There's a small cafe near the Down Public Housing building--close enough that the coffee can be smelled on the wind in the mornings. Quentin's passing it by, on the way home from somewhere or other, and may be surprised to find a barista in a Cafe LeBlanc apron on break in front of the building, sipping a cuppa of his own and smoking a cigarette.
Perhaps even more surprising, the barista in question is a Dominant. A lanky man only a few inches taller than Quentin, he has his hair back in a tidy braid (as is appropriate while working around food), and is dressed in black clothes under his apron, with a botanical tattoo of some sort visible on his right arm under the rolled-up sleeve of his button-down shirt.
As he sees Quentin, he lifts his cup in a casual salute. "How's it hangin'?"
"Um...pretty good." God, real coffee. That sounded amazing right now? The stuff in the public housing was...well, it was not coffee, and Quentin was pretty sure it wasn't even caffeinated, judging by the headache he'd been nursing. It was enough to stop him, when addressed, hands shoved awkwardly in his jeans pockets as he eyed the building hungrily. But he didn't have any money.
"Um, how about you?" Quentin's hair was down, brushing the shoulders of his secondhand hoodie-and-jacket combo, the line down his throat easily visible at a glance. His dumb little brain was sluggishly trying to figure out if he could somehow scam free coffee out of this guy while having, if one pardons the nerdiness, a charisma score of about five.
"Eh, can't complain." Meanwhile, Bash is noticing everything going on here--it is about the time of the month where new arrivals show up, and those clothes are definitely from the hand-me-down bin, either at the community center or sub housing. Quentin's hardly going to need to scam at all.
"You fresh outta orientation? Or have I just managed to miss you so far?"
"Um, first one, yeah," Quentin said, gesturing vaguely. "Just been here, um, maybe a couple days?" He was trying to look at the man talking to him, but his eyes were drawn to the door. Caffeine tho his brain kept whispering. The door was where the caffeine was. "I'm, um, Quentin." He gave a little wave.
There is no way someone so deeply entrenched in his own coffee addiction wouldn't catch the flicker of Quentin's gaze to the door. "How do you take your coffee, Quentin? I'll go grab you one. Call it a 'welcome to the shitshow' present, if you'd like."
"Oh, god, thank you," he said, sagging a little with relief. "Um, one cream, three sugars. Please. Thank you." Honestly, though, Bash could bring him whatever and he'd drink it.
There's a wry little snort. "Wrong deity." And then Bash heads inside, returning with a coffee to Quentin's specifications and a blueberry muffin. Because just a coffee by itself is a miserable kind of breakfast.
"I'm Bash, by the way. Work here, in case that wasn't obvious, but I also do reception work at an office building in the Up. Don't tell my boss, but I like this better."
Quentin took the seat across from Bash, also kind of unreasonably excited about food that resembled real food. He took the first reverent sip of the coffee, closing his eyes. It took some effort not to moan out loud.
"So, um, why not quit that and do this full time?" he asked, taking another sip.
“Office jobs are more respectable, and I don’t wanna leave the boss in a lurch.” Bash gives a half-hearted shrug like it’s not all that big a deal. “The look on your face is amazing right now. Like a man in the desert getting that one sip of water...”
Quentin laughed a bit, embarrassed, but it was probably true. "They don't give us coffee in sub housing. No muffins, either," he said, peeling the paper wrapper down and taking a chunk from the side, popping it quickly in his mouth before he could drop too many crumbs. This obviously also made him happy, actually swaying a little bit from side to side. "I've had a caffeine withdrawal headache for like, three days," he said around his mouthful.
"Mm. Lemme lay a few things out for you, alright?" He holds up his fingers, counting out these next few points. "One: you can't spend money without a contract that says you can, but you can get a job if any Dominant gives you permission. Two: this place doesn't just do pastries, they also got some kickass curries. Real stick-to-your-ribs shit. Three: pretty sure we're still hiring, and I can put you in touch with my boss."
Quentin glanced at the building, nodding. "I'll definitely keep that in mind. There's, um, apparently a version of me was here before, and he had...friends? Um, and he worked at this theater so I want to check that out first before I make any like, decisions."
He glanced up at it again, then at Bash. "Besides, kinda hard to swallow working when I can't even use my money until I have a contract."
"Oh." Okay, so Quentin was a dumbass, but that wasn't news. He nodded. "Okay, yeah. Yeah, I could definitely do that." An hour or three of pulling espresso shots would be worth the promise of real coffee and food.
"Sorry," he added, belatedly. "Brain's still not, like, working."
"You'll wanna talk to David Loki--he's the bossman of the place. I can't promise he'll go for the deal, but I think it oughta work out for you both." He grins. "And don't worry about your brain--mine never worked at all."
Bash always finds it easy to mock his own intelligence or lack thereof. He's a dyslexic high school dropout whose only paying job before Dupe was as a cab driver.
"Yeah, makes sense. You know what you're looking for in a contract yet? I mean, not everyone does, but it's good, I think, to have some idea of where your lines are, or how you're thinking about it."
Bash is vividly aware his own tactics for contracting aren't standard and probably shouldn't be.
"Um, I have some ideas," Quentin said, nodding. "I mean, like, at a certain point, like, I'm gonna stop caring and I'm just gonna take whoever comes as long as they don't want something I'm actively against. But, um, I've heard about hands-off contracts and I don't want that," he said, shaking his head. He had his hands pressed together and tucked between his thighs, putting a little pressure on them, a self-comforting sort of gesture. "I want to be, like, at least friends with benefits, I guess, even if...I mean, yeah. Um, obviously I have to be allowed to work and spend money. Like, as many freedoms as is legal to have in a contract, I would probably want even if it's not stuff I think I'll even do. I guess partly because like, if a dom really doesn't want me to be allowed to like, I don't know, take a taxi or something, then like, why? It's a red flag, you know?"
"Yeah, I'm with you there. In my own contracts, I've tried to be as free as possible. But my second partner--we ended up putting a couple rules in writing in the contract, things to make sure he takes care of himself. Must eat at least two meals a day, must get sleep, stuff like that. Because if it's on paper, he'll take them more seriously."
It's clear from the look on his face that he's pretty damned fond of the partner in question. At least friends with benefits, probably much more.
"I don't like the idea of hands-off contracts, myself, in part because I want to know if something's going wrong with my partner, if he needs me. But I'm kind a sentimental fuck."
Quentin nodded, privately thinking he could see why a contract partner would want to put that in a contract for him, and also knowing that he would resist it. It was his god-given right to neglect his self-care if he wanted to.
"Yeah," he said, looking down and taking another piece of his muffin. "I guess I just don't really have any confidence in being able to find a partner who...wants what I want."
Being called sweetheart made him blush, and he took a big bite of the muffin -- the bottom part was almost gone -- to give himself time to think a little bit, put his words in the right order. Rude to talk with your mouth full and all.
"I mean, that's a really broad question, though," Quentin said. "Like what kind of wants are we talking about here? Life wants? I'm holding out hope I won't be here long enough to have to make a life. Sex wants? Like, yeah, I can talk about that but I'm not just gonna be like 'well I like sucking dick,'" he said, talking in a falsetto and waving his hands around to indicate...something, presumably, "to someone who wasn't actually asking that."
"You'd be surprised how many people have expressed just that to me, pretty explicitly. Usually right before they demonstrate, but not always. But like, if you want dick-sucking to be something you do with your Dominant, letting prospects know that at some point seems like it oughta be important."
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Perhaps even more surprising, the barista in question is a Dominant. A lanky man only a few inches taller than Quentin, he has his hair back in a tidy braid (as is appropriate while working around food), and is dressed in black clothes under his apron, with a botanical tattoo of some sort visible on his right arm under the rolled-up sleeve of his button-down shirt.
As he sees Quentin, he lifts his cup in a casual salute. "How's it hangin'?"
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"Um, how about you?" Quentin's hair was down, brushing the shoulders of his secondhand hoodie-and-jacket combo, the line down his throat easily visible at a glance. His dumb little brain was sluggishly trying to figure out if he could somehow scam free coffee out of this guy while having, if one pardons the nerdiness, a charisma score of about five.
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"You fresh outta orientation? Or have I just managed to miss you so far?"
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"I'm Bash, by the way. Work here, in case that wasn't obvious, but I also do reception work at an office building in the Up. Don't tell my boss, but I like this better."
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"So, um, why not quit that and do this full time?" he asked, taking another sip.
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He glanced up at it again, then at Bash. "Besides, kinda hard to swallow working when I can't even use my money until I have a contract."
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That's where he was leading with all of those points together.
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"Sorry," he added, belatedly. "Brain's still not, like, working."
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Bash always finds it easy to mock his own intelligence or lack thereof. He's a dyslexic high school dropout whose only paying job before Dupe was as a cab driver.
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Bash is vividly aware his own tactics for contracting aren't standard and probably shouldn't be.
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It's clear from the look on his face that he's pretty damned fond of the partner in question. At least friends with benefits, probably much more.
"I don't like the idea of hands-off contracts, myself, in part because I want to know if something's going wrong with my partner, if he needs me. But I'm kind a sentimental fuck."
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"Yeah," he said, looking down and taking another piece of his muffin. "I guess I just don't really have any confidence in being able to find a partner who...wants what I want."
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"I want...a lot of things," he said, fidgeting with the edge of the muffin wrapper. "Too many of which depend on people wanting to give them to me."
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"I mean, that's a really broad question, though," Quentin said. "Like what kind of wants are we talking about here? Life wants? I'm holding out hope I won't be here long enough to have to make a life. Sex wants? Like, yeah, I can talk about that but I'm not just gonna be like 'well I like sucking dick,'" he said, talking in a falsetto and waving his hands around to indicate...something, presumably, "to someone who wasn't actually asking that."
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"You'd be surprised how many people have expressed just that to me, pretty explicitly. Usually right before they demonstrate, but not always. But like, if you want dick-sucking to be something you do with your Dominant, letting prospects know that at some point seems like it oughta be important."
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