bakerstreet | The Slave Auction Meme

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The Slave Auction Meme

* Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any.
* Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
* Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

Warning: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

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[It all makes sense. Frank did the digging himself, didn't get as much intel out of some nobody way down the totem pole as he wanted, but got just enough to follow some threads, do his own work, track down someone who would intimately know layouts and timetables for his target, put in the work to acquire that tool, and now--

And now here they are.

When Frank asks in return, there's a moment of self-doubt that creeps up Clint's throat. Why's it matter? Why wouldn't it matter? But. Should it matter? Is it strange that it matters? Maybe it shouldn't matter. Maybe he needs to stop thinking so loudly and keep his questions on the inside.

But. He lets that slide through him and past him. If he says nothing, that's suspect. If he says a blatant lie, Frank's going to call him out in an instant.]

I know you didn't do it for me, sir. You were being practical. You needed intel. Still, lotta effort to go through for a collar. [He shrugs his shoulders, though tucks his head down.] You spooked me in the van when you used my family name and asked after me some. Most use my first name or just give me some nickname. [Well, Frank's done the latter, certainly.] And I've changed a lotta hands. Not all of them nice. Didn't know what all you knew, what you wanted me for, if you were picking me up for someone else. I know most of that's not the case anymore. Guess I was just...curious, sir. Was wondering ever since that night.

( Here they are. Probably the best call he's made in a hot minute, all things considered. If all he wanted from Clint was an address, realistically he could've snagged the guy for a conversation without a full-blown purchase — but the skill set listed on that order caught his eye. The idea of a little backup seemed more appealing than he necessarily wants to admit. It's hard to call it an impulse purchase since it was planned, but in some ways, for Frank, it kind of had been. He had a feeling, so he followed it.

But he gets it. He'd be curious, too. It's Clint's life, after all. It's his agency on a leash. Being curious about where somebody found that leash is pretty natural.

This does crack the door to his curiosity about the guy open a little wider, though, which prompts him to ask-- )

You don't like the family name thing?

( An owner gauging Clint's preference on what he wants to be called is probably an uncommon sensation, but it's not like Frank's got strong opinions on the matter. Not really a big ask to adapt. )

I... [Being asked personal preference is uncommon. Not unheard of. But definitely not common. Especially for something as simple yet easily overlooked as what do you like to be called. An odd feeling to sort through, given he's never been asked to express a feeling on it in a long time.] ...don't dislike it, sir. It's kinda formal, it's distant, it's military; it's very you. You can call me whatever you like, so long as I know you're talking to me.

[It could be hey shithead for all it really matters. Though. He thinks, briefly, about Frank opening up about his family. Cracking that door open into a rich past and an inner life that isn't all grief. Clint could keep quiet, but. Maybe he can give back some of the same, even if it's not much.]

Never really understood bothering keeping a full name for collars. 's almost like you're getting adopted into a new family each time, y'know? What does it matter where I come from if I'm pretty much less than a person? But I don't forget, sir. Where I came from. And if the only thing I've got from my mom is her name, then...I'm grateful to have it.

( He's a little surprised there's no cheek in the answer he gets. None of that dry, vaguely smug sort of sass that crops up from time to time. Whether it's the name thing that's hitting him or the being asked is up in the air at first, until he gets back that relative neutral. Makes it the latter, then. Interesting. Something to keep in mind.

He's not expecting the greater insight that follows. He's quiet through it, a soft knit in his brow, something visibly affected in his features. His eyes fall away from Clint, settle on the dog snoring upside-down on the mattress in the distance.

the only thing I've got from my mom is her name...

After a few contemplative, silent seconds his low voice rumbles through, faintly hoarse as it often is when he's speaking quietly. )

If I had to guess... it's because they gotta be able to tell you apart, but when you start taking away names and assigning numbers... that's when people have to face something about what they're doing, about what it makes them, that they really don't wanna see.

( They, he says. They, like he isn't part of the problem now. )

Also probably the possibility of freedom, you gotta still have something. [It's uncommon. It's involved. There are special circumstances, and there are (very unpopular) advocacy groups that can help, but it's also bound up in so much red tape that the few who might think about it (and who wants to give up perfectly good help that they paid for?) find it difficult at best. But it happens.]

Anyway. [With a little clearing of his throat.] Thanks for letting me know, sir.

( Yeah, see, that's the problem is that Frank doesn't believe in the system anymore. It's loaded, it's corrupt, it's full of assholes looking out for their own self-interest. Those one-off pardons and citizenship grants are all for show, they're a smokescreen or, like Clint said, they're the planting of false hope so that people strive for something. Work harder, be better, be the perfect server and maybe one day you'll get rewarded. Except the better you serve, the less anyone's gonna wanna give you up. Aladdin's third wish never actually goes to the genie.

After Kandahar...

After Kandahar, he knows better than to believe in his government. )

Yeah, you got it, Barton.

( Comes the absent, dismissive-sounding murmur as he rises to his feet, pacing over to one of the many, many still-packed totes they've got piled up around the place. He's gonna work on unpacking a few. Get their gear ready for tomorrow; they shouldn't need much, it's a recon mission, but he never goes anywhere unarmed if he can help it.

Which is gonna be a problem on Friday, because he sure as shit can't help it then. They're not gonna let him in strapped. Or, at least, not the kind of strapped he's actually interested in. )

[It might be distant and dismissive, Frank already mentally moved on, but it still gets a little tug of a smile at Clint's mouth for a moment. Maybe he's worked something out, from 'don't mind it' to 'makes him feel more like a person', just a smidge.

So he stops being a Roomba, rocking to his feet, so that he can help unpack. They have plenty of space to have anything they need out, and space to not get in each other's way. There's space to hunker down and clean weapons, yes, even the ones he knows were cleaned before, everything ought to be cleaned--it's focusing, and relaxing.

The dog needs let out at some point, and Clint opts to take him for a good long walk to get to know the area immediately around them better. And it's funny, really, the way he starts to notice more how people are. The things that have faded into the background as just a part of life. New Yorkers tend to ignore the hell out of each other as it is, their way of being polite, but it's amazing how invisible he becomes when his collar shows. There are others he sees around on the streets on occasion, once he gets a little further from the warehouses, but not a lot--running errands, mostly, and the barely-there interaction they get from the shopkeeps. A gaggle of teens that part like the red sea around him without even thinking about it, which is otherwise unheard of for gaggles of asshole teens. He sits with a clearly homeless man for a few minutes, letting him pet Kuba, apologizing for not having anything on him and getting waved off. They're both invisible. So they're both not-people. It at least brings a smile to someone's face just for being recognized and getting a friendly pup around.

He doesn't lose his way getting back. Always had a keen sense of direction, good eyes to follow signs. Makes for a well exercised dog that mostly wants to lap up water and then go flop over and snore. And makes for a quiet Roomba, content to just Do.]

( In the absence of something to fight, or to punch, Frank works out. In a place like this, what it amounts to is more or less two o-rings on ratchet straps hanging from a high beam, and a number of pull-ups that's downright absurd. He loses himself in it for minutes on minutes on minutes — well past when Climt comes back with the dog. The constant rhythmic, mechanical motion of it, the strain it puts on his body, it quiets his mind.

By the time he finally quits he's aching and sore, the sun is setting, and he's hungry. The evening's peaceful; it's a shower, a trip to pick up a shitload of take-away Chinese food for the both of them, and it's stopping to pick up a shitty little inflatable one-man blow-up mattress pad since they're not exactly sporting a wealth of furniture right now. No sense getting anything more permanent; they're gonna be moving soon enough once they get intel from Mills.

He's got a sleeping bag, canvas, military-issued. It gets rolled out over top of his blow-up bullshit camping gear thing, and when he sprawls out over it for the night, it's with Don Quixote in hand, illuminated by one of those industrial construction lights that amount to little more than a bulb and a hanging hook. Kuba trots over to investigate this new revelation that might mean access to an additional sleeping partner; Frank gives him a scratch behind the ears and then murmurs a soft go on, now.. More room over there, and he's not an ideal cuddle option these days for anybody. )

[Clint's learning things, every day. Frank works out to let his mind drift away when he has nothing else pressing to do. That's familiar. Routine to a point of seeming like it's actually kind of harmful, but it doesn't seem to bother Frank at all. (Does anything, after his military stint?) He's used to getting comfy with next to nothing. He's a reader, surprisingly. Classics.

And since Frank has the inflatable, it means the mattress is Clint's, and that feels...weird. Like, he can't complain, obviously. But also, it's just weird. Kuba can have it, they can share like they did in the apartment, even, but surely Frank should have the better? Is it a small way of trying to make up for the collar thing? Here, you deserve better, feel like a person? Or is it just Frank and he's thinking too hard about it?

He sits on the edge of the bed, such as it is, arms loosely around the dog.] You're sure you're comfy that way, sir? [If his voice seems small, clearly it's just because of how it gets swallowed by the space and not him subconsciously trying to be quiet and out of the way.]

( Keep on wondering, Barton. Maybe one day you'll find out the answer to how Frank Castle works — and then you'll be one of a very select few still alive who know. In the meantime, Frank doesn't even take his eyes off the pages of his book at the question. )

Yeeeup. Bed's too soft.

( Over here a few yards away from the mattress, hopefully his nightly restless movements will be unobtrusive, quiet, swallowed by the darkness and the concrete and the humming of a fan circulating the air. Guess they'll see. He didn't exactly factor this part into his decision when he picked the place — he's used to accommodating just one.

He'll read until Clint goes still and quiet. Until Kuba starts snoring. Until it seems like both of them are out; only then will he switch off his light and give himself permission to rest. )

[...Okay. That's...fair, he guesses. If that's the personal preference, then that's the personal preference. Just hard to know if that is, in fact, the actual preference or not, or if he's just being weird. Frank's probably trying to navigate all this, too. Clearly has been predominantly alone ever since the massacre. One man army and all. And now he's got a collar he never wanted and a dog he didn't ask for to share space with.

There won't be any argument, though. Just a cozy-enough night with a dog curled up with him.

He has no idea what time it is when there's some kind of noise, just enough to filter through sleep, but it's the same time that Kuba sits up and barks, once. It's got Clint startled without having enough time to parse what's going on, just hauls himself to sitting up with a hand around Kuba's collar and a little shhh on his lips. It's dark as hell, and mostly what he hears is the fan blowing and his heart momentarily in his ears.]

...Frank?

[Later he might feel weird about actually calling him by name for once, but he hisses it into the darkness without any further thought.]

( It's a Sunday morning, and sunshine's streaming in when Maria wakes him up with a touch to his shoulder, with lips to his arm, his lips, his nose, his forehead. A breath of a laugh; what time is it? And then the kids are running into the room. Lisa launches herself onto the bed, flopping lazily like a fish while Frank Junior clambers on with his knees, mouth running a mile a minute about how the kid next door got a PlayStation Something Or Another and dad can we get one and let's see how those grades are looking and aw, come on, that's not fair and then Lisa's bragging over her brother about how she's got an A in science and Maria's gonna make pancakes for breakfast and then a man walks through the bedroom door and puts a bullet through her head spraying him in a fine mist of her blood and her fucking skull, and then his son's — but it's a bark instead of a gunshot — and then not his baby girl, not his baby girl please- )

Don't!

( It's strangled, hoarse, a wobbly and desperate single syllable that shreds its way out of his throat and quickly clips itself off, trimmed, stopped, as the reality of darkness sets in for the hundredth time. The hundredth time. More than that. More than. Every god damn night, every single god damn night, without fail — and he's panting, soaked through with sweat, struggling to catch his breath.

And not alone.

His chest is still heaving when he finally tears his eyes over to peer through the dark at Clint, a barely-visible shadow in the streetlight-bounced darkness.

Fuck. He drags his hand over his face, sweat-soaked and probably something else, too.
They're doing two bedrooms next time, he won't make this mistake again.

It takes a second to unstick his throat, and what tumbles out sounds hoarse, bleary, barely even real words, half-comprised of whisper. )

It's al- it's alright, just go back to sleep.

[That could be an order, and it's not his business, and he should go back to sleep, and he's not out to embarrass Frank for having some kind of night terror. But he also wants to make sure everything's actually alright. Clint hangs between worlds in a way that's unfamiliar to be allowed. Rubs a hand up and down the dog's side a few times.

Might be safer. If it's not him.] Kuba's gonna come over and check on you, okay sir?

[He doesn't wait for any real answer, mostly because even if he lets go just to roll over and go back to sleep, the dog's got a mind of his own anyway. His hand leaves the collar, and Kuba comes trotting over to do some light whining and sniffing and licking. Clint stays where he's at, sat up and waiting and eyes adjusting.]

Fine. ( It's absent, distracted, and again- ) Fine.

( He's not crazy. He's not about to snap. He's not unhinged. He's not gonna go off the rails and snap the dog's neck just because he had a dream, it's not like that, and maybe if Clint figures that out he'll let the whole thing rest and just go back to sleep. Leave it alone.

The dog pads over, and he gives the world's most lackluster pats, a few hollow thumps on the side while Kuba sniffs his bed and his face and his sweat-soaked shirt. )

Alright, mutt, easy.

( He concedes the space in his sleeping bag where his shoulders had been; allows the dog to take a seat there in a way he hadn't earlier, because it's not like he's gonna need it now. He just needs- a minute. Just a minute to drag his knees up and plant his elbows on them, just a minute to bury his face in his hands, to drag them over his hair, to duck his head toward the ground and just-

Try to pretend like the spray of her blood hadn't felt real, that the sweat on his face isn't made out of it, that he wasn't really the one who pulled the trigger even though it sometimes feels like he was. Like it was his fault, like he did this, like he got them killed and not a handful of random guns in Central Park.

Just breathe. Just... breathe. )

[Things are going to be alright, Clint knows. Not the first bad dream, won't be the last. He ought to just leave it.

He's always been bad at that. So. He's quiet, careful, as he creeps out of bed, pads over to a pack of water bottles picked up. The plastic might rustle some, and everything sounds loud in the middle of the night, but he makes a point of depositing a fresh, unopened bottle by Frank's side before going back to his bed. Keeping distance, not crowding. Just helping however he can think to help.]

( It's the quiet he appreciates. There's no you wanna talk about it, because he doesn't. There's nothing to talk about. This isn't new, this is the product of every single sleepless night — it's just that most of the time he wakes up silently, or with a gasp. Soft. Easy to get lost in the sound of a whirring fan. Tonight...

Maybe it's the change in environment. Maybe it's because he spent the day doing nothing, nothing, when he should be pushing harder, doing more, figuring shit out, making it right.

The bottle touches down nearby. His eyes flicker to it briefly, and then drop again. Maybe it looks like shame. Maybe everything in his posture looks like an open goddamn wound, like his chest's been ripped to ribbons and his heart's spilling out all over the floor, and maybe it is. Maybe it is.

But who shoots a kid? Who shoots a kid? Who executes a child, a little girl, a little boy, who does that? Not even him, not even he would, and he's fundamentally broken, he's a wrecking ball, a sledgehammer disguised as a man. He's brute force and violence and the war that never ends, and even he wouldn't do that.

And they're gone. They're still gone — they're gone again.

He takes the water. Cracks it open, swallows some down, and tells himself he feels better. Even goes as far as to rasp out: )

Thanks.

( But he's up now, and that means padding silently across the living area, down to the poured concrete floor where a single table sits in the middle of an arsenal, and cleaning something that doesn't need to be cleaned. )

[It's small things. And it's a start. It's not nothing.

What he expects is for Frank to do some breathing exercises and then go back to sleep. When he gets up and goes to distract himself, do things that don't need doing--things Clint won't point out don't need doing because he knows Frank damn well knows it already--he frowns to himself and calls Kuba over. He's starting to get a clearer picture. Clint thought he got up early enough, but Frank had already had coffee on and breakfast going and looked up and about. Had he done this, be awake at fuck knows and just stayed awake?

And manages to still be conscious, much less alert about it to do what needs doing, the next day?

More power to him. It's not Clint's place to suggest he go back to sleep, even if he wants to. He can feel the urge trying to make its way up his throat, and he swallows it down. Man's still alive and kicking, so he must be doing something right, and doesn't need a collar, what, doting on him like a mother hen or something.

The temptation to silently offer up his own company is likewise squashed. Let the man settle his own thoughts. They've only known each other for. Jesus. Two days. Doesn't need a damn near stranger crowding him. Back to sleep, then. If with a little more worry between his brows for it.]

( The next day's similar to the last. Frank's up when Clint wakes up; he's already got breakfast going in the small kitchenette, with a pan on a hotplate because this little joint doesn't have a proper stove, just a microwave and a sink. It's omelettes this time, and an unreasonable amount of coffee again — but that's not actually what keeps Frank going through chronic sleep deprivation. That one he owes to the bullet that tore its way through his brain, and the state it left him in. The damage it did.

They prep. He pulls out an old laptop, and they get a street view of the area near the club. Not much by way of options, but about half a block away there's an office building with a high enough roof to work for them. They're gonna have to knock the bastard out to get him there quietly, but that's nothing he can't handle. They go that night to prep it with a few essentials, make it ready, and then it's more work out-dinner-shower-read-sleep. This time, when he wakes up, it's with only a sucked-down inhale of breath. Better. Doable.

Three days of companionship under their belt and the start of the fourth hits on Friday. Club day. At some point in the afternoon before everything, he drags a chair out to sit down across from Clint. )

Tell me anything you think you need to tell me to keep me from blowing our cover.

[Clint wouldn't be upset if this was routine. It can't be, it won't be, they'll keep moving as the targets keep moving, keep one step ahead of any way to trace them. But he can see a cozy appeal to living on not a lot. He even gets his own exercise in, just the basics, pushups, situps, and walking the dog around feels like it doesn't count, but it's legs and cardio in its own way. They eat, they work, they plan. Knocking someone out and dragging them out of the club is going to get eyes on them, but if they can swing it as one of those 'oh yeah my buddy had too much to drink' type of deals for anyone they run into, that'll be easier. Rooftop's not got much going for it, but somewhere to dump the guy and some essentials, something to tie him up with, and hopefully won't get too loud... Office will be empty on a Friday night. Traffic's always loud as hell. People are loud as hell. And maybe they'll be high enough that the wind will carry any yelling off.

Then more almost-routine, and then, final prep. He looks Frank up and down, assessing, making a stab at what the guy might know about sex clubs. Married, devoted family man, deployed overseas a lot? Okay. Start from the ground up, maybe.]

If it's a place worth its salt and not just some hole in the wall, [and it's not just a hole in the wall, it's clearly a place that has some reputation and strives to keep its people safe like a club should] then there's gonna be plenty of rules to follow. None of it should get in your way, but basically you don't touch anyone without asking or being told it's okay first, and don't be a fucking creep, sir. There might be a waiver to sign.

[So far, so good. Neither of those should be a problem.] Private rooms will have indicators as to whether they're occupied or...occupied with an invitation for people to join. So kicking in doors is a sure way to get thrown out, but some will be more open to peeking and more. Gonna probably be some live shows and demonstrations, and you need to just be cool about it. You maybe wanna look like you're there for a good time and not... [He swipes a hand over his own face to indicate.] Like you're out to dangle a man off a building for information. [Resting bitch face is an issue, he knows, Clint's got it himself.

He gives it some thought. And then gets up and fetches Kuba's leash. The dog perks up, wiggling.] Sorry, buddy, not for you this time. [It's for him, in fact. Clips it to his collar. He doesn't offer the other end to Frank, yet, but he will when they're ready to go.]

It's going to look weird if I'm just sort of idly following you around. You're bringing a collar, or someone who's into the play of it, to a club. Means something about it's getting you hot. You can probably get away with predominantly ignoring me, sir, but if you ignore me completely, that doesn't look good. Give me some orders, tug me around. People are gonna ask you if they can touch me. I'll leave that up to you. [He says it matter-of-factly, doesn't seem to have any mind about it. Though he pulls a small face when he adds:] Unless I've lost my sex appeal with age. God, won't that be a blow to my ego. [Right. Because that's the thing to worry about. He's not that damn old, either. At least the worst of the bruising has lightened up. It looks a lot less like Frank's been tossing his collar around.]

More likely than not there won't be a dress code, so wear whatever you like that's comfy, but ditch the vest. Don't go in looking like you're going to war. And don't judge anyone.

( -don't be a fucking creep, sir — he pulls a face immediately, like are you kidding me, come on. He strike you as a creep? Crazy psycho murderer, maybe, but pervert? Hell no. You need to just be cool about it. Is he a creep or is he Amish? Pick a lane. Like you're out to dangle a man off a building for information. Yeah, okay, that one's fair. That's fair.

And then Clint goes and clips that leash to his collar, and suddenly Frank does admittedly feel a little Amish. But he can do this. He can read people, he can fake it. He can mirror back what he's given, he can be somebody else to make this work — whether Clint's confident in that or not.

Don't judge anyone — alright, that finally trips him over into blurting out a little protest in his own defense. )

Jesus Christ, Roomba, give me any credit at all, why don't you? What do you think I am, a Catholic Republican?

( So, yeah, granted, okay, he used be Catholic, but that was a long time ago and it was more a background kinda deal. It's different.

Whatever. He'll make it work, but first-

First, there's something that he needs to establish. He drags a hand acros the scruff of his face, the five o'clock shadow already growing back in, and levels Clint with a more serious look. )

Whatever happens in there... it's not gonna happen out here. No matter how real it seems.

( They've only got a few days under their belt. Clint's been handed off to owners who've beaten the ever-loving shit out of him. Could be he's waiting for Frank to flip and do the same, so he just wants it on record that however he's gotta act, it's not the indication of a shift in things. It's not real, and it's not gonna follow them back out. )

[So, okay, the question's rhetorical, but also: unimpressed look is unimpressed. Sure, fine, maybe Frank looks a little more like he could be Jewish rather than Catholic, but white military guy with a wife and two kids and probably the closest thing to a white picket fence kinda life who went a little bugfuck and now does this for a living? Yeah maybe he could be Catholic Republican. Probably donates money to the NRA for all he knows. God knows he's got enough guns about it.] 'm working with the parameters you gave me, sir. [A smidge talking back. Don't judge feels like a perfectly valid thing to say to a guy who's not about collars and thought this club was a hipster joint, said with that distinct air of disdain.

He doesn't doubt Frank can pull off what he needs to. It's just going to be a different situation than is apparently used to. It's fine. It'll all be fine.

What catches his fuller attention is the sternness and seriousness with which Frank insists that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, that nothing that goes on is something that changes how they are after the job's done. And he has no reason to doubt the words. Things can always change, but Clint's been an unexpected hanger-on about this mission, so, if things change, it's unlikely to be in the direction of Frank getting a little too cozy with the idea of a slave at his beck and call.

He offers up the leash.]

Understood, sir. ...Would you like me to call you anything else while we're there?

( Look, if you're gonna be all logical and correct at him like that... shut up with your whole face. He absolutely doesn't donate his stolen drug money to the NRA, so. You know. There's at least one thing wrong with all the rest of that stuff that's mostly right. )

Yeah, I'm thinkin' something like Hot Master Yoda, how's that roll off the tongue?

( Because he's gone and had all his resting bitch buttons pushed and he needs to fire off a little something sassy back — but before Clint can go cracking wise and actually using it: )

Sir's fine. Just keep it simple.

( And this is the story all about how Frank and Clint wind up at a BDSM sex club on a Friday night, the latter in a permanent collar and leash, the former dressed in something that doesn't actually look half bad for the concept of a guy that's supposed to be a dom. It's a fitted black under-armor style shirt, it's equally black utility pants. Clint's initially given free rein of the variety of clothes Frank has to share, but after a few options he's officially ordered to lose the shirt in favor of a better idea. He strips the holsters off his back harness so only the harness part exists, snug and black and form-fitting, looping over his shoulders and between his shoulder blades, buckling somewhere around the sternum. If that doesn't read right, he doesn't know what in the hell else possibly could.

And then they're there, across the street from an unbelievably innocuous red door attached to what Frank likely would have never in a million years pegged as any kind of club given how classy the brickwork exterior of the place is. )

You ready for this?

[It's perfect. Bright red door, classy bricks, it's nice shit for Queens, and the clientele are likely the kind to like it that way.

Clint's honestly a little surprised the way Frank helped suggest the harness, sans conspicuous gun holsters, though the shirtlessness was going to be one of the suggestions. He feels like the pants could be tighter, but he's sharing with Frank right now, so they have to work with what they've got on hand. They don't look half bad. Frank's basic, but it's a good classic basic. No need to be fancy or overcomplicated. They don't have to stand out. They just have to be part of the sexy crowd.

And maybe he can start seeing what wifey saw in Frank, at least in terms of looks. Clint rolls his shoulders, effortlessly shifts his entire posture to be something that somehow comes off as slinky in spite of being a muscled rectangle of a man. Looser, more languid, a tilt to his hip, eyes half lidded and an easy, cocky smile on his lips. Never loses sight of the job at hand, mental picture of their target well in mind.]

Yessir.

[They're in good company, to be fair. At least one duo has come out the door, one shrugging on a jacket but with the flash of some bright neon mesh under and some very low-slung jeans, the other in heels that make Clint's ankles feel damn near to breaking just looking at them. So if they're in the wrong place, somehow, it's at least not that far off thematically. Clint stays close to Frank but always lets his owner lead. And that's so familiar that it's easy to simply accept.]

( The moment they slip through that door, something in Frank shifts. He doesn't lead, not in the traditional puppy on a string way. No, the leash stays loose and slack around his wrist, because his right hand glides up to the back of Clint's neck, thumb just beneath the collar, guiding him — steering him, more like, with a handhold gentle enough not to hurt, but firm enough to be clear. Clint's practically being presented up front like a show-dog with a very possessive owner.

It's intentional, the same way that white skull on his vest is an intentional choice. He chooses where he wants people to direct their attention, and in this case, it's to the shirtless collar who knows more about this life and this act than Frank does. Here, look, look at him, glance behind the curtain if you want but focus on this.

The entrance is more of a receiving lobby, with a wide oak podium and a classy-looking woman in a choker mimicking a collar. She's the eye candy. The two bouncers slouching by the archway just beyond are the muscle, and the pair of them are eyed warily the moment they're in proximity to her.

"May I see some identification please, sir?" She asks-but-isn't-really-asking, and Frank drops his hand away from Clint's neck to smoothly pull an expensive-looking leather wallet from his back pocket. The ID he offers out is, of course, very fake, but it passes. And Clint's collar is, of course, very real so he has no identity worth noting.

She takes it; compares faces. Scribbles down something on her logbook, and then passes it back with a soft, "Thank you, Mr. Marino. I see this is your first time in our establishment. We do charge a two hundred dollar cover, with an additional forty for accompanying collars."

They're checking to make sure Frank can even afford to be here in the first place; he takes out three hundred dollar bills, holds them out; makes her take them from him with dainty fingers and then murmurs; )

How much for a room rental?

( Her smile becomes wider, slightly more sincere, more genuine, when she answers, "It's an additional two hundred dollars, but we do offer a discount if you're willing to leave the room open to additional participants."

He fishes out two bills and tosses them gently down onto the stack as well. )

What's mine is mine.

( "Of course, sir. You'll find all of the amenities are thoroughly cleaned between uses. Your key card," she slides a plastic hotel-style card across the desk toward him. "A member of our staff will advise you when your room is ready. In the meantime, we invite you to enjoy the bar and the complimentary show."

He flashes her a smile; settles his hand back on Clint's neck with a visible back-and-forth sweep of the thumb, and they glide between the bouncers into the most debauched shit he's likely to see for a long time. )

[Maybe he misjudged Frank. Thought he could ease his way through this with some luck and some smiles, but he takes to it even easier than that. Like he's done this before. And it's an upscale place. The website they'd dug up had indicated as much, but a lot of places say a lot of things to drum up business. No, this is some Grade A swank of a place that makes mad money and earns it. Thank god there's no dress code. Given an expectation of lack of clothes, or on the flipside, some very specific and kinky clothes.

The casually thrown cash is noted. He's seen Frank with money, always cash. Cards can get traced; cash from dead mobsters is only going to a good cause now. Still, for the way he's living, he could do so much better for himself.

Clint stays quiet. Be visible, not necessarily loud.

It's louder in the club proper. Lights are lower, some with a reddish tint to them for the sake of theme and some normal. There's music pulsing, throbbing, not loud enough to inhibit all-important communication, but certainly an undercurrent of the atmosphere, a dull physical sensation. There's talking. And there's more than talking.

There's a lot that goes on behind closed doors. For privacy or the next best thing to it, sure, but also there's a lot more equipment stored for all kinds of play. But there's certainly play going on out here on the floor. There's a bar along a far wall, booths like it's a regular old club. Spaces beside the booths and the barstools with comfy little pillows some people are taking full advantage of, kneeling by their masters. Some are collars, or play-acting the part, and some are merely in their place without anything around their necks.

They have a good view of the low-rise stage where there seems to be some show at the moment involving a dominatrix in extremely shiny vinyl taking a flogger to a fella very into puppy play. Someone's been a bad dog. Further along is what's clearly more a debauched play area than the social chatty sit around with drinks area. Furniture of all kinds at all angles, racks and crosses, people getting hit and strung up and teased and dominated, toys of various kinds being used, certainly sex, while others still are content to sit back and watch the fun. The moans and yelps drift but don't echo, don't fill the space or distract (for the most part). There are private rooms, clearly, but either they're further back of the building or they're on another floor where they aren't immediately visible.

It's a little warm. Though whether that's deliberate (for the sake of all the bodies lacking adequate clothes) or circumstantial (bodies very much generating heat) is unclear. It's not uncomfortable. And in spite of the job at hand, Frank's steadying hand and sweep of his thumb is a welcome, comfortable presence.

No faces pop out as their guy from the entryway here, but it was never going to be that easy.]

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