m sorry I’m late and in no shape for company.”
“Nonsense,” Fenris waved it off, “I only hold Hawke accountable for what delay their escapades. I have worried for your safety but nothing that you would need to apologize for.”
“You must have been in Darktown a while then, if my scent alone isn’t an insult to you.”
“If it worries you so, you will come to the mansion, not here, and you will allow yourself a bath.”
A bath. He had a basin and a harsh brush, the same brush that he used to clean up blood and other bodily fluids from The Clinic floor. It left his skin red and, sometimes, he scrubbed until he bled. A bath in the mansion though, he had literally dreamed about it, the way that the floor had steps down into a pool, with old but still functional plumbing, a soaking tub, and, to the side, there was a blackstone tub, the kind meant to retain heat for hours, with golden feet. It looked like it was almost long enough for Anders to lay down in. He had never had a bath in it. Fenris had never offered it before and Anders would never presume that he could take.
Yet he couldn’t just take it that easily. “I have a basin.”
“Your basin is terrible and your soap is worse. Do not forget who has seen to your skin after you bathe.”
He wonders what he will have to give for the privilege. Everything comes with a price. “I’ll take a real bath. I can clean it out, after, I’ll clean the whole wash room. You won’t have to worry about it.”
“Do I appear to worry about that?” Fenris asked, coming close, running his thumb down Anders’ jaw. “I only desire your comfort, safety, and enjoyment, but you always seem to fight yourself, and me, in allowing it.”
“Such things are easily forgotten or taken away, I’m sure you’re aware of this,” Anders said.
“Hmph. You will follow me then?”
He did not wait for an answer, starting to walk back the way that Anders had come, only turning to take the elevator instead of the stairs. His hand itched around the hilt of his sword and he looked around every corner before proceeding, forever a body guard. Anders did not need a body guard, but he was glad to have one anyway. Perhaps he could do some other cleaning around the mansion, in thanks? He had been caught cleaning the foyer before though, when he was in a manic state, having to remove every bug he saw, and Fenris had been upset with him, saying he didn’t need to do that, that he didn’t care about how messy things were because the mansion wasn’t his, and, when he held Anders’ hands, he realized that there were no bugs in the foyer at all, they had just been in his head.
They had the luck of being ignored by every gang that was starting to patrol and his lack of coordination made his staff look even more like a walking stick so the Templars didn’t look at them. There were a lot of people out, still shopping, late into the evening, and Fenris stopped in the market to buy a roasted chicken, potatoes, and a carrots. Anders’ mouth salivated at the smell, the sight of it, but he would not intrude. He would not take Fenris’ food. He did not want to take anything from Fenris.
Fenris asked a few questions about the jobs that Hawke led them on, because of course one job had become a dozen. Anders gave him short and succinct answers. He was certain that Fenris did not like his rambling, no one did. People liked him best when he was quiet, in the back, and doing his job.
Fenris opened the door for him and ushered him inside. His feet were pounding. He felt woozy. Fenris took his staff and set it by the door and he took Anders’ coat and hung it on the coat rack, like it wasn’t an embarrassment. He put his hand on Anders’ forearm, ready to lead him up the stairs, but Anders yelped and pulled away.
“Amatus, are you well?” Fenris asked, eyes big, wide, worried. He was worrying him. Again.
“Gauntlets,” Anders whispered.
Fenris could, sometimes, touch him with the gauntlets on. If he was manic they could be used to put him in his place, because he knew to be quiet, move slowly, obey, when someone in armor grabbed him. When he was in a more depressed episode, the gauntlets all but hurt. The sound of the metal, the sharp claws, it was a combination of fears, Templars and monsters and being held down, hit, forced. He didn’t like it.
“Is this better?”
He hadn’t expected Fenris to take them off but now there was a soft palm, warm even with its callouses, against his sleeve.
Anders nodded.
“I will ask again, are you well?” Fenris asked, guiding him up the stairs. He didn’t need help. He was so glad that he had it.
“I am tired,” Anders explained, “the trip just went on and on, Hawke kept finding more to do. I ran out of mana once or twice and we didn’t bring enough Lyrium potions for me. They just assume I’m an infinite reserve sometimes.”
“Because you show that you are, work until you should collapse. Even I do not see where your talents end.”
“If I have an end, people will know when I’m no longer useful, when I no longer am worth their time.” He doesn’t mean to say it, not like that, and he knows how it sounds, he knows that he’s making his value known.
He still gasps in panic when Fenris turns on him, his anger raised to the surface. Fenris gets angry so easily, its the easiest thing for him to feel, and Anders is so afraid of it. He knows that he deserves it, but he still doesn’t want it. He will keep giving until Fenris has no reason to be angry with him. But he has failed and Fenris is angry, all teeth and claws. “You do not need a use! You do not need to earn their time! Since you have returned you have been quiet and small and wrong! I do not like it, when you act meek, for you are so much more than that. Would you be less deserving of care if you had no magic under your command?”
“Yes,” Anders whimpered, pulling away, taking a step down the stairs.
Fenris reached out, catching him as his boot slipped on the stair, keeping him from tumbling. Even with his anger, he did not squeeze. He did not hurt. “Even if you were to turn, in front of me, into a helpless wriggling worm, with no magic or prospects, with no power of your own, I would still care for you! You are no whore for me.”
Anders whimpered again, pulling in on himself, ready for the strike that would not come.
“You treat every relationship like a transaction and yet you throw venom for attention. You make no sense to me, and yet I adore you so. The way that you act, that you disapprove of yourself, makes me fear you do not feel the same.”
Anders eyes filled with tears at that. He was afraid, so ghastly afraid, and Fenris was going to hit him or drop him so he fell down the stairs or worse, the worse thing of all, send him away and never call for him again. He was undeserving of Fenris anyway, the idea of disappointing him, of making him feel like he didn’t care for him, made Anders feel sick. He wanted to be even smaller, he wanted to be kicked and beaten and forced to grovel. He wanted to show Fenris that he was worth any attention, even if it was to be spat on, but it was clear that Fenris didn’t want that. Fenris wanted something that Anders had no understanding of.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, trying and failing not to cry. The tears spilled down his skin and found microscopic grooves in his skin, cracks from Justice’s influence, to travel, washing his face in a pattern that revealed him for the monster that he was. “I’m sorry, Fenris. Please, I do adore you, please, don’t be upset. I’m sorry.”
Fenris took the few steps down until he was just one above Anders, so they were closer to the same height. He did not hurt Anders. He did not push him down the stairs. He made sure that Anders was standing steady and then put both of his callused palms on Anders’ cheeks.
“I am the one who should apologize. I know that you react poorly to my rage. I am upset by your view of yourself and I do not understand why you cannot see yourself for the powerful mage that you are. You try so hard but you do not allow others to bear the weight. Allow me to care for you, as you do me. I want you for your affection and pleasure, not your servitude.”
“But I’m so good at servitude,” Anders says, huffing, trying to be funny and failing.
Fenris kisses the beak of his nose anyway. “I know that you are. I am a master at servitude and I see that you are far more than an apprentice at it. What I am saying is that you need not be a servant in my presence, not unless we both wish to be, and then we will take turns at it, but it will only be allowed as an act to bring us both pleasure.”
They’ve played with it before, Master and Slave, and Justice hates it, hates when Anders is in either position, but Anders likes being a kind and kinky Master and he likes being a bleeding and brainless slave. He can see that it helps Fenris as well, especially when he gets to rely on his training and just exit without making any decisions for a while.
“My brain’s in a bad place,” Anders admits, though it’s so very obvious, “I’m uh I’m falling back into some bad habits.
“That you are,” Fenris agrees.
He wants to bring up the hallucinating, the urge to hurt himself, the paranoia, fear, and exhaustion. He does not want to worry Fenris further. He already knows that he’s put Fenris into a bad place, that he’s upset him.
“I will bathe you,” Fenris decides.
Anders perks up. Anders has bathed Fenris, when he was ill or injured, when he came into the clinic covered in blood, but there has never been a reason for Fenris to wash him.
“I can wash myself!”
“I do not doubt it. But it is the bath where I reside and I am inviting you to use it. You are tired and filthy and not acting yourself. It would be pleasing, to me, to wash you.”
Anders swallowed, head hanging, but Fenris was in charge and, if it was pleasing to Fenris, he would do it. So he sniffled and cried and, when Fenris took his hand, he did not fight it. He was still afraid. He still walked behind Fenris and tried not to look at the bugs that crawled over their arms, over the floor, under the skin. He knew that they were not real.
Unlike Fenris’ bedroom, there were no holes in the ceiling of the bathing chamber and, thus, it was terribly, horribly dark. Anders whimpered when Fenris led him into it, throat closing, tugging his hand away so that he could wrap his arms around himself. It did not matter that it was a big room and he couldn’t see the walls. He was in the dark, he was bad and he was in the dark, and he could see the shapes of demons and Templars on the inside of his eyelids.
There was a glowing, bright enough to be seen through the bit of flesh, and Fenris’ hands were on his arms again. When he opened his eyes, Fenris’ brows were knotted in the middle, his expression slightly pinched, and Anders could feel the pain radiating from his brands. He did not say anything about it though, just looked at Anders with big eyes, full of concern.
“I will light the sconces, it will be bright in here. Unless you would like to use magic to do it?”
The offer was new, strange. Fenris wa not comfortable with magic, especially not when it was frivolous. He rarely allowed healing magic in the mansion, when they got a bit too rowdy with each other. The fact that he was offering it, here and now, meant something. It meant that Anders could make sure that he can connect to The Fade, since he couldn’t when he was in solitary, and it meant that Anders could do something to help himself. It also meant that Fenris trusted him to do it.
“I. I can do it,” Anders rasped. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. I should have thought better of it.”
Anders cast a few mage lights and he could breathe a bit better, finding the sconces with the little motes of color. He threw small fireballs into the dusty old candles and the room filled with nice warm amber light. The demons scurried into the shadows and burned away. The Templars were never there.
“Can you strip for me while I clean and fill the pools?” Fenris asked, his voice gentle.
Anders nodded, but he didn’t start stripping until Fenris was working on the cleaning tub, taking a harsh brush and scrubbing away dust and grime and old blood. It did not look like it was used often, like, even though Fenris lived here, he only used the tub when he had to. He used a basin as well, just like Anders did, but his soaps were higher quality and they were better for his skin. Anders wondered if he knew they had elfroot in them and that was why baths helped soothe the pain in his markings.
Anders kept his back to the wall as he took off his coat, folding it up carefully, as if it wasn’t a ragged thing full of holes, and set it on one dusty chair. He didn’t want to be looked at right now. He didn’t want Fenris to decide that he was too ugly to be kept. He hadn’t, not ever, and Fenris had told him that the scars made him more beautiful, but Anders knew the truth. He was only good enough to look at when he was fully dressed, when no one could see that he was used up and ruined. The only scars that Anders felt were appealing were the ones on his chest, the two under his pectorals that almost met in the middle, and the one long line just over his heart. Justice, technically, had given him that one, or, at least, that was how he liked to think of it, because if it wasn’t for Justice it would never have healed. He would have been dead, instead.
Fenris was done with the cleaning and he was moving on to filling the tub with water from the old, groaning plumbing, when Anders finally had his boots and socks off. They were hardly socks. Fenris glances at him when he inspected them.
“You should allow me to darn those, if you will not replace them.”
“I don’t think there’s much left to darn. And I’ll get new socks when the weather turns.”
“You mean one of your patients will foist socks they have made on you in another season, those will be dust by then.”
He was right. He was always right, but Anders didn’t want to think of it that way. He didn’t like to use his patients for necessities. “I can’t afford-
“But I can. I do not spend the money I receive from Hawke’s foolish jobs, I do not know what to spoil it on. I could spend it on you. Or I could spend the ample time I have on you instead.”
“You don’t have to,” Anders got small again.
“Amatus.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fenris just stood there, next to the bath. Anders felt bad. It was obvious that Fenris was lost here, that he did not know how to help with an Anders in a depressive episode.
“Amatus, would you allow me the pleasure of taking care of you? Would you give me that power over you?” He asked and Anders knew how important it was, for Fenris to be in control, to have power, to have the ability to do what he wanted. He stared. Fenris had dimmed when the fires were lit, but he was still dazzling, so beautiful and strong and he wanted to use his strengths for Anders. “I would be happy to see you in the things I can get for you, I would find pleasure in seeing you well fed and rested, these are things that you can accept because they are not gifts, they are ways for me to find joy in you.”
Worded like that, Anders would feel bad saying no. So he nodded. “And what-”
“You can say thank you and show your appreciation by using what I give you, that would be how you repay me.”
Anders nodded again. “Thank you, love. Thank you.”
Fenris smiled then, and it was warm and Anders wanted to hold it. “Would you like to heat up the bath yourself, or would you prefer I use a rune?”
The runes were of Tevinter design and they heated the water fast, while Anders magic would be slower and could drain him but it was still a treat to use magic in Fenris’ presence. And he knew that Fenris always bathed cold, because as a slave he was washed with too hot water and scrubbed down until his tan skin was red, and then oiled and made into a terrible work of living art, put on display, a guard dog and a show pony all at once. So Anders always made sure the water was cold, when he washed him, even if that meant cooling it magically when Fenris wasn’t paying attention.
“I’ll do it,” Anders promised.
“The rest of your clothes first. They will need to be washed, as much as they can handle it.”
Anders stripped the rest of the way down, folding his clothes as carefully as he did his coat, stacking them all. They may have been rags, but they were his rags, and he had very little to his name. When he looked back at Fenris, still shielding his back with the wall, there was a hint of sorrow in him, but he tried not to show it, just like most of his emotions.
“What?” Anders asked, knowing that he had disappointed him, some way, again.
“You have lost more weight,” Fenris admitted, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other.
Anders nodded. He may have offered his rations over the last trek through the wounded coast to the elf girl they had rescued and he may have given away what food he had to the refugees more than usual. Fenris had started having bigger, healthier meals, when Anders was over, and he didn’t know if that was because of him or if Fenris was eating more on his own, naturally, now that he was in a place where he felt safer. But Anders had been gaining weight and now he was skeletal again.
“I’m sorry, I know it worries you,” and it’s ugly. You know it’s ugly. Ugly like the rest of him.
“I will have to try harder is all, to keep you here, fed, happy,” Fenris decided, “I will have words with Hawke, to make sure you are eating well when I am not there.”
“I don’t need a parent.”
“It seems that you do,” Fenris disagreed, his mouth in a straight line. “You have not had one since you were a child, yes? Otherwise you would be better at parenting yourself.”
It was meant to be a joke but Anders just hung his head, hiding his ribs with his arms. “I’m sorry.”
Fenris sighed. He knew that he had said it wrong and he would beat himself up for not saying things in the manner he wished them to be taken, as he so often did. Words were hard for him and Anders was being difficult. “It is not something to apologize for, I understand your reasons and your difficulty. I only wish to relieve it.”
He waved to the water and stepped to the side. He looked at a wall, recognizing from Anders’ body language that he did not wish to be looked at. He was truly too good for Anders and Anders wished that he could make that understood without losing him completely.
The first step would be in getting into the water, and Anders shivered as he did, the heating magic spilling off of his skin and into the tub. He sat and put his back to the wall of porcelain and he was, finally, able to relax, because the signs of abuse were properly covered, and he was casting magic, allowed to, and the insects were scurrying out of sight, away from the eyes that saw too much, saw things that weren’t there. The water grew warmer and warmer around him until it was so comfortable that Anders could have, easily, fallen asleep right then and there. If it weren’t for Fenris, green eyes skirting over him carefully, he would have.
“I am here,” Fenris said, as if Anders could forget, and he pulled over a short stool so that he wouldn’t have to kneel on the floor.
It was a slave’s stool.
A slave had sat on it and washed Fenris’ old Master. Anders’ breath hitched, catching in his throat. He didn’t like it, the fact that Fenris was in the position of a slave, about to do what a slave did, for him.
“I know,” Anders whispered, “I can wash myself.”
“We have discussed this, I would like to wash you,” Fenris argued, “You have worked yourself too hard, at Hawke’s side. I would not have you work on yourself while you are with me, not right now, anyway. Perhaps, when you are feeling better, I will have you pay me back with your mouth.”
It was meant to be flirtatious, to be a bit sexy, to play with the dynamic that they enjoyed outside of their clothes, away from prying eyes, when Fenris got to play at being Anders’ Master. Right then, though, it hurt, because Fenris had, in the past, been upset at the fact that Anders used to sell himself. It had only been for a little bit, mostly he was doing healing in the brothel, but he had sold his body for safety, food, and to find someone who could take him further from Kinloch. Fenris had learned about it from Isabela, and they were not together yet but there was anger in his eyes, even then. Anders had confused it for lust and had masturbated to the thought, that Fenris could hate the mage that had sold himself to unknowing strangers so much that he wanted to have a go as well, until he had found out, much later, that Fenris did not hate him for it. He was angry that Isabela had had him first.
“Apologies, I can see that my attempt at humor was not well received,” Fenris said, bowing his head as he dipped a pale into the water. “I do not mean that you have to pay me back. I would only like to play with you, if you are up to it, later on.”
Anders leaned forward and let Fenris undo his hair tie with one hand. It was nice, to be able to hide behind his copper hair, even if bending forward showed a few of the scars on his shoulders. “It’s fine.”
“It is alright if it is not. I would not be offended if you were upset by my words.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t, not really, and he didn’t want to make Fenris think that it did. He wanted the nice parts, he was tired of hurting. There was a thick fog, over all of him, coming from his brain, and he just wanted to sift down, like the finer grains of sand that had found a home in his boots, to the bottom of the basin.
“It does matter. You matter,” Fenris argued, his voice soft.
Anders could not say anything against that when Fenris made a barricade with one hand, over Anders’ eyes, and poured the pale of water out over his hair. He made an undignified noise as Fenris scrubbed his scalp, first water, then a soap that smelled of myrrh, elfroot, and cinnamon. It was soothing and yet, promoted hair growth. It smelled like Fenris, of course, and that soothed him more than the myrrh and elfroot every could. He kept his eyes and mouth closed, even as he moaned in pleasure, fighting the urge to reach out and grab Fenris, to pull himself out of the water and into his arms. Being touched felt like it was so much, overwhelming, amazing. Fenris didn’t just rub it into his hair but he scratched at Anders’ scalp, and it made his skin prick into life. Then Fenris was dumping another pale of water over his head, and then a third, to work all of the soap out.
“Your hair could be so lovely, Amatus, if you would let it be cared for,” Fenris said and he often said this, or something close to it. It wasn’t always about Anders’ hair. “You should let someone else cut it, with scissors.”
“Like you?” Anders grunted, looking up at Fenris through his sopping bangs, made a dark bronze from the water.
Fenris said, “Hmph,” because his hair was all terribly cut, damaged ends and different lengths, because he cut it with a dagger. Anders had asked him about it, once, playing with the wiry strands, thick and straight, said that long hair would be beautiful on him. Fenris had growled and pulled away, because Danarius would keep it long, keep it braided, and there were hooks in his collar that his hair would be woven into to keep his head in place. He would never have long hair again, even though he seemed to prefer it on Anders.
Fenris ran an oil through his hair next, warmed by his hands. It also smelled of Myrrh, but then also olives, and Anders guessed that was what it was based in. He did not ask why Fenris was doing that, he was sure there was a reason. Fenris did nothing without a reason.
“I was waiting for you,” Fenris breathed, “I was so looking forward to your return, to wrap you in my arms and hold you once more. It is strange, to want for another in such a way, and my want is so different from anything I have ever known. I wanted you for more than lust. I wanted you for your company, your words, your touch. I wanted you because I wanted you beside me, and now I have you.”
“Not much of me,” Anders sighed.
“Enough of you. I have you to hold and you are, for once, allowing me to take care of you. I love you, when you allow me to.”
Anders looked up at him, at the way that Fenris was dipping a washcloth into the water and then scrubbing a froth into it with a bar of soap. Frankensense, black pepper, and orange. It was brightening, softening, warming. These were things that Fenris was always trying to do to him, now that they were no longer at one another’s throats.
“And when I don’t allow you to?” Anders asked.
“Then I love you like I used to, because I was not allowed to then,” Fenris shrugged, “Fully, from a distance, and against my better judgment. But I know, now, that I will be allowed to love you again.”
“You’re allowed to love me now,” Anders whispered.
“No, you are not allowing yourself to be loved, right now. You are nothing but sorrow and pain, and you will let me love you once that has passed.”
Anders shook his head and he reached out, running the back of a wet knuckle down Fenris’ arm, following the path but not touching a thick line of Lyrium. “I am allowing you to take care of me, when that is so alien to me and I am allowing you to see me like this. This is me, allowing you to love me, when I am not lovable.”
Fenris, somehow, smiled, and he cupped the back of Anders’ neck, and he kissed him, soft and deep, tongue grazing the warm air in Anders’ mouth. “Then I love you, Amatus, even when you are hurting and closed off. I love you like this, Anders, my mage, because it is permission, to love you and to also be loved when I am low.”
Anders kissed him back, kissed him harder, as he always did. Whenever he was kissed he shoved all of himself into the other, because he was so very hungry for it, so desperate. He needed Fenris to know that he loved him, even though he was in a place that was full of despair and pain. Every touch that Fenris gave him worked him a little bit further into the sunlight.
“You will dry by the fire, once I am done with you, and you will eat what I can make for you, and you will be naked and beautiful by the fire, so that I can gaze upon you, will you not?” Fenris asked.
“I’m not beautiful,” Anders argued, but his voice was quiet and there was no bite to it.
Then you will rest on your stomach and I will kiss every perfect imperfection in your skin, catalog the freckles you have gained in my absence.”
Anders shuddered, kissing him again. “How are you so perfect?”
“I am no such thing,” Fenris shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, “I am only a fool in love. Now, sit up for me?”
Anders did and Fenris washed his arms. He could tell that Fenris was keeping an eye on the scars on the insides of his wrists, those always so clever and sharp eyes looking for any new additions. Anders had been good, he had been too worn out and worn through to dig his teeth into the meat of his wrist, and his dagger had been necessary for too much healing and herbalism to go to his own skin. This seemed to please Fenris, at least.
“What did you do, when I was gone?” Anders asked, just because he wanted to hear Fenris’ beautiful deep voice.
Fenris never spoke much, tonight he had spoken more than either was used to, but Anders wanted to hear more of it, and Fenris was overly accommodating. He told Anders of the mercenary job he had done while Hawke and the others were running around on the coast, and of the merchants that were cropping up to try to kick everyone else out, how he had threatened them into joining the guild and lowering their prices, and of how he had been hired by Madame Lusine for a night, to work as a bouncer in front of The Blooming Rose, because there were few unsavory nobles hanging around, thinking they could pay enough to ignore the rules. He said all this as he washed Anders, working the soap into the curls of gold chest and pubic hair, over Anders’ tired muscles, turning more into butter the more they rested in the warm water. It was nice, so nice, and Anders was drifting off when Fenris asked for something that made Anders freeze, all the way through.
“Give me your foot,” he said, as if it was a completely normal and casual thing, as if it wasn’t absolutely abhorrent.
Anders stared at him, fully awake, cold surging down his throat and making a deep blue nest in his stomach. “What?”
“I need to wash your feet and, in order to do that, you will have to give me one of them,” Fenris explained, one eyebrow raised, “Is there a problem with this?”
Yes. Yes there was! But Anders didn’t want to point it out. If Fenris thought it was fine it was, most likely, fine. He hated it though, what it represented. Past conversations were loud in his mind and there was the sudden urge to run or drop his head under the water and drown himself. He did not move for a long time and Fenris paid him no attention, frothing up more soap in the washcloth.
He pulled his right foot out of the water and gave it to Fenris.
“Good boy,” Fenris hummed.
It was like a shard of ice, rushing straight to Anders’ little cock, and he whimpered when Fenris wrapped his hand around Anders’ ankle, holding the foot in place. His cheeks were flushed, growing more red, as panic and horror clutched at his heart, as arousal forced itself to come out through his despair. Fenris didn’t seem to notice, but he always noticed, he always knew everything, too observant for his own good. He washed Anders foot, the cloth going between his long skinny toes, and it was so terribly uncomfortable.
“Please,” Anders whispered and Fenris, he could see it, tried not to look away from his work. “Please, no.”
It was the ‘no’ that got him to stop, though he did not set Anders’ foot into the water. He just paused and looked up at Anders, his ears drooping slightly, like he was expecting to be scolded. “What is it, Amatus?”
“You can’t do that,” Anders whimpered and tears spilled down, just as hot as the water, going down his cheeks. He shook his head. “You can’t. Not for me.”
“I am simply washing you,” Fenris pointed out, “Why can I not for you?”
Anders shook, his head, his skin, his bones, he pulled his foot back but Fenris was holding him firmly. “You can’t. Please, please, I. I’m sorry,” he whined, shoulders curling forward as he sobbed. Fenris had said something about him, something horrible, years ago, and it had never left his mind. It made him feel sick and now, Fenris was washing his feet.
“Amatus. Please, I need to understand.”
“I’m no magister, you can’t do this. I don’t want to be a magister. I’m sorry. I-”
Fenris tugged, gently, and Anders squawked as his leg went out straight, his bad knee popping. He cried out in surprise as Fenris pulled himself closer. “Do not presume that I am washing your feet like a slave might a Magister. You are not my Master, even if I sometimes wish you would pretend to be. I am not your slave and I will never be.”
“But-”
“But I wash your feet. I wash them because I love you. I wash them because I enjoy serving you. When I am in control of you, when you call me Master, I am still in service to you. Love is being in service to one another, because we have chosen to do so. I wash your feet, not as something beneath you, but because I wish you well and to feel the adoration I have for you.”
“Fenris…”
“Shhh,” Fenris pressed and rubbed his thumb into Anders’ sole. It felt good, there was so much tension in his foot, the support in Anders’ boots having failed years before. “Serve me, by giving me the chance to care for you.”
It was paradoxical, it was insanity, but it was so nice and he did not want to insult Fenris further. So he forced himself to relax as Fenris worked at his foot, one thumb becoming two, as he pressed into the sole and worked, hard, to get the muscle to become less rigid.
Anders fought it but he couldn’t, not really, his cunt growing wet under the ministrations. It felt so good and no one had ever touched him there. Underwater, he only felt more slick, and his cock throbbed with want. Shame colored his cheeks, chest, and ears, and he couldn’t hold back his little moans and Fenris worked him slack.
And then he froze again, stiffening, not out of disgust for Fenris’ position, not out of disgust at all, because his feet were, probably, the cleanest they had ever been, but out of absolute shock. Because Fenris took his big toe into his mouth, made eye contact with him, and sucked. It felt like… It was amazing. It was tight and wet and hot and it felt the same as when Fenris sucked on his little cock, all the way down to how Fenris’ ears flattened back and he moaned, pupils dilating. It made Anders’ cunt gush, his entrance loosening up with need.
“Fenris…”
“You are not going to stop me again, are you?” Fenris asked, eyes looking glassy and soft as he released Anders’ toe.
“It feels… It feels good.”
“Are you going to touch yourself?” Fenris asked.
Anders nodded. “Can I?”
Fenris smiled at him, bright, happy, and that expression, finally, started to melt the ice of Anders’ depression. “Only good boys get to touch themselves for their Master. Are you a good boy?”
All of the despair came rushing back. He wasn’t good. He was a bad mage, afraid and sad and lackluster, ugly, old, worn out. Fenris deserved better.
“Put your hands on either side of your head, wrists to the porcelain, then,” Fenris decided, “It matters not that I call you a good boy, you have to be good by your own thoughts to touch yourself.”
Anders did as he was told, glad that Fenris didn’t push him, didn’t make him feel like he was lying by acting like a good boy when he wasn’t one. It was such a relief, to not have to do these things, to not have to do anything but obey. Being a person was hard. He could take Fenris serving him when he was Master.
He moaned, back arching, when Fenris sucked on his pinky toe. It was a hard suck, all of the little digit fitting so so easily in Fenris’ mouth. It felt amazing. His eyes rolled back in his head. His cunt felt so empty.
“Oh, oh Fenris!” he gasped.
Fenris did not answer him, slowly sucking and releasing, over and over again, as Anders’ cock throbbed. He went from toe to toe, sucking on each of them, nice and deep, bobbing his head on the longer ones. When he pressed his tongue in between the toes and lapped at the gaps, Anders huffed and squirmed. It tickled and felt amazing and helped to pull away the fog that was burying Anders’ mind, replacing his depression with submission.
“Please, please, Fenris! I’ll be good. I’ll be a good boy!”
“I know you will, because you already are,” Fenris agreed, wiping down Anders’ foot with the soapy cloth and setting it down in the water. “Give me your other foot.”
Anders obeyed and it was easier, it felt even better, the fear and hatred slipping away. Anders humped, slowly, carefully, but it created a slight wave in the water as Fenris washed and licked and sucked and massaged his left foot. Anders whimpered and whined, his cunt and cock so desperate under the water. He wanted, needed, more. He needed his Master inside of him. He needed to be a good boy.
“Please… please…”
“Sit up,” Fenris urged, setting his foot down. “I need to wash your back.”
Anders whined, pulling his knees to his chest. He wanted to be fucked. He wanted to be a good pet. He didn’t want to think or do anything. He just wanted to let Fenris do anything he wanted. From what he’s just done to his feet, Anders knew that anything Fenris wanted would feel good. He wasn’t with a Templar, a john, someone who wanted him to hurt. He was with Fenris. He was with the one person, including Karl, who he knew never wanted him in real pain. The pain Fenris gave him was so much different than anything he was used to and it always made him feel good.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Anders asked.
“If you do not wish to sit up you can turn around, put your hands on the edge, and hold yourself up for me. I may prefer that, getting to see all of you. Do you want me to hurt you?”
Anders sighed and shook and turned, revealing his hideous back. There were times when he took pride in his scars, used them to drive him forward, proof that he had not been broken in The Circle, even though they had bent him, terribly. Today was not one of those days. He did not have any pride in him. He just felt ugly and undeserving and like every horrible thing he had lived through was etched in him, visible for everyone.
“I don’t know,” Anders said.
“I will not hurt you in the tub,” Fenris decided, “I may in our room, but I will only use my hands to do so.”
‘Our room’ made Anders all tingly again. It was true that Fenris did not think of the mansion as his, he never spoke of it that way, but the room that they shared, with the holes in the ceiling and the bed shoved into the corner, that was Fenris’. He had claimed it and then he had claimed Anders in it, with soft rope and soft words. And then, to Anders’ greatest surprised, he had offered to share it for as long as Anders loved him. Anders knew that he would love Fenris for the rest of his very short life.
“Thank you, Master,” Anders said and saying that, calling Fenris that, felt good. It was helping him, at least for the moment, out of the darkness that he had dragged back to Kirkwall.
He kept his back straight, even as the cold took him. At least the cold on his skin felt, mostly, clean. Fenris was soothing, rubbing over his rear and then his hideousness with his hand. They were calloused in a way, from his gauntlets and his sword, that no one else’s matched. A pattern that was just Fenris. Anders had to breathe, had to close his eyes, to be touched. He didn’t know what he had done, to be worth such affection, for such ugliness to not be hated. Fenris didn’t have any scars from being a slave, aside from the obvious. The brands were not from punishment, they made Fenris stronger, they made Fenris feel like home to the most secret parts of Anders. He couldn’t compare their damage, not without hurting them both, but sometimes he wished that Fenris was as riddled as he was. He was a good slave. Anders had always been bad. He wasn’t even good at being owned, even when it was Fenris he called Master.
Fenris hummed and washed him, absolutely no melody to the sound he produced. There was a lute in their room but Anders had never seen Fenris play it. He was terrible at it himself, so he never asked, but it was good, that Fenris was learning new skills, was trying new things. He wondered if he was another project that Fenris was trying to get the hang of.
The rag was soft and yet it still caught on old scars and Anders wept, silently, even through his subservience. He was good at being quiet. He had to be. Sometimes, now, he wished Fenris had his gauntlets on, and he could use the sharp points to grab his scars and rip them out, so that his body only showed signs of Fenris’ ownership.
He hiccuped when one of Fenris’ fingers slid in between his labia, pressing against his cock. “You are quite warm here, mage.” The way he said mage was not with a hiss, not with teeth. It was a title but not a curse, and yet, it hurt. It was a barbed word, a weapon, even if Fenris had it in a sheathe. He didn’t hate Anders for being a mage, not anymore, but, in his sensitive state, it was hard to remember that they had both changed, because of each other. “I have aroused you.”
“You can fuck me, if you want,” Anders forced out and he hated that his voice was audibly strained, “I won’t fight.”
“I do not want you to think about fighting,” Fenris hummed, pulling his finger away to rub at Anders’ hip. “I do not want you thinking yourself a thing for me to use, not today. I only wish to fuck you when I can see your pleasure, when you ask me to, when it is for us both instead of something that you give for acceptance.”
They have had this dance before, Anders trying to sell himself to Fenris, so afraid that Fenris would sell him out to the Templars, and he still tried, sometimes, to pay Fenris back for the bed they shared with his body, to take the brunt of Fenris’ anger with his flesh. Fenris could be so angry and it frightened Anders terribly but he would not shy from it, he invited it, and Fenris’ ears always drooped, his body shrinking, his words softening, when Anders shied away and opened himself for a hit at the same time. Fenris had never hit Anders without Anders specifically asking for it, wanting it.
“Are you ready to be dried?” Fenris asked.
Anders nodded and he stood, trying to wipe his eyes without being seen doing it, but Fenris didn’t say anything about it, only coming around him with a dry, soft towel. He started with Anders’ hair, careful, checking as he dried it as best he could. Anders had a habit, when he was hurting and alone, one that Fenris had caught him at a few times, of hitting himself. Something about being woken up at dawn by the Templars with a kick to the head. He did it himself, sometimes, now. He hadn’t. He hadn’t hurt himself, intentionally, at all. He was trying to be good.
Fenris ran the towel down and then wrapped him in it, tying it off around Anders’ hips. He tended to tie it up around his chest, as if he were hiding his breasts, but he didn’t have any and Fenris was making a point of keeping the towel low, of keeping Anders’ back on display. He had nothing to be ashamed of, while he was here.
Fenris took him to their bedroom and sat him on the bench. He poked the fire into life and that scared the bugs away. Anders wondered if any of them were real. He carved an apple with a knife and sat with Anders, straddling the bench so that he could be closer.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
“I can feed myself,” Anders whispered.
Fenris put his hand on Anders’ stomach, “I am unsure if that’s the case. Allow your Master to take care of you.”
Anders nodded and let himself do as he was told, taking slices of apple from Fenris’ hand with his teeth. Fenris liked apples, he liked food that was sweet and juicy, but he didn’t let himself indulge in treats often. Sometimes he did, when Anders cooked them. Perhaps he would cook something for Fenris soon. He liked it, liked cooking, and he didn’t take any magical shortcuts with it. He knew how to make bread from Velanna, and stew from Sigrun, and beer cheese dip from Oghren, and hand pies from Nathaniel.
“What are you thinking about, Amatus?” Fenris asked, drawing Anders from said thoughts.
“The past. Old friends.”
“Good thoughts?”
“They taught me a great deal and I betrayed them. They were the closest thing I had to a family and I made them think I was dead. But I can still do the things that they taught me. I can still keep them with me, even though I doubt they would ever forgive me.”
Fenris set the knife down, out of reach, and cradled Anders’ cheek. “I have met Nathaniel. He looked upon you with surprise and respect, as well as camaraderie. He was surprised that you were still alive, that you had Justice with you. I do not believe that he is upset with you, for any of your transgressions.”
Anders sighed, leaning in, pressing his face to Fenris’ chest. “You say all of these things, you’re so good and so kind to me, because you love me. I don’t know why you do but you do. You make me happy, you make me feel at peace, but there’s this thing in my head that fights it, that makes your words not burrow in as they should. Its a cloud and it doesn’t want to let your sun shine through.”
Fenris put a hand on his waist, his thumb rubbing circles around the bone of his pelvis. “The weather oft changes, though the clouds can last a long while, especially in Kirkwall. I will stay with you to see the clouds part, to see how the sun dances in the puddles. You are not only a rain dampened street, but you are a storm and a sunny day as well. I love you in all of these states.”
“Why?”
“Because I am free to do so,” Fenris explained, kissing the sweet apple stickiness from Anders’ lips. “I love you because I want to. It has taken a lot for me to learn how to do things just because it pleases me. So I have no interest in stopping anytime soon.”
He loved him intentionally, even when he was worthless for it, when he couldn’t be a man worthy of love.
“I love you,” he breathed, because it was true, even if it felt hollow and buried.
“And I am so glad for it,” Fenris breathed, pulling him closer, getting him up from the bench and turning him. The room was warming up from the fire and their bodies. Fenris dropped him off on the bed. The stars shone from the hole in the ceiling, through the thinning clouds. Perhaps the sun would come out in the morning. Anders hoped it would.
Fenris took the towel from his waist and slid him up onto the bed, kissing over his stomach, down into the red gold curls over his pubis. It was not exactly sexual, oddly enough, but it was extremely intimate and loving.
“Will you fuck me?” Anders asked.
“Do you wish me to?”
“I just want you pleased with me.”
So Fenris spread his legs, removed his own towel, and lay upon him. His cock was half stiff, pressed against Anders’ pubis, and their chests were squeezed together, Fenris’ brands, above his nipples, meeting the scars under Anders’ pectorals. Scars that proved that they survived to be who they were, both chosen by them, though Fenris didn’t remember the decision. He kissed up Anders chest, over his throat, along his sharp jaw. He kissed Anders and ignored his erection, even though they were in position and had everything they needed for intercourse. Anders worried he had disappointed him, again, with his answer.
“In the morning I will ask you again and you will tell me if you want me to pleasure you or if you want me to punish you. Either way or if you decide you no longer wish for my touch, I will see you as my good boy and I will love you all the same. Does that sound fair?”
Anders licked his lips, looking over the most beautiful man he’d ever seen’s expression. He did not find any disappointment. “Okay. Yeah, yeah, that sounds fair.”
“Good, good boy. I look forward to adoring you, in any shape that pleases you.”
He kissed Anders once more and pulled up the blankets over them, keeping them safe. Anders clung to him and, when the nightmares came, there was a gentle hand in his hair and a sweet, deep, voice reminding him that he was home and safe. He wished that he could believe it.