Canon-AU (Change this one thing, large or small/how the world works/in-world events etc)
Full AU (Transplant from one world to another, but AU'd into the new world)
Dimension-hop (Transplant with canon memories in tact)
General Good Ol' Fashioned Tropes
Jamjar-style with an original universe setting (ala a game OR lifting a previous/other game setting simply for the purpose of the PSL ie Duplicity, Noctium, Random Underwater City, Random Magic city in the cky etc)
Smut/shipping welcome as long as it either makes sense or is built up into making sense
ABO/Monster kink/Ds stuff welcome wtfever you want to play let's do it
General Nos/needs discussion
Rape/full non-con plots
Torture-porn/excessive gore
Completely Grimmdark/Hopeless Settings
Modern AUs unless there's an interesting angle to work with for the characters in question
HOW THIS WORKS
Comment with who you're looking for/what character combo we're wanting
Feel free to put a starter, a general idea/scenario with as much or little detail as you'd like, or a general vibe of a thing if you Have A Feeling but not a plan!
Can be a scene or a full PSL with multiple plot points/scenes or change from one to the other depending on what we're feeling
Hit me up on Lysoke or Discord (Lysoke#7079) or PM or right here for any plotting/discussion before or after/during!
This is LOW PRESSURE when you want to play, I'll be here and if you lose interest/don't have time/don't want to for ANY reason no problem at all! Just let me know and we can pause or abandon or revamp, this is supposed to be fun!
Probably gonna be slow paced unless I happen to be around to boomerang just due to work or other hobbies, but that doesn't mean I'm not excited about it, promise!
[A new world, and funny, isn't it, how swiftly new concepts become old? He's gone directly from Kirkwall to Duplicity, but he's an elf who sometimes goes transparent and half-exists in the Fade. It's a shock, but there's no real disbelief. Strange things happen all the time. Far better to spend his time and energy figuring out how to deal with it instead of wailing about how it can't possibly be true.
They give him a designation (Submissive) and direct him towards where they've deemed him fit to live (a far cry from from a dilapidated mansion, although not as far a cry as you'd think). They tell him that he needs to find a partner; that he needs to participate, in one way if not another. They tell him, in short, that he is to be a slave in everything but name— or, no. No. Worse than a slave, for at least in Tevinter no one pretended he ought to like it. No one pretended that it was good. He was a body to be used, yes, and Danarius had abused and conditioned him to feel the most twisted form of affection, but no one demanded he be happy about it.
Or maybe he's just bitter.
He's pretty bitter.
His mood isn't helped in the least when he finds out who else is here. But of course it's the mage. Of course he's a Dominant; how else would this turn out? They've exchanged only a few words over the network: establishing their identities, their worlds, acknowledging the realities of their situations. Anders has been here for a fair bit of time, it seems; long enough to have and lose some people he once cared for. It's sad, or at least it would be sad if Fenris cared about him, but he doesn't, so. A pity for the Dominant, who has all the power he could ever want; Fenris will save his tears for others.
It's been two months, which is, coincidentally, the exact amount of time that he's been given to find a partner. He has not. He cannot. He knows what consequences await him, he knows as the weeks pass he's shooting himself in the foot, but he just—
He can't.
He can't willingly hand himself over to someone. He cannot happily sign away his freedom, not now, not ever, not to anyone. It doesn't matter what the terms are; it doesn't matter if the person assures him they won't abuse the power. He will still be theirs, owned yet again, collared and leashed for someone else's amusement.
On the good days, he's furious about it. On the bad days . . .
(Sweat-soaked sheets and his fingers dripping in blood; glass he doesn't remember shattering falling from his fingers. Panic, and he knows he is losing him; he knows damn well that putting it off isn't helping. And yet even the thought of looking makes him retch, he cannot, he cannot, Danarius' fingers stroking through his hair and the taste of tin thick on his tongue, you did so well my pet, he can't he can't he can't—)
Two months. They come to collect him on the sixtieth day, faces cold and impersonal. They cite his lack of contract, but more than that: his lack of willingness to participate. They tell him that he will be reconditioned, and that, that sets him off more than anything, for he knows what that means. He knows what happens to slaves when they are too unruly, and he has lost his memories once. He cannot bear to lose them again. To become compliant, submissive, eyes blank and his only thought on how best to please his dominus.
Ah.
His Dominant.
So he lies. He blurts out the first name he can think of, saying that they've every intention of making a contract today. That Anders, in fact, means to come over right now, and, well, it's a swift phone call even as he marches on up to where he knows the mage resides.
And so now they're here. With a contract between them and Fenris pacing back and forth, his arms cutting swiftly through the air as he gestures.]
There is one acceptable term, and that is that you control nothing about me. We are to be bound by the most tenuous bonds possible.
[You could, if you were thinking about it, argue that Anders is doing Fenris a favor. What does he need with a Submissive that's so nasty? Frankly, what does he need with Fenris? But he is not thinking in such a way. He isn't really thinking at all.]
Say that you will give me a copper piece a month and be done with it. That is all that's needed, yes?
[Fun! This is fun! What a fun, fun time for them both.
There's another problem beyond the contract, of course. It's not that Fenris is so opposed to casual sex, but there's indulging because he wishes to and indulging because he has to meet a quota. And of course this place doesn't help, of course he's pent up and hungry after two months, but, well. One problem at a time, hm?]
Edited (sometimes u forget word s) 2021-06-15 19:27 (UTC)
He hadn't really been expecting to find himself back in Thedas. On some level, he'd known it was always a possibility, but he'd been gone for long enough and entangled in other worlds, that it had seemed a distant one at best. Yet the green-brown plains of Orlais stretched out before him the same as they'd been when he'd left them nearly three years ago now.
He'd continued on, then, his path nearly forgotten but long-set as he headed to meet Hawke at the edge of the Anderfels and continue on their way to Weisshaupt and the Wardens. Only a month of travel and another two weeks of waiting later...there was no Hawke. By the time the messenger bird Varric liked to use found him asking if he'd seen their missing friend, the stone in Anders' gut had long since settled. He'd returned to Thedas...and Hawke hadn't.
Was that how this worked? They'd assumed time stopped, but was it more that they'd simply created another Thedas by disappearing? Was it that he would arrive back sometime and find Anders and continue on their way as they were supposed to...but it would be a different Anders? Or even the same Anders but not him?
The migraine he developed even considering that as he downed another pint was favorable to the lonely aimlessness stretching out ahead of him. Did he go to the Wardens? Go back to their cottage in Orlais? Turn himself in? Wander around aimlessly until he just stopped moving? There were too many options and not enough answers to be found at the bottom of his mug.
The door of the dingy tavern opened and the cool near-desert air rushed in signaling the arrival of likely another trail-worn traveler finding the only place to rest for miles, but Anders was too far in his own ale-muddled mind to bother looking up. This close to the Anderfels, he had no reason to believe it would be anyone he knew.
[Really, if someone had described this scene and situation to him two months ago, a week ago even, and told him this would be his life...he might have laughed. Not in disbelief, but in derisive mania. Of course of course this was what it would come to. After so many blissful months of everything he could want, of near-absolute happiness if it weren't for where they were, of course the only logical outcome of that would be for it to come crashing down spectacularly. He was a fool to think otherwise.
What right had he to that happiness? He was still him, atone though he might, that didn't mean he deserved anything near to what life he'd managed.
The house he lived in, only a few minutes from the road that lead to the near-constantly deserted beach, warded and quiet and safe, echoed with ghosts of laughter and love. Music in the air as he danced with first Wolfe and then Alaric, then watched as they clumsily danced with each other, not for a lack of love between them as well but for their uncertainty on who would lead or, rather, who would be relegated to follow. They were both natural leaders, one a Champion and the other a General and both used to their noble trappings...he adored them and their inexpert and affectionate stumbling over each other as much as he loved the way they would sometimes make the same expressions or move as one for how ridiculously similar they were at their cores.
Now they were both gone and angrily tracking a grove in the wood of the floor was Fenris. Understandably angry, frustrated...maybe even scared, not that Anders was unwise enough to voice that theory. He wasn't even necessarily surprised Fenris had put Anders' name forward. He knew how strangely difficult it was to get to know people of another designation. He'd nearly run out his own time when he first got here because everyone he'd gotten close to was either already contracted or a dominant as well. More than likely, what friends Fenris had managed were other submissives or dominants unwilling or unable to take additional contracts. So here they were.
Anders bone-weary and leaned against the island of the kitchen while Fenris' furious pacing ate the space between kitchen and great room, the cats of the house long scattered to avoid the turmoil. The fact the large windows on the far wall cast the room with the same gray and cloudy light as was outside seemed fitting somehow, like the dreary reality of their next three months needed to be highlighted and reflected.]
Yes and no.
[He says it calmly, at least, but he's being careful and folding all the vulnerable pieces that fray at his edges deeper inside. This wasn't the Fenris he had gotten to know nor the one who'd cared nothing for him one way or the other, this was a new Fenris entirely, but still closer to the one he'd known whose blade ran down through Adalwolfe's Chest and nearly took his life. Sort of. He had helped with his Thedas' mages, if begrudgingly. Still, he knew a cornered animal when he was looking at one.]
As is customary of any contracts I have had, I wrote in you have full freedom of me to take what employment you wish and keep what earnings you may get, if you choose to take any work at all. You're free to purchase whatever you'd like with the card the city will give you.
You're also under no obligation to have anything else to do with me, nor do I need to know anything of what partners you take to your bed...I only ask -personally- that they aren't the type to poke around or disturb the cats if they're here.
[Which was another thing, wasn't it?]
You're not required to live here, on that note, but considering Haven is a non-profit hospital and the Arcane Sanctuary is free, I can't afford another place for you right now either. The guest room is all yours, should you want it.
[Civil he could do, careful he could do, but he was treading onto thinner and thinner ice as he continued.]
The only requirement is, if you are to live here, to tell me if you will be away from the house for more than three days -not to control you, but for your own protection from the city and the SIN Guards and anyone else. If you go missing, I'd rather know before I receive some city missive. To that same end, you are required to make quota. I don't care with who, but your citations will fall on me as well past the first. As the administrator of Haven, I can't let the hospital fall under fire. The submissives we help there will suffer for it and that's not acceptable.
Is that going to be a problem?
[He...honestly had no idea Fenris proclivities or if he had any, the one in the Fleet had been in a relationship with Marian until her bloodmagic tore them apart, then with Jim up until that Fenris had left. While Kirk was obviously a sexual person, there was no way nor reason for Anders to know how sexual it had been for Fenris. For now, he waited and watched Fenris, his eyes trained the same way they might be during a scene or even as a healer: careful for any signs of anything he should know about from discomfort to the point of breaking to signs of less unpleasant things.]
He was fairly certain he'd not been in the cottage when last he'd been in Thedas, yet the thatched roof stared back at him, the ratty ex-stray with the notched ear, Old Tom, curled into his side snoring, and the dawn light was just filtering in through the window as though it were a perfectly normal day for it.
The fleet, Duplicity, faces and names and experiences rested in his mind exactly as he thought they should, but it was the lack of buzz in his mind that signaled his spirit friend's presence that proved it hadn't been an elaborate dream. No taint, no Justice...but no Hawke, either.
Well, no of course not, on the road or not, Hawke had left for Skyhold some months ago. If he were back in the cottage, it might even be further back than that, if the missing mage weren't simply up making breakfast for them. That was the first step, then: figure out when he was and go from there.
With a small annoyed huff, Tom let Anders up and took the mage's warm spot on the bed as he stood to dress and re-tie his hair as he moved into the main room. Part of him knew it would be empty, but he still hoped to see that white hair and shining ice-blue eyes.
He was not, however, expecting to be wrong about both things. Hawke was no where to be seen, but a lump of a person on the floor, back to Anders but clearly still breathing, was not what he expected either. Cautiously, he approached the stranger (was it a stranger? Something tickled in his mind that this person was known and yet-) and nudged the man's shoulder with the toe of his boot.
[In another time, maybe with another person as subject, Fenris could admit that this was as painless as possible. That the mage, for better or worse, really was trying to offer him as much freedom as he could possibly allow.
But to his panicked ears (and it is panicked; sometimes he thinks he has not stopped panicking from the moment he woke up here til now), it simply sounds like mockery. A parody of a choice: live here or there? Get a job or don't, and it's as false a choice as when Danarius would allow him to pick the wine he served that night at dinner. What it adds up to is very simply this: that no matter what he does, no matter how he twists and writhes and snarls, there is still a mage at the end of his leash.
He swallows thickly, his back turned to Anders, and waves a hand to indicate he'd heard the first part of what he'd had said. He knows already that he'll take the spare room here. He won't tell him when he disappears, because maybe Fenris wants to fight and that's as good an excuse as any. But that's for another day. A day when he's moody and petulant and the words I can't afford another place for you grate on his nerves like a cat sinking its claws into something tender.
It's the second part that really matters right now.
If Fenris was tense before, it's nothing to the rigidity that wracks his frame now. Three times a month, the number seared into his brain. He's managed it twice already, untethered and prompted only by his own sense of survival.]
Are you required to sleep around?
[It comes out as more of a snarl than he means it to. It's just— it's hard. Even if he knows Anders is doing his best; even if he knows the mage is trying to make this as painless as possible, still, still. It's hard not to read mockery and an arrogant sort of patronization in his tone; it's hard not to hear Danarius there, cooing and cold by turn. Fenris spins on the balls of his feet, drawing back to stare at Anders.
To face him as they talk, yes. But to keep him in his sights as well. Blond hair and warm eyes, a familiar lanky frame— not comforting, no, no, but at least not—
At least not what his mind is terrified he might find.]
That night, Vanessa had gone to sleep like any other, laying to rest her head against the pillow in her bed, in one of the upstairs rooms of her townhome in a city she had resided in for the past several years. There was no reason to think that this morning would be any different, that she would not open her eyes and be exactly where she has awoken every morning that she can recall — and yet when she rose, it was to a land that sprawled out for miles, with nothing familiar glimpsed in either direction. The only possible means of enduring was to set out on foot, the blanket she had slept with draped across her shoulders in an attempt to partially shield the fabric of her nightgown.
The first place she discovered could have been enough to at least secure a knowledge of where she was, but beyond that, she could not necessarily do more for herself — she was stranded in a strange land, with no money to speak of and no means of accomplishing more than simply learning where she had awoken, to say nothing of the manner in which she was dressed.
The wind bracing against her body as she shoved her weight against the tavern door nearly prompted her to stumble in when the latter finally gave way, scraping across the floor, and she staggered in, reflexively tugging the wrap of her blanket up over her shoulder and glancing around blearily as her eyes adjusted to the dim. There were no faces in here that she could recognize, no one who appeared more than merely curious before returning to their pints, and yet — the man seated at a table a short distance away, with his back turned to her, felt unquestionably familiar.
It was a sense that she could confirm for herself after crossing the space and turning to position herself before him, peering down into his face — unmistakably someone known to her, now.
"Forgive me for intruding, sir, but would the name... Duplicity mean anything to you?"
[He flinches for the question thrown his way. Not the tone, but the words themselves and the reality of the answer.]
Yes. No different than you.
[Except it was different and every room in this house screamed it at him. He was nearly a year here in the city and, once, that would have meant freedom from needing to find partners, but they'd changed that rule. Changed it just in time for Anders' partners to be spirited off, likely never to be seen again. Certainly not Alaric, possibly not Wolfe either. Quota hadn't been a concern for him for almost a year and now- the thought of needing to sleep with people when he'd all but quit taking other partners was looming in front of him. Had he even fond one partner this month? Dorian might be willing, but with his attachment to Rhys, it felt wrong, even if the other mage likely wouldn't see it that way.
It was a problem for another day, he still had this one in front of him to weather first.
Yet as he met Fenris' gaze, that heated emerald that he'd been on the opposite end of so many times, he felt...exhausted.]
Despite what you may think, I am doing what I can Fenris, hate me for it all you like, paint me as the terrible Dominant, but this is the only rule I have to insist on. Find someone not detestable for you, if you can, and take solace in them...while the city allows it. [The last part came out more bitter than he would have liked and Anders turned from Fenris to move around the kitchen's island and dig for the bottle of bourbon he kept around. Maker knew he might need it tonight and, luckily, it's effects would actually stick.
There was more he should say, advice he could offer, places that might be helpful to the elf, but he couldn't find it in him to push the words out of his throat. Maybe he'd just leave a list.]
[Not for him. Not for either of them, though their reasons differ sharply. Anders is still wounded from his loss, even Fenris can see that. Has seen that, in bits and fragments over the past two months. Longing gazes and grief . . . oh, yes, the mage wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or worse, and Fenris knows just how badly he must be aching.
For Fenris . . .]
There is no solace to be found here. Only survival.
[That's a bit more grim than he truly feels, but it rings honest right now. But ah, ah, this isn't going anywhere . . . it's not that Fenris won't spitefully shoot himself in the foot for the sake of aggravating Anders, but maybe not today. Maybe not when (for once) it isn't Anders he's truly angry at.
So: a deep breath. His fingers flex, but he's silent for a moment, willing himself to calm down just a touch. His eyes track Anders as he wanders around the kitchen, widening slightly in surprise as he pulls out a bottle of something alcoholic.
That's new.]
And who have you found?
[It's an honest question. It's also said with some measure: an attempt at not spitefully snarling in his face. I am doing what I can, and he knows. He really does. He'll acknowledge it sooner or later, but oh, Maker, this is hard.
He approaches slowly, almost warily. They've never come to outright physical blows, but still, Fenris would not fault him for startling if he came too quickly. But ah, alcohol is a tempting lure.]
Grunting inelegantly is all Dean's momentarily capable of, insides lodged up behind his sternum and a might-be-more-than-an-idle-threat nausea inhabiting the space his stomach used to reside in. That's what it feels like, anyway, a displaced sensation that grows all the more intense the more his brain switches on, lighting up with activity until he can no longer stave off consciousness, like a heavy weight being dropped around his neck.
It'll take him a second - maybe two - to remember a fraction of what his existence now means and how it's relative to his surroundings. Honestly, it's freakin' mind-bending trying to fit it all inside his skull.
"'m up, 'm up, okay."
Alright, maybe he needs a few seconds longer to remember how he came to be here. Who he'd asked to make it possible. Where he'd come from that wasn't a straight jump from the city of Duplicity to... here. Making a move to lever himself upright, he brushes the back of his head with his palm consolingly, like he's hit it, and finally turns a grouchy frown upward.
A frown that melts at the sight of the familiar face hovering above him until it's a broad, beaming grin from ear to ear.
"You thought I wasn't gonna hunt your ass down, eh?"
['That seems grim, even for you' is on the tip of his tongue, but he washes it back with a sip of his drink, which he then topped off again. Maybe not too grim for this Fenris, still mostly fresh from Thedas. A couple months was hardly enough time to expect to see much of a difference. If he ever did...he shouldn't compare this Fenris to the one he'd known. They were entirely different men on more than one level.
Instead, he says nothing and turns his mind to the question. His eyes linger on Fenris a moment as he seems to cautiously approach the island between them, then turns to get another glass to serve some for his new housemate as well.
Who was left? Even beyond the obvious absences, a large chunk of the people Anders had known and relied on had vanished over the last few months before Fenris' arrival. Now he had...well, while he was certain Anduin would manage to have a calming effect on Fenris, he didn't feel comfortable offering the much younger man as a bedpartner. Lux was gone -also a demon, which would have been a bigger issue- Rose was gone...also magic. Vanessa would be curteous and wonderful as usual, he was sure, but she was a witch. Albus was also magically inclined and Dorian was entirely off the table. Even with whatever odd arrangement had been between the magister and the other Fenris, Anders wanted no part in whatever storm that might brew if they met again.
He didn't know the man, but Tim Stoker seemed...oh, no, his thing wasn't just against magic, he had some non-human bias ridiculousness as well. Nevermind. Sasha might be good for Fenris, but Anders would rather talk to his assistant about it first rather than throw her name around without consulting her.
He slid the glass across the counter with a small sigh.]
The main people I'd have to offer are, admittedly, mostly mages. A lot of the people I trusted who were not magically inclined are no longer around. Though you might look up Poe Dameron. He's a good man and not a mage, also already involved so he's less likely to come with any sort of...complications.
[He takes another small sip. Then a larger one.]
If it's simply 'survival' as you so eloquently put it, I have other names, so long as you aren't too delicate about them being magic users.
[There was also...right there in their contract...but he'd need the rest of this glass before he could even begin to consider bringing that up.]
[Oh, he thinks, for he'd meant partners for Anders, not Fenris— Maker, no, he doesn't expect Anders to find him someone. But what an odd rush of emotions the mage's response induces, so much so that Fenris can't quite parse them at first. It's just a swell of emotion, that's all, confusing and a little disorienting. He blinks just once, surprise written in his expression, before reaching for the glass.]
I meant for you, mage. Not I. Who is it you'll seek, now that you need to find someone?
[He sets the glass to his lips, relishing the sharp sting of that initial sip. That odd tangle of emotion sits against his breastbone, frightfully loud, disorienting his fury and his line of thought both. Should he be resentful Anders thought of him first? Is it an act of pity? Oh, Fenris surely can't find someone on his own, but no, it doesn't feel like that. Besides: trust that if Anders was acting spitefully, he'd let Fenris know. Their fights aren't subtle, not at all.
So what, then? Grateful that he automatically weeded out anyone wielding magic? That seems the very least someone could do, you could argue, but Fenris would have understood if Anders hadn't. It would have been a petty thing, spitefully thoughtless, but not out of line, given the antagonistic relationship they have. But no. He doesn't just acknowledge that unspoken boundary; he abides by it, with no snide comments or passive-aggressive jabs. Fenris hadn't expected that.
But gratitude isn't the emotion filling him either. It's just . . . it's messy, that's all. It's messy and difficult to parse, and he takes another sip, trying to distract himself from it. He isn't reading into it, at least, he knows that for sure. This isn't some idiotic rush of gratitude and admiration out of a simple act of kindness. But it's . . .
Well. It was unexpected, that's all. And maybe that's what it boils down to: that it's a kindness. He always anticipates the worst from Anders, but . . . well. This is the second time in as many hours that he's done Fenris a kindness. Perhaps he ought to stop startling at them so much.
Oh, who knows. A third sip, and it's not as if bourbon is tame; already he can feel his hackles settling. The set of his shoulders lower; that constant tension he carries within him, coiled action ready be unleashed at the slightest notice, eases. He isn't relaxed, but . . . oh, there's a reason alcohol is a vice. It's so falsely soothing.]
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makinglies2021-06-14 01:43 pm
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They give him a designation (Submissive) and direct him towards where they've deemed him fit to live (a far cry from from a dilapidated mansion, although not as far a cry as you'd think). They tell him that he needs to find a partner; that he needs to participate, in one way if not another. They tell him, in short, that he is to be a slave in everything but name— or, no. No. Worse than a slave, for at least in Tevinter no one pretended he ought to like it. No one pretended that it was good. He was a body to be used, yes, and Danarius had abused and conditioned him to feel the most twisted form of affection, but no one demanded he be happy about it.
Or maybe he's just bitter.
He's pretty bitter.
His mood isn't helped in the least when he finds out who else is here. But of course it's the mage. Of course he's a Dominant; how else would this turn out? They've exchanged only a few words over the network: establishing their identities, their worlds, acknowledging the realities of their situations. Anders has been here for a fair bit of time, it seems; long enough to have and lose some people he once cared for. It's sad, or at least it would be sad if Fenris cared about him, but he doesn't, so. A pity for the Dominant, who has all the power he could ever want; Fenris will save his tears for others.
It's been two months, which is, coincidentally, the exact amount of time that he's been given to find a partner. He has not. He cannot. He knows what consequences await him, he knows as the weeks pass he's shooting himself in the foot, but he just—
He can't.
He can't willingly hand himself over to someone. He cannot happily sign away his freedom, not now, not ever, not to anyone. It doesn't matter what the terms are; it doesn't matter if the person assures him they won't abuse the power. He will still be theirs, owned yet again, collared and leashed for someone else's amusement.
On the good days, he's furious about it. On the bad days . . .
(Sweat-soaked sheets and his fingers dripping in blood; glass he doesn't remember shattering falling from his fingers. Panic, and he knows he is losing him; he knows damn well that putting it off isn't helping. And yet even the thought of looking makes him retch, he cannot, he cannot, Danarius' fingers stroking through his hair and the taste of tin thick on his tongue, you did so well my pet, he can't he can't he can't—)
Two months. They come to collect him on the sixtieth day, faces cold and impersonal. They cite his lack of contract, but more than that: his lack of willingness to participate. They tell him that he will be reconditioned, and that, that sets him off more than anything, for he knows what that means. He knows what happens to slaves when they are too unruly, and he has lost his memories once. He cannot bear to lose them again. To become compliant, submissive, eyes blank and his only thought on how best to please his dominus.
Ah.
His Dominant.
So he lies. He blurts out the first name he can think of, saying that they've every intention of making a contract today. That Anders, in fact, means to come over right now, and, well, it's a swift phone call even as he marches on up to where he knows the mage resides.
And so now they're here. With a contract between them and Fenris pacing back and forth, his arms cutting swiftly through the air as he gestures.]
There is one acceptable term, and that is that you control nothing about me. We are to be bound by the most tenuous bonds possible.
[You could, if you were thinking about it, argue that Anders is doing Fenris a favor. What does he need with a Submissive that's so nasty? Frankly, what does he need with Fenris? But he is not thinking in such a way. He isn't really thinking at all.]
Say that you will give me a copper piece a month and be done with it. That is all that's needed, yes?
[Fun! This is fun! What a fun, fun time for them both.
There's another problem beyond the contract, of course. It's not that Fenris is so opposed to casual sex, but there's indulging because he wishes to and indulging because he has to meet a quota. And of course this place doesn't help, of course he's pent up and hungry after two months, but, well. One problem at a time, hm?]
Lost King
A Witching Way
He'd continued on, then, his path nearly forgotten but long-set as he headed to meet Hawke at the edge of the Anderfels and continue on their way to Weisshaupt and the Wardens. Only a month of travel and another two weeks of waiting later...there was no Hawke. By the time the messenger bird Varric liked to use found him asking if he'd seen their missing friend, the stone in Anders' gut had long since settled. He'd returned to Thedas...and Hawke hadn't.
Was that how this worked? They'd assumed time stopped, but was it more that they'd simply created another Thedas by disappearing? Was it that he would arrive back sometime and find Anders and continue on their way as they were supposed to...but it would be a different Anders? Or even the same Anders but not him?
The migraine he developed even considering that as he downed another pint was favorable to the lonely aimlessness stretching out ahead of him. Did he go to the Wardens? Go back to their cottage in Orlais? Turn himself in? Wander around aimlessly until he just stopped moving? There were too many options and not enough answers to be found at the bottom of his mug.
The door of the dingy tavern opened and the cool near-desert air rushed in signaling the arrival of likely another trail-worn traveler finding the only place to rest for miles, but Anders was too far in his own ale-muddled mind to bother looking up. This close to the Anderfels, he had no reason to believe it would be anyone he knew.
Cyborgs in Circadya
Heart and soul
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What right had he to that happiness? He was still him, atone though he might, that didn't mean he deserved anything near to what life he'd managed.
The house he lived in, only a few minutes from the road that lead to the near-constantly deserted beach, warded and quiet and safe, echoed with ghosts of laughter and love. Music in the air as he danced with first Wolfe and then Alaric, then watched as they clumsily danced with each other, not for a lack of love between them as well but for their uncertainty on who would lead or, rather, who would be relegated to follow. They were both natural leaders, one a Champion and the other a General and both used to their noble trappings...he adored them and their inexpert and affectionate stumbling over each other as much as he loved the way they would sometimes make the same expressions or move as one for how ridiculously similar they were at their cores.
Now they were both gone and angrily tracking a grove in the wood of the floor was Fenris. Understandably angry, frustrated...maybe even scared, not that Anders was unwise enough to voice that theory. He wasn't even necessarily surprised Fenris had put Anders' name forward. He knew how strangely difficult it was to get to know people of another designation. He'd nearly run out his own time when he first got here because everyone he'd gotten close to was either already contracted or a dominant as well. More than likely, what friends Fenris had managed were other submissives or dominants unwilling or unable to take additional contracts. So here they were.
Anders bone-weary and leaned against the island of the kitchen while Fenris' furious pacing ate the space between kitchen and great room, the cats of the house long scattered to avoid the turmoil. The fact the large windows on the far wall cast the room with the same gray and cloudy light as was outside seemed fitting somehow, like the dreary reality of their next three months needed to be highlighted and reflected.]
Yes and no.
[He says it calmly, at least, but he's being careful and folding all the vulnerable pieces that fray at his edges deeper inside. This wasn't the Fenris he had gotten to know nor the one who'd cared nothing for him one way or the other, this was a new Fenris entirely, but still closer to the one he'd known whose blade ran down through Adalwolfe's Chest and nearly took his life. Sort of. He had helped with his Thedas' mages, if begrudgingly. Still, he knew a cornered animal when he was looking at one.]
As is customary of any contracts I have had, I wrote in you have full freedom of me to take what employment you wish and keep what earnings you may get, if you choose to take any work at all. You're free to purchase whatever you'd like with the card the city will give you.
You're also under no obligation to have anything else to do with me, nor do I need to know anything of what partners you take to your bed...I only ask -personally- that they aren't the type to poke around or disturb the cats if they're here.
[Which was another thing, wasn't it?]
You're not required to live here, on that note, but considering Haven is a non-profit hospital and the Arcane Sanctuary is free, I can't afford another place for you right now either. The guest room is all yours, should you want it.
[Civil he could do, careful he could do, but he was treading onto thinner and thinner ice as he continued.]
The only requirement is, if you are to live here, to tell me if you will be away from the house for more than three days -not to control you, but for your own protection from the city and the SIN Guards and anyone else. If you go missing, I'd rather know before I receive some city missive. To that same end, you are required to make quota. I don't care with who, but your citations will fall on me as well past the first. As the administrator of Haven, I can't let the hospital fall under fire. The submissives we help there will suffer for it and that's not acceptable.
Is that going to be a problem?
[He...honestly had no idea Fenris proclivities or if he had any, the one in the Fleet had been in a relationship with Marian until her bloodmagic tore them apart, then with Jim up until that Fenris had left. While Kirk was obviously a sexual person, there was no way nor reason for Anders to know how sexual it had been for Fenris. For now, he waited and watched Fenris, his eyes trained the same way they might be during a scene or even as a healer: careful for any signs of anything he should know about from discomfort to the point of breaking to signs of less unpleasant things.]
Not In Kansas
The fleet, Duplicity, faces and names and experiences rested in his mind exactly as he thought they should, but it was the lack of buzz in his mind that signaled his spirit friend's presence that proved it hadn't been an elaborate dream. No taint, no Justice...but no Hawke, either.
Well, no of course not, on the road or not, Hawke had left for Skyhold some months ago. If he were back in the cottage, it might even be further back than that, if the missing mage weren't simply up making breakfast for them. That was the first step, then: figure out when he was and go from there.
With a small annoyed huff, Tom let Anders up and took the mage's warm spot on the bed as he stood to dress and re-tie his hair as he moved into the main room. Part of him knew it would be empty, but he still hoped to see that white hair and shining ice-blue eyes.
He was not, however, expecting to be wrong about both things. Hawke was no where to be seen, but a lump of a person on the floor, back to Anders but clearly still breathing, was not what he expected either. Cautiously, he approached the stranger (was it a stranger? Something tickled in his mind that this person was known and yet-) and nudged the man's shoulder with the toe of his boot.
"Mind explaining to me why you are in my house?"
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But to his panicked ears (and it is panicked; sometimes he thinks he has not stopped panicking from the moment he woke up here til now), it simply sounds like mockery. A parody of a choice: live here or there? Get a job or don't, and it's as false a choice as when Danarius would allow him to pick the wine he served that night at dinner. What it adds up to is very simply this: that no matter what he does, no matter how he twists and writhes and snarls, there is still a mage at the end of his leash.
He swallows thickly, his back turned to Anders, and waves a hand to indicate he'd heard the first part of what he'd had said. He knows already that he'll take the spare room here. He won't tell him when he disappears, because maybe Fenris wants to fight and that's as good an excuse as any. But that's for another day. A day when he's moody and petulant and the words I can't afford another place for you grate on his nerves like a cat sinking its claws into something tender.
It's the second part that really matters right now.
If Fenris was tense before, it's nothing to the rigidity that wracks his frame now. Three times a month, the number seared into his brain. He's managed it twice already, untethered and prompted only by his own sense of survival.]
Are you required to sleep around?
[It comes out as more of a snarl than he means it to. It's just— it's hard. Even if he knows Anders is doing his best; even if he knows the mage is trying to make this as painless as possible, still, still. It's hard not to read mockery and an arrogant sort of patronization in his tone; it's hard not to hear Danarius there, cooing and cold by turn. Fenris spins on the balls of his feet, drawing back to stare at Anders.
To face him as they talk, yes. But to keep him in his sights as well. Blond hair and warm eyes, a familiar lanky frame— not comforting, no, no, but at least not—
At least not what his mind is terrified he might find.]
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The first place she discovered could have been enough to at least secure a knowledge of where she was, but beyond that, she could not necessarily do more for herself — she was stranded in a strange land, with no money to speak of and no means of accomplishing more than simply learning where she had awoken, to say nothing of the manner in which she was dressed.
The wind bracing against her body as she shoved her weight against the tavern door nearly prompted her to stumble in when the latter finally gave way, scraping across the floor, and she staggered in, reflexively tugging the wrap of her blanket up over her shoulder and glancing around blearily as her eyes adjusted to the dim. There were no faces in here that she could recognize, no one who appeared more than merely curious before returning to their pints, and yet — the man seated at a table a short distance away, with his back turned to her, felt unquestionably familiar.
It was a sense that she could confirm for herself after crossing the space and turning to position herself before him, peering down into his face — unmistakably someone known to her, now.
"Forgive me for intruding, sir, but would the name... Duplicity mean anything to you?"
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Yes. No different than you.
[Except it was different and every room in this house screamed it at him. He was nearly a year here in the city and, once, that would have meant freedom from needing to find partners, but they'd changed that rule. Changed it just in time for Anders' partners to be spirited off, likely never to be seen again. Certainly not Alaric, possibly not Wolfe either. Quota hadn't been a concern for him for almost a year and now- the thought of needing to sleep with people when he'd all but quit taking other partners was looming in front of him. Had he even fond one partner this month? Dorian might be willing, but with his attachment to Rhys, it felt wrong, even if the other mage likely wouldn't see it that way.
It was a problem for another day, he still had this one in front of him to weather first.
Yet as he met Fenris' gaze, that heated emerald that he'd been on the opposite end of so many times, he felt...exhausted.]
Despite what you may think, I am doing what I can Fenris, hate me for it all you like, paint me as the terrible Dominant, but this is the only rule I have to insist on. Find someone not detestable for you, if you can, and take solace in them...while the city allows it. [The last part came out more bitter than he would have liked and Anders turned from Fenris to move around the kitchen's island and dig for the bottle of bourbon he kept around. Maker knew he might need it tonight and, luckily, it's effects would actually stick.
There was more he should say, advice he could offer, places that might be helpful to the elf, but he couldn't find it in him to push the words out of his throat. Maybe he'd just leave a list.]
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Solace. Is that what we're calling it?
[Not for him. Not for either of them, though their reasons differ sharply. Anders is still wounded from his loss, even Fenris can see that. Has seen that, in bits and fragments over the past two months. Longing gazes and grief . . . oh, yes, the mage wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or worse, and Fenris knows just how badly he must be aching.
For Fenris . . .]
There is no solace to be found here. Only survival.
[That's a bit more grim than he truly feels, but it rings honest right now. But ah, ah, this isn't going anywhere . . . it's not that Fenris won't spitefully shoot himself in the foot for the sake of aggravating Anders, but maybe not today. Maybe not when (for once) it isn't Anders he's truly angry at.
So: a deep breath. His fingers flex, but he's silent for a moment, willing himself to calm down just a touch. His eyes track Anders as he wanders around the kitchen, widening slightly in surprise as he pulls out a bottle of something alcoholic.
That's new.]
And who have you found?
[It's an honest question. It's also said with some measure: an attempt at not spitefully snarling in his face. I am doing what I can, and he knows. He really does. He'll acknowledge it sooner or later, but oh, Maker, this is hard.
He approaches slowly, almost warily. They've never come to outright physical blows, but still, Fenris would not fault him for startling if he came too quickly. But ah, alcohol is a tempting lure.]
SO RUSTY I'M SORRY but also weh boys
It'll take him a second - maybe two - to remember a fraction of what his existence now means and how it's relative to his surroundings. Honestly, it's freakin' mind-bending trying to fit it all inside his skull.
"'m up, 'm up, okay."
Alright, maybe he needs a few seconds longer to remember how he came to be here. Who he'd asked to make it possible. Where he'd come from that wasn't a straight jump from the city of Duplicity to... here. Making a move to lever himself upright, he brushes the back of his head with his palm consolingly, like he's hit it, and finally turns a grouchy frown upward.
A frown that melts at the sight of the familiar face hovering above him until it's a broad, beaming grin from ear to ear.
"You thought I wasn't gonna hunt your ass down, eh?"
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Instead, he says nothing and turns his mind to the question. His eyes linger on Fenris a moment as he seems to cautiously approach the island between them, then turns to get another glass to serve some for his new housemate as well.
Who was left? Even beyond the obvious absences, a large chunk of the people Anders had known and relied on had vanished over the last few months before Fenris' arrival. Now he had...well, while he was certain Anduin would manage to have a calming effect on Fenris, he didn't feel comfortable offering the much younger man as a bedpartner. Lux was gone -also a demon, which would have been a bigger issue- Rose was gone...also magic. Vanessa would be curteous and wonderful as usual, he was sure, but she was a witch. Albus was also magically inclined and Dorian was entirely off the table. Even with whatever odd arrangement had been between the magister and the other Fenris, Anders wanted no part in whatever storm that might brew if they met again.
He didn't know the man, but Tim Stoker seemed...oh, no, his thing wasn't just against magic, he had some non-human bias ridiculousness as well. Nevermind. Sasha might be good for Fenris, but Anders would rather talk to his assistant about it first rather than throw her name around without consulting her.
He slid the glass across the counter with a small sigh.]
The main people I'd have to offer are, admittedly, mostly mages. A lot of the people I trusted who were not magically inclined are no longer around. Though you might look up Poe Dameron. He's a good man and not a mage, also already involved so he's less likely to come with any sort of...complications.
[He takes another small sip. Then a larger one.]
If it's simply 'survival' as you so eloquently put it, I have other names, so long as you aren't too delicate about them being magic users.
[There was also...right there in their contract...but he'd need the rest of this glass before he could even begin to consider bringing that up.]
no subject
[Oh, he thinks, for he'd meant partners for Anders, not Fenris— Maker, no, he doesn't expect Anders to find him someone. But what an odd rush of emotions the mage's response induces, so much so that Fenris can't quite parse them at first. It's just a swell of emotion, that's all, confusing and a little disorienting. He blinks just once, surprise written in his expression, before reaching for the glass.]
I meant for you, mage. Not I. Who is it you'll seek, now that you need to find someone?
[He sets the glass to his lips, relishing the sharp sting of that initial sip. That odd tangle of emotion sits against his breastbone, frightfully loud, disorienting his fury and his line of thought both. Should he be resentful Anders thought of him first? Is it an act of pity? Oh, Fenris surely can't find someone on his own, but no, it doesn't feel like that. Besides: trust that if Anders was acting spitefully, he'd let Fenris know. Their fights aren't subtle, not at all.
So what, then? Grateful that he automatically weeded out anyone wielding magic? That seems the very least someone could do, you could argue, but Fenris would have understood if Anders hadn't. It would have been a petty thing, spitefully thoughtless, but not out of line, given the antagonistic relationship they have. But no. He doesn't just acknowledge that unspoken boundary; he abides by it, with no snide comments or passive-aggressive jabs. Fenris hadn't expected that.
But gratitude isn't the emotion filling him either. It's just . . . it's messy, that's all. It's messy and difficult to parse, and he takes another sip, trying to distract himself from it. He isn't reading into it, at least, he knows that for sure. This isn't some idiotic rush of gratitude and admiration out of a simple act of kindness. But it's . . .
Well. It was unexpected, that's all. And maybe that's what it boils down to: that it's a kindness. He always anticipates the worst from Anders, but . . . well. This is the second time in as many hours that he's done Fenris a kindness. Perhaps he ought to stop startling at them so much.
Oh, who knows. A third sip, and it's not as if bourbon is tame; already he can feel his hackles settling. The set of his shoulders lower; that constant tension he carries within him, coiled action ready be unleashed at the slightest notice, eases. He isn't relaxed, but . . . oh, there's a reason alcohol is a vice. It's so falsely soothing.]