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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You should see me in the training room, sir. [Not a gym, nothing to dodge in a gym. Though Frank's seen Clint some mornings or mid afternoons depending on what they're up to, when there's downtime, doing his own exercise routines. They aren't doing pullups with a fucking cinderblock chained around his dick, but--

But Frank's not letting his initial question go without an answer. Apparently. Glances at Frank's hand not turning the keys. Glances at his face. Glances out the window.]

There wasn't anything that needed saying. [He thinks, for a moment, that he's going to just leave it at that. But. It's not enough, is it? It sounds like bullshit even to him. But it's hard to explain in words, and isn't something that can be communicated through the newly discovered language of touch. So. Switch tactics.] You wanted me to meet him?

( His answer, at first, is just a wry shake of the head. He allows his eyes to fall away from Clint, allows his hand to turn the keys in the ignition — conceding, for now, to let Clint get away with his silence on the matter. It still stands out to him, though, and now even moreso that he's so dodgy about the subject. They'll circle back to this later on, when he's got more to go off of.

For now, though- )

Yeah, Curt, he's the best damn combat medic you're likely to meet. Saved my life a few times over there.

( They ease onto the road, start making their way back to the warehouse. The music plays softly again, because apparently they're back on that level. )

Figured it might be good for you to know who he is, where to find him, just in case something happens.

( In case either of them get hurt a little too badly to patch up themselves. Not like Frank can go walking into a hospital, and to be honest, Curt would probably do a better, more diligent job treating Clint than some asshole prick at an ER would treat any standard collar with no insurance and no wealthy owner. )

You think something might happen. [Like. More than has already been happening? Or is this really a just in case? He's glad to at least pivot away from the idea of talking about himself to a room full of people who've had the freedom to get into shit for the sake of a supposed greater good.]

If something happens to you. Sir. Something you aren't gonna be able to walk away from. I can get myself to Canada, but is there anyone else you'd want me to get in touch with first?

[What a much nicer topic of conversation to turn this to.]

I think something could happen.

( Which isn't quite the same thing, but it's close enough. He's a paranoid man, and the more they dig into this Kandahar thing... seems like the more trouble they're inviting. Not to mention, some of the names on his list involve higher priority targets, ones who survived the shootout for a reason, be it ample personal protection or people willing to die for them. If he's gonna walk into the den of somebody with authority and slightly more common sense than the Track Suits had, something could absolutely happen.

That follow-up question earns a sideways glance, and then his eyes go back to the road. )

Yeah, I'll make sure you got Karen's number. Just her. That's all.

( Russo and Curt spent enough time in the military to know what silence probably means. Karen, on the other hand... Karen would wonder. She'd dig. She'd dig and dig and dig and let herself get obsessed with finding an answer just in case; finding a body at the other end of that search would be unnecessarily cruel. )

How'd you two meet? You and Miss Karen. [Who had told Clint that just Karen is fine, and he will probably do that to her face if he ever drops the ma'am-ing. But she can have the respectable title of Miss for now. (Mr. Fisk remains Mr. Fisk as a respectable title, but it's not respect in the same way.)

Really, he's just curious. Military friends makes sense. Civilian investigator seems a little less likely an ally to just bump into. And keep around. Especially given she was so fucking pissed at him and yet still fully willing to help.]

( He feels like he's being steered toward something. Like Clint is gently digging or prodding or guiding, but he can't quite determine which direction the arrow's pointed. It has him casting another fleeting, appraising look at the man in the passenger's seat, just for a moment, and then his eyes are back on the road. )

I shot up the hospital one of her clients was hiding out in.

( There's something distinctly humorous lurking under the surface there, in a bleak, dark-humor sort of way. )

She works with a couple lawyers, and they were defending this absolute shitbag I was planning on putting down.

( An important amendment: )

Nobody got hurt except him. But it, uh- it made her curious enough to start digging into my history. Made her go poking around my house. Must've felt sorry for me, because after I got caught, her and her two lawyer pals showed up at my hospital bed offering to take on my case. She brought me this- picture she found in my living room... see my memory was all fucked up, still. From the bullet. She helped me remember some things, helped me figure out everything wasn't like it seemed. That there was somethin' else going on. Bet she regrets getting involved now, it's been nothing but trouble for her from the jump.

[That's...a hell of a story. A really dumb and fucked up story. She stuck around because she felt all sorry about his sob story? She must see a hundred sob stories if she works with lawyers. Sure, Frank's is a rather unique situation. But...is that enough? He's unique, so she, what, wants to just follow his story around? What, is she gonna write a damn biography?]

You went after one of hers, even if he was a shitbag, and she combed through your house and helped you with memories, sir?

[Who does that? Who actually the hell does something like that? True crime podcasters. Which she doesn't seem like. Clint shakes his head a little in disbelief.]

What a pair, you two. [And here she thought they were a pair. Apparently she needs to look in a mirror.]

Your memory good now, or is it still...?

( There's a little more to it than all that, and judging by his expression there's a fleeting moment where he considers saying as much — only to twist his lips and shrug. But yeah, pretty much. The details get a little lost, but at the end of the day, that's basically how it went down. Plus or minus a few steps.

People tend to assume, for some reason, that Karen is completely good and well-adjusted and sane — while ignoring the fact that she gravitates toward dangerous men. There's a reason they match energies sometimes, even if Frank himself doesn't know that story yet. He knows she has a violent past. Knows she's familiar with self-defense at the other end of a gun, and that's why she carries one around with her. Anybody who couldn't pull the trigger probably wouldn't be able to stand his company for very long.

At that last question, he shoots Clint a wry look. )

For the most part. Who are you again?

( He's got jokes, too. Sometimes. )

You like someone who does the unexpected. [It's a musing out loud kind of comment.] Someone who isn't what you'd typically expect by looking at them. [He doesn't seem to hate Clint's guts by any stretch of the imagination, for instance. He's not exactly a regular person's expectation of a regular collar.]

You ever ask her why she bothers with you, sir?

( Now that's some insight he hadn't really anticipated, and it has his eyebrows raising just a little. Takes a second to puzzle on it, and- yeah, you know what? That's true. That's exactly true. One day he'll tell Clint the story of how he met Maria, and that theory'll be all but confirmed.

He hits his blinker; they turn onto the long, dim river-side streets that lead toward the abandoned warehouse graveyards that make up half this damn district, it feels like. )

I did, once.

( He says at length, with a nod. He considers leaving it at that, but the next obvious question is what'd she say, so he might as well just volunteer it. )

She looked at me — wearing a god damn fluorescent orange prison jumpsuit, handcuffed to a steel table, face beat all to shit — she looked at me, and she said... "All of them, they all think that you're a monster. But I know that you're not."

( A sentiment that obviously meant enough to him to stick word for word — even if he's not so sure he believes it himself entirely.

That had been back at the beginning, when he was still trying to sus out what her motive was. Why she'd bother, why she'd care. He hasn't asked her again since, but he's been tempted to. )

[Clint licks his lips, brow furrowing, trying to peel back the layers of that. Because he realizes that he...is not a great baseline to base anything off of. Frank's not a monster; he thought that was pretty clear from the start. Maybe someone violent and vengeful, yeah. Resourceful. Kinda person who scares other people. Doesn't make him a monster.

Maybe it was letting him have time with Kazi. Offered it up, didn't hurry him along or add any verbal color commentary. Let him have it. And then brought the dog. Maybe that was the solidifying moment. Maybe it was something before that.

Troubled. But not a monster.]

Means we've seen monsters before. Her and me. [Which makes him question just what kind of monsters she has seen.]

Yeah, maybe so.

( He agrees vaguely, sliding his palm along the steering wheel; the rough callouses of it make a soft shushing sound against leathery plastic, and for a while that's the only sound that breaks up the otherwise ambient car noise.

He knows Clint's seen monsters. Been under the thumb of them himself. All those bruises on his face when Frank first picked him up... not to mention the other people who came before.

He knows Karen sees monsters every day, doing what she does for a living — and chasing violence the way she does. Getting too involved the way she does. Making herself a target the way she does, too brave and too stubborn to be intimidated out of the truth.

Might be his taste in people is more consistent than he thought.

They roll up to their temporary-turned-longer-term home. The second he cuts the engine and opens the door, he can hear the loud, deep boof noises Kuba's making on the other side of the door, so low, so threatening he isn't surprised a few people actually thought that useless cuddle puddle made of fur and love might actually be threatening. He's not used to being left alone since the two of them took him along, and the second Clint's in the door, he's hopping up on hind legs trying to lick his face. It's sweet. Frank gets a slightly less enthusiastic greeting, but he's fine with that. )

[Dog slobber is fine. They've already exchanged gross mouth germs before. It's fine! Kuba gets his big dumb doggy face rubbed and his butt scritched and. Some of the goods Clint got were dog related. Can't live without poop bags, for one. Fresh bag of food. Some treats, for spoiling. And other things needed? Toys.

Like a tennis ball. He figured that'd be great for a larger, more cavernous space like this. He lets the dog say hi in his own ways, then gets his attention with BALL and gives it a toss, sitting himself on the floor to all but catch a rocket propelled pitbull and wrest it from him for another throw.

It doesn't mean he's stopped thinking about this whole little side trip. About talking, not talking. About monsters and not monsters. And the people who would put up with people who might seem like monsters.

The ball makes a satisfyingly rubbery bounce on the floor, and the sound of nails chasing after it isn't a bother. He doesn't look at Frank.]

You think we're ever going to that group?

[It's one of those layered questions. He means it as-is, but there's other questions floating right underneath the surface of it.]

( His lips twitch up, watching this exchange. What can he say, you'd have to be some kind of heartless prick not to find some kind of joy in watching a dog have the time of its absolute goddamn life chasing a tennis ball like that. If he wasn't a little bit of a dog person at heart, the dog wouldn't be here in the first place.

While Clint has a fetch or two, Frank begins the methodical process of setting up his pull-up rings and digging out the goddamn cinder block he, as Clint put it, chains to his dick. It leads to his answer sounding a little preoccupied. )

I don't know. Maybe.

( He'd like to believe so — not because he's jazzed up about sharing time with strangers, but rather for the subtler reason underneath. That it means one day it'll all be over. That it'll be done enough, and that they'll both be alive enough, for his promise to Curt to manifest.

What he does have to say on the matter is this: )

I keep my word. I guess we'll see.

( The answer basically boils down to yes, if. Frank's made up of old-fashioned habits and masculinity, but it isn't always toxic. He doesn't mind talking. Sharing. Admitting he feels shit. That's what adults do, they have feelings, they be real about those feelings, they own up to them. Of course, some of those feelings are screwed up — who wouldn't be screwed up returning to civilian status after a life in the Marines? Let alone what happened to him after, and... all this shit he's doing now. He's not an idiot. He knows he's gonna need some serious fucking support if he's gonna crawl out of this hole eventually, but why count his chickens before they hatch? )

[So that answers one of the underlying questions. Frank believes he could be done. Doesn't know what that'll look like, but it's a possibility he's keeping in his back pocket. That he might find an end. And then try to move on after.

Frank thinks there's a possibility of an after. That's good. That's calming. This might all be a suicide mission, but he doesn't have the intention of dying.]

You wanted me to meet him cuz you want me to go?

I told you why. In case something happens.

( He throws one strap over a beam. Works to get the second o-ring level with the first, lined up just right. Decent enough job from just eyeballing it; he's done it enough here by now it's starting to become familiar. Automatic, mechanical. He never really intended them to stay here for so long, this was supposed to be a stopgap place — but then, he never intended for anyone to shoot up the DA disguised as him, either. But here they are.

...and yeah, maybe he had more than one motive. )

But it wouldn't hurt to let you talk to somebody that can do a better job than I can.

( Better job at what, exactly? Empathizing, helping Clint unpack his history, the shit with his mom, the reason why someone else's house set him off so much, his problems with personhood. Curt might not be as good as a dedicated therapist, but they work with what they can get. Better than nothing, and better than Frank.

He peels his shirt over his head. )

You could've given me a name. A place. Description. You wanted me to meet him. [He bounced the tennis ball a few times, floor hand floor hand floor hand, before giving it another chuck.] You wanted him to meet me, sir. [Both ways. Curt giving him an assessing eye. Telling him he's free to talk.

Better job at what, it's on the tip of his tongue. But he sees the way Frank's about to do his wild exercise routine. Won't be much talking after that. And maybe he shouldn't do so much talking.

Which is kind of the opposite of what Frank's been saying. But. He's trying to understand the idea of replacing words with touch. How does he communicate the accusation you want me to talk, just not to you but in a touch? Because that also might not be true. Frank's good at talking, when he gets in the mood for it. Likes seeing bits of Clint, the real Clint, his personality. But also thinks Clint talks too much sometimes.

He mulls that contradiction over, fighting for the ball with a dog that sometimes gets stuck in no take only throw mode.]

There are other ways to relax, you know.

( Believe it or not, those off-hand comments about Clint talking too much? Mostly bullshit. He's from Queens, he grew up an asshole, and then he joined the military. Giving people shit is one of the only ways he knows how to build camaraderie with them. He learned how to do it with charisma and in mostly-good humor as he got older, but he never learned how to apply it to somebody wearing a collar. The rules are a little different, the context is different, it doesn't always occur to him the way some things hit differently.

Yeah, he likes it when Clint talks. He's just not entirely sure he knows how to navigate some of these moments they've been having in ways that won't make things worse. The van, the house. They've had two in as many weeks, and he's not exactly Mister Sensitivity Training.

There's also probably something inherently fucked up about expecting a collar to talk about collar problems with the asshole that bought him, but he doesn't have it in him to unpack all that in any sensible way, either.

So.
Curt.

He loops the chain through the block. Winds the whole thing around his waist, and clicks it all into place. )

Yeah, like what?

( Half disinterested, half amused — like he's probably not gonna go for whatever Clint pitches, but also this oughtta be good. )

[Just one more think they're working on. Frank's got a good sense of humor. But he's also the kinda guy that can say something funny with a straight face. Hard to tell, sometimes. It might take some time to get to really know his ins and outs. But it's all better than where they started. And he appreciates that.]

Well, for one thing, [another chuck of the ball] if whips and chains excite you, that's one thing, but you probably don't need a chain hanging down your dick to get you going, sir.

( He's got his hands gripping the rings, shoulders drawn tight, just about to pull himself up into the air when whips and chains floats on over. He pauses there, turning his head to shoot a skeptical, faintly dubious look Clint's direction.

There's a pause, and then a decree of: )

I can't tell if you're offerin' or tellin' me I need to go get laid. I'll tell you one thing, though-

( He turns his attention back to the task at hand, hoists himself up, and finishes with a slightly strained: )

Neither one of those would involve chains.

( Interrogating prisoners of war tends to take the fun out of most real bondage. Stops being a fun game and starts being something else in a very physiological way. Ask him how he found out sometime. )

[It isn't the first time Clint's made an offer, and while he's reasonably sure the rain check was for the other thing and not the offer, there's just enough deniability and wiggle room there that it could've been that, too.

It's not that he misses the use. Not all his owners leaned that way, and Frank specifically makes a point not to use him. And maybe sex just isn't a Frank thing right now for perfectly respectable and understandable reasons. Maybe it's just not a thing on the table at all. Maybe this is relaxing, gets his mind to turn off a while, focus on the body.

Kinda hard not to focus on Frank's body, honestly, but Clint will endure and focus elsewhere. It's late-ish. He's gotten a lot of energy out of Kuba but there's still more he could do to get the pooch proper exhausted. And Frank's likely to be at his distraction for hours. So a good walk for the rest of that energy, let the city air wash over them.

Consider the idea of talking. Wondering if there's really anything that needs talked about. Because that's a tough question. Maybe if there's something Frank wants to know. If he couldn't handle what's happened to him, then he wouldn't still be here. Does it ever really have to come out? It's just collar stuff.]

At least you're easy to understand. [Not that Kuba understands what he's saying. But the doggy grin still brings a smile and shake of the head in response.

Easier than people, anyway. Easier, he's pretty sure, than the guy that does dick-chain-cinderblock pull ups for hours.]

( It's more complicated, probably, than Clint's giving him credit for. Odds are if he knew Frank a little better, he might not be so quick to make offers. There's no such thing as casual with him, no such thing as a one-and-done or sex without heart in it. He just doesn't have that in him. Clint would be biting off more than he'd probably be willing to chew, even if he could stand to chew it.

By the time Clint gets back, Frank's de-cinderblocked and showered, sprawled on his sad little air mattress that's already beginning to look like it's seen better days, sagging slightly, probably from a dog claw related puncture somewhere along one of the edges. Frank doesn't seem to mind; he's as content as ever with One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest cracked open with one hand, balancing the book on his chest while his other arm's wound up behind his head, propping him a little higher, like a pillow. )

[Frank's a man of contradictions and complications. Clint's been around complicated men before. Most of his owners have been layers of complications. Frank's somehow easier than a lot of them. But he's still...they're figuring each other out. Bit by bit. Probably the busiest and most fraught first week-and-change he's ever had with an owner. Partly because of learning to try and not see Frank as an owner.

He is, but he doesn't act like one, doesn't want to be one, doesn't want to treat Clint like he's any less than any other person on the street. But neither of them can ignore the metal encircling Clint's neck. Frank's not out to hurt anyone who he doesn't think deserves it, but he especially isn't out to hurt anyone who he thinks can't defend themselves. And Clint can, he's said he can, but there's a barrier where Frank adamantly does not want to deliberately hurt Clint. And that's also complicated in a way.

Frank would rather hurt himself than smack a collar around, and that's so outside the realm of normal for Clint that it's hard to reconcile with. But it's appreciated. Frank won't end up like Kazi. (Well, still might end up dead in a gang fight, but-)

A little surprised Frank isn't dick-chaining through the night and into morning. There's an impression he's gotten, through some of the exercising, some of the violence, that Frank is not a man that physically tires easily. Emotional exhaustion, sure, because he's still a person, but physically can still make him go and go and go and go. Do his cracked knuckles, broken finger, even bother him in the slightest?

And then he's reading the classics on his slowly deflating air mattress like this is the coziest he's ever been.

He remembers Frank turning down the mattress, too soft, and sure, months and months and years in shit-ass temporary places will get you used to a lot of shit-ass conditions, but there's no way he slept on the floor at home with his wife.

Kuba gets some scritches and then trundles off to flop on said mattress, happily worn out and ready to sleep. And Clint'll follow soon, he's sure. But. He comes over and sits beside Frank. Something clicked with touching--something had certainly clicked with Clint at the club, hand on his neck, rubbing at his shoulder, and he knows offering up casual touching has clicked with Frank too--such that Clint has been trying to learn to chatter maybe a little less and communicate a little more in touch. But it's a new language and doesn't really know how it works yet. Just that something about it works.

Touches the elbow jutting out from under Frank's head.] You sure you're comfy there, sir?

( The truth is, despite the tape and despite the pain and despite absently having to accommodate the bindings, Frank mostly forgets his finger is even broken. When he curls himself up through raw upper body strength, when his grip goes taut and painful, it's like his mind just blocks it out. Adrenaline overrides it.

Pain is meaningless. Hurting is meaningless. Nothing can compare to having your fucking heart ripped out and shredded, but on a somewhat less dramatic note, he really has had worse. He's taken bullets. He's been wrecked to pieces. Cracked knuckles and a broken finger are barely even noteworthy, and by next week he'll have already shed the bindings to let the bones grow back however they damn well please, too impatient to be restricted anymore. And odds are they'll heal perfectly, because Frank's body refuses to let him die, refuses to do anything other than come back together in such a way that he has no excuse not to keep being a war machine.

If a broken finger doesn't bother him, a deflating air mattress bothers him even less — which is what he would say, if Clint hadn't bothered closing the gap and reaching out to touch. There's an inherent sincerity Frank associates with it. You touch when you mean something, or when you're communicating something real — it bypasses walls, short-circuits security terminals, takes him past gruff retorts and attitude and scoffing directly into legit conversation territory just... automatically, thoughtlessly.

He peers over and up from his book, still, unmoving, a little studious in expression before he answers with a low, lazy rumble. )

I'm fine, Roomba. ( He is. He means it. He can get by on worse. ) I can sleep on this thing better than you could, and you don't want me over there joining the sleepover, okay, trust me.

Edited 2025-03-13 11:54 (UTC)

[He's also figuring out the language of names Frank's got. Barton is general, it's default. Roomba was always meant to be playful, even back then on that first day. Tells him things are fine, nothing serious right this moment. He's called him Clint once, just once, and that was right after the fire. Telling him with no uncertain terms to drop it, that they aren't talking about it. So. First name is some deadly serious not even remotely fucking around meaning.

(And sweetheart was just made up under circumstances where they were playing parts.)

He tips his head a little. Maybe, yeah, maybe Frank could be legitimately more comfortable there than Clint, but Clint's slept soundly enough on next to nothing before. Hell, he just spent a couple evenings on rooftops.]

What, you hog all the covers or something?

The Slave Auction Meme

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