The Slave Auction Meme

[justformemes]

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.

Comments

[reexamines]

The pan goes in the sink gently despite the general jerkiness of Karen's motions; she might be simmering with mostly self-inflicted anger but she's still mindful of the thin walls and her neighbors. After turning the stove off, she turns to face him again -- honoring the fact that he's speaking by actively listening to him -- crossing her arms over her chest, unintentionally mirroring his stance.

As far as Karen's concerned it's a question of semantics. Collars work for whoever owns them, sure. But an owner is responsible for their well-being. An owner keeps them clothed, fed, and meets (at the very least) their basic needs. As much as she loathes the analogy it's like owning a working dog. They do the work. But the owner still has to care for them.

He calls out her "fretting" and Karen scowls. It only deepens when he reaches the end of his little speech.

"I know what I signed up for," she bites back. Which-- Okay, she does and she doesn't. She might not have owned a collar before, but she understands the collar dynamic (mostly). She turns and tugs out the cutlery drawer with a sharp rattle.

"You follow orders. I give them." Which means this dynamic? Can look however she wants it to, she's pretty sure. She grabs a knife and a fork from the drawer with one hand and the plate laden with pancakes, toast, and eggs with the other. Any instinct she had to keep her distance between them has been smothered in defiant frustration. She crosses the floor to where he stands and jams the plate against his chest.

Standing this close, separated only by the width of a plate, it's obvious how worn thin he is. Bruises and scrapes standing out starkly against his clean skin. An ache spiders across her chest, and her jaw tightens with defiance. She is not fretting. She is just-- cognizant of his current condition.

"Let's get you back to baseline before we start worrying about public-facing, okay?" A good meal. A night's sleep. At least one set of clothes that look like they're his. Heck, maybe add in a couple of advil and a band-aid or two while they're at it.

[terrorisms]

You follow orders, I give them — there's a flicker in his brow, subtle, difficult to read. Neither negative nor positive, not exactly amusement, not exactly affront. The expressive equivalent of a soft huff without the noise or the breath to accompany it. Yeah, she's right, that's exactly how it goes, and he's got no problem acknowledging the truth. It's an echo of something he's heard before; I point, you go shoot, except he's not entirely convinced she believes what she's saying.

But they'll see. The more he irritates her, the stronger her spine seems to get, and the less afraid of him she seems. That's something. Good, he thinks, and hell, maybe he might even admire her for it a little. It's a dangerous personality trait to have, in terms of her own well-being, but one he respects all the same.

So when she bumps that plate against his chest, he unfolds his arms automatically to take it, to support to compliantly from beneath rather than leaving her with the burden of holding it up. Not trying to challenge her authoritative move. Not provoking her into proving it. Nothing of the sort.

He just takes it, and he looks her in the eyes when he answers a mild, steady, "Yes ma'am."

Thank you, ma'am.

The gratitude goes unspoken as of yet; he's still feeling her out. Still too on his guard looking for the catch, for ulterior motives he knows don't exist but that his twice-bitten mind refuses to believe. He shows it instead by sitting at the desk, bending over the plate, and dutifully digging in to the meal she took the time to make for him — with efficiency and gusto.

Can't pretend like it isn't the best damn thing he's had in... what, weeks? Months?

He'll clear the entire damn plate without a word, unless she initiates something.

[reexamines]

The definition of their roles is perhaps overly simplified for a dynamic that is bound to be complex. Karen doesn't truly expect obedience from him. She hopes he'll keep out of trouble, and not run away from her first chance he gets. (Give her a chance to figure things out.) But she's not exactly holding her breath.

Though somehow, in the past hour or so of knowing him, she's pretty darn certain she's not risking her own safety at least. Given that there won't be any locked doors between them at night, that's definitely on the plus side.

Of all the things she expects, Frank actually taking the plate without further prompting isn't on the list. Neither is the calm eye contact or the gentle agreement. It knocks the wind out of her sails, steals that burn of anger fueling her. It does something else too. Something she can't quite quantify, and her heart knocks hard against the inside of her ribcage.

He steps away, and she lowers her eyes instinctively. Grateful that his back is turn, she traces the grain of the warped floorboards with her eyes, swallows, and works to calm her heart that's still trying to outrun her lungs.

It doesn't really help. So she grabs him a glass of water -- it'd be orange juice if she had any, but it's one of those little luxuries she's had to cut down on lately -- and a cup of fresh brewed coffee and sets them down in front of him. Maple syrup (the cheap kind, 'cause she never got used to the real deal), butter, sugar, salt, and a carton of half-and-half that's just a day or so on the wrong side of the expiration date, join moments later.

He eats like a long haul trucker eager to get back on the road.

"For the record," she says, the previous sharpness gone from her voice, on her way back to the coffee maker. She pours herself half a cup of coffee, realizes that her sugar is and creamer are sitting in front of him and decides against doctoring it. "It's not breakfast for dinner. It's not even three o'clock yet. We're still in brunch territory."

The coffee is bitter in her mouth, but it's hot and it'll keep her going, so she swallows it down with only a little bit of a wince. With her free hand, she digs out a pen and a notepad from the little junk drawer that has somehow accumulated in the tiny kitchenette despite her limited space. When he's finished eating, she sets them down on the desk in front of him.

"If you, uh, write down your clothing sizes, I'll go get you a set." They'll shop properly later. But she's not bringing him to a store dressed like this. "You can grab some sleep while I'm gone."

[terrorisms]

She starts piling shit up around him like he's a god damn Christmas tree, and he doesn't even know what the hell to say about it. The water's fine. The coffee's a bonus. Then comes maple syrup and coffee creamer, and all this other shit crowding her desk. Shit he hasn't had the privilege of putting in his face in longer than he can remember, just- shoved at him like it's nothing.

Hell, nine times outta ten he doesn't even put creamer or sugar in his coffee, but he does today, just because it's there and he can. Learned a long time ago not to take shit like this for granted, who knows when the next time might be? Maybe she'll change her mind about him tomorrow, and he'll be back on the chopping block — or sold to somebody that doesn't waste peripherals on collars.

Brunch time takes him aback. He didn't have a clock in the cage. Doesn't own a phone, obviously. Hadn't see the time on the car stereo from the back seat. He's just been guessing, and apparently having his circadian rhythm fucked by the constant overhead lighting — dimmed as it may be at night, barely — has apparently done him no favors.

He's learning, at least, not to push back on these things she's offering. Learning to keep his mouth firmly shut when she asks for his clothing size, when she offers him a fucking nap in the middle of the day, which is a whole new level of unprecedented.

She keeps this up, he's gonna wind up round and lazy and useless like one of those overfed house cats that doesn't even bother chasing mice.

When he's done, he scribbles down the numbers and offers them over with a soft, ma'am. As soon as she takes the paper, he's on the move — cleaning up his own dishes before she can get the chance to even ask, or god forbid make a move to clean that shit herself. He's gotta have something to do, he can't just sit around like the world's worst piece of modern art, a walking bruise like a floor lamp roomba'ing his way around her living room. Nah, fuck that. He'll wash his dishes, and the dishes she used to cook with, and any that're left in the sink, too. All that before he'll even consider that sleep she was pitching.

[reexamines]

If it makes Frank feel any better, the clock on the car stereo hasn't worked since Karen inherited the car. At first, she thought it was permanently set to midnight. But every so often, it runs for a couple of hours, and then it stays on whatever time it lands on for days before resetting to midnight again. There's no rhyme or reason. Just one of the many quirks of the car she never would have picked for herself, but loves a little all the same.

Karen folds the note with her fingers, fingertips brushing against the jagged edge where it was torn from the pad. She's not sure if she should be concerned at the way he's stopped talking again, or relieved that he's not arguing with her anymore.

He starts on the dishes before she can, and there's a part of her that wants to protest. He's not technically a guest, but he's a stranger in her space and she has to squash the gentle urge to insist that he sit back down. They're living together now, she reminds herself sternly. She cooked. He'll do the dishes. It's fair.

Karen finds herself watching his hands as he works, the streak of soap suds that snakes past his wrist up his lower arm. It's so domestic it makes her stomach flip. It's too easy to remember his hands the last time she saw him for today. Her mind flickers between the memory of blood stains and the reality of the soap suds. She blinks and forces herself back into motion. With another wince, she chugs the last of her coffee, the lack of pleasure in drinking it made up by the caffeine. She sets it down on the sink, just next to him.

"Thank you," she mumbles, giving the rim of the mug a quick tap with her finger before stepping away.

By the door, she grabs her purse and her coat, and snags her keys with a quiet jangle. She hesitates by the door, her hand curled around the door knob.

"There's a spare key in the desk drawer. Lock the door behind you if you have to go out." If he decides to run after all, at least volunteering the information he needs will make her feel less stupid. She doesn't wait for an answer before tugging the door open. Halfway through it, she pauses, struck by a thought and she ducks back in.

"You can use the bed. The sheets aren't fresh but-- " She bets they're better than a cage. "I meant to change them. Life just got busy."

A flush creeps up the nape of her neck. He's the reason her life got busy. Hospital duty doesn't leave much room for doing the laundry.

"I'll, uh, be back. You should have an hour or two at least. I'll be quiet when I come back in."

With that, she actually leaves, locking the door behind herself out of habit or muscle memory perhaps. It's not like it's locking him in for longer than it takes him to unlock it from the inside, or like he needs the protection of a locked door.

Down in the garage, the tangle of chains and the grimy leash snaking across them in the backseat are a somber reminder of what she got herself into. Karen twists her body, reaches between the seats and shove the whole pile onto the floor. The first chance she gets, she's tossing that damn leash out. It's probably just her imagination, but she swears she can smell the warehouse still on it. Like the stench is woven between the plastic strands.

For too long, she just sits in the car, her hands on the steering wheel and staring unseeing through the windshield. Much like buying him, she didn't really think through the plan before leaving her apartment. Finally, a semblance of a plan formed through the constant buzz of whatthehelldidIdo? running on repeat through her brain, she turns the key and drives off.

At the nearest goodwill -- consulting the note more than strictly necessary, unfolding and refolding it along the creases as she doublechecks his sizes between each pick -- she buys him a faded black t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of sweatpants (in case he doesn't like the jeans, or if he wants something to sleep in), a matching hoodie, and a dark green windbreaker. Nothing fancy, just the bare minimum until they can do this together. Thankfully, he has shoes already so she doesn't have to venture into that territory.

There's a whole aisle full of collar-specific things. Karen hasn't been in it since high school. It's different from going there with her friends, giggling at the muzzles made for human mouths, or the weird discipline tools. They have glorified dog beds -- advertised as collar-bedding -- and sleep restraints and posture collars. Karen bites the inside of her cheek, and after going back and forth on it more times than she cares to admit, she grabs a black nylon leash -- the cheapest option they have, with no bells or whistles -- just in case.

Socks and underwear she gets him brand new. Both of them value packs with five pairs in neutral colors. The underwear aisle takes up too much of her time as she deliberates between the options before finally settling on boxers as the safest bet and feeling vaguely guilty about the whole thing. She'd hate to have to wear everyday underwear chosen by someone else. But it has to be better than nothing.

From there, she gets herself a coffee from a little hole in the wall coffeeshop on the way to the laundromat down the street from her apartment. She wouldn't wear goodwill clothes without washing them first, so she'll do him that kindness.

While the clothes bounce around in first the washer, and then the dryer, she drinks her coffee, reads the stupid pamphlet, and reorganizes his file, carefully putting the escaped sheets back in order while skimming them. She probably should have read it before signing on all the dotted lines. But here she is, feeling somehow both like she's invading his previous and like she's entitled to the knowledge at the same time.

It's closer to two hours when she unlocks the front door again -- uncertain of what state she'll find her apartment in, but a little more settled than earlier -- the fully stuffed goodwill bag in her hands.

The door creaks, and she holds her breath as she slips through, prepared to sneak around her own apartment in case he is sleeping.

[terrorisms]

He doesn't sleep in her bed. That's the first thing she'll notice when she comes back in. It's not his place — wouldn't be even if he weren't wearing a collar. A strange ass man doesn't sleep in a woman's bed. Not if he's got any kind of sense of respectability or decency or an iota of passable values. That space is hers, and he's not gonna set a precedent that they're gonna be trading off on that thing.

The floor is better than the cage by a mile anyway — and he's slept on worse. Slept in the goddamn dirt in Afghanistan, he can handle a stolen pillow and a rug. He sprawls himself out just beyond the foot of the bed, arms crossed snugly over his chest, legs out long, and gets the first real sleep he's had in days.

The second thing she'll notice is the fact that he stole a knife from her kitchen, because he whips up with it the moment she walks into the door, panting, breathless, sweating the sweat of someone with restless nightmares. Must've pulled that damn thing out from under the edge of her bed in an instant, faster than a flash, asleep to attack mode without a blink.

Two, three seconds later he recognizes who she is, and he slowly lowers the thing along with his eyes. His hands come up instead, in that classic surrender gesture — though one hand's only got two or so fingers sticking up, since the other three are still curled around the knife handle. The point is, this wasn't for her. It was for anyone else who happened to bust in before she got home.

He didn't run, but considering that greeting, maybe she's starting to wish he would have.

"Ma'am," he acknowledges, and then has the presence of mind to add, "Sorry."

He'll just. Get up and slowly move to stuff that thing back into her knife block.

[reexamines]

The first feeling that hits Karen isn't relief or disappointment, but surprise. She's not expecting to see him sleeping on the floor in front of her bed (like a dog). She'd feel some kind of way about it, if registering his location wasn't immediately followed by him moving quick like a snake and pulling a knife on her.

It's not even a good knife.

The absurd thought comes unbidden, coinciding with her heart doing its damndest to jump straight into her throat. The knife block and the five knives in it came from IKEA and cost her a grand total of $24.99 when she first moved into the city for work. The last time she sharpened any of them was never.

It's so quick, he's already holding his hands up, knife pointed securely away, by the time actual fear slams into her. A full-bodied thing, it catches her breath in her chest, tenses each and every muscle while simultaneously making her knees go weak. She stays frozen in place, gently untangling her lungs while watching him slowly cross her apartment and put the knife away.

"Jesus Christ, Frank." Her breath is slow and shallow, a little shaky on the exhale.

A beat, and then she shuts the door completely and locks it behind her. It takes effort to turn her back on him, but she does it, the security chain rattling as she secures it into place.

He is not going to hurt her.
She is not in danger.

Karen repeats the two facts like a quiet mantra, but while her brain accepts them as truths, she's having a harder time convincing her pounding heart of it.

"It's okay," she tells the front door, as much as she tells herself. She swallows back the bright-battery-acid taste of adrenaline and turns around slowly.

All of her observations beyond knife, filter in slowly. Like the way his chest was -- is -- rising and falling sharply, the sound of his jagged breaths, the sweat pearling at his temples.

Her eyes dip to the knife block, doing a quick count of the knives sticking out of it to make sure he's not pulling some sleight of hand on her here, before she hangs up her coat by the door. She keeps her purse tucked close against herself. It's a good thing she didn't leave her gun in the apartment for him to find.

"Is this is going to be a thing?" Her eyes on him, a little wary, she sets the goodwill bag down on the desk with a rustle of plastic. Her chest keeps contracting and relaxing as she tries to figure out how to approach this when her first instinct is to reach for (and wrap herself safely in) anger.

"I need this not to be a thing." Karen stops in the middle of the floor, finally facing him properly. "You understand why I need for this to Not Be a Thing, right?"

Don't scare her, Frank.

[terrorisms]

Frankly, they might've been better off if she left him her gun. He'd have slept more soundly. He's better with those than with knives; knows when to keep his finger off the trigger. You can't turn the safety on a kitchen knife.

She looks like fear. She looks like stubbornness in the face of fear, and for a second he feels the strangest goddamn thing — pride. He's proud of her, the way she's swallowing it down, the way she's squaring her shoulders, the defiance in her that refuses to be cowed or intimidated by that fear. He was never gonna hurt her, he knows that, but she can't. There's no way she can know that, doesn't matter what the hell he says. Words don't mean shit. As far as she's concerned, he's a real honest-to-god threat, and in this unintentional, metaphorical staring contest, she's not blinking.

Is this going to be a thing?
You understand why I need for this to Not Be a Thing, right?

His eyes flicker to hers, then flit off to the side in a way that suggests he's got stuff to say about it that he's not letting out of his mouth. Thoughts, not all of them in agreement, but not necessarily derisive, either. He considers telling her it won't be a thing, but he's never been much of a liar.

"Your home security's bullshit, ma'am. Those lock on your door wouldn't stop a middle-schooler if they were determined enough, and the goddamn walls here are thin enough that you could put a low-caliber bullet through them from the hallway without breaking a sweat."

He doesn't feel like either of them are safe. Maybe if he did, he could let it not be a thing.

It's this kinda shit that got him bounced out of the few more tolerable potential owners. Because he wouldn't stop, won't stop. Not as long as he knows for a fact what the reality of a bullet does to a human being's head.

[reexamines]

The thing is, the range of her shitty kitchen knife? Is a whole hell of a lot shorter than the range of her gun. She trusts him not to stab her. Trusts that in the time it will take him to get close enough, he'll wake up enough to recognize her. But with a gun in his hand? That's a split second decision. Maybe he'd feel safer with it, but she wouldn't. Not right now.

The thing about fear is... Well, Karen's been scared for most of her life. Little fears grew to bigger fears, changed to different fears. But the feeling? It's the same. The pounding heart, the jagged lump of darkness lodged beneath her ribs, the tremble working its way through her limbs and into her fingers? It's a known quantity. The more she feels it, the better she gets at working through it. If she let fear stop her, she wouldn't be here now. She'd been buried a long time ago.

Frank's gaze flits away, but Karen's stay steady on him. Cataloguing the twitch of his mouth, the muscles tensing in his throat and cheek. Her jaws tightens, shoulders squaring, and her fingertips twitch against her shirt. She's so ready for a terse ma'am that when the words spill out of him, something inside of her relaxes.

If he watches closely, he'll see it, the flush of relief. The one word replies of earlier, the quiet acknowledgement of her words, they've been sitting like splinters beneath her skin ever since. This is better. She likes him talking back.

"And having an IKEA knife under your pillow changes any of that?" she asks him, gently challenging, and moves past him, close enough her shirt brushes against his elbow, to the sink. See? She's not afraid of him.

"How would you actually improve the 'home security' then?" Yes, those are audible bunny ears around the words, as she grabs a glass from one of the cabinets, and fills it with water from the tap. "Short of moving."

'Cause her security deposit and first and last rent for a new place are standing right behind her in ill-fitting collar wear.

[terrorisms]

Matter of fact, yeah, having an IKEA knife on-hand would do wonders against anybody that decided to kick her door in. Close range, the knife's actually better. Anybody that's not trained for it, and hell, even most people who are — like cops, who have a service pistol but rarely fire it — don't know how to compensate for the rush of nerves and adrenaline a close-quarters fight can cause. Aim gets shaky, unless they're a soldier or they've seen a lot of combat. He can close the distance and have that knife sunk deep into the parts of a man that make him dead, over and over and over, in the time it takes them to pull the trigger and hit something made of meat.

But saying all that shit to her right now isn't exactly gonna help things, so what she gets by way of answer instead is just a look. One probably difficult to decipher, but that can be more or less read as yeah, actually.

The one that does finally make it out of his mouth in the end isn't much better. It's a deadpan, clipped, "Moving. Ma'am."

Sorry. Not much to do about reinforcing these walls, not that he imagines she'll actually be able to do, anyway. Hard to put up steel plates in a rental unit, huh? Short of that, the things they'd need to do would make this place look like an unhinged hoarder shelter, and he gets the feeling she won't go for that, either.

But in the interest of what she can do:

"They make safety stoppers you can brace under the doorknob. Resists impact. Right now, the only thing that's making your deadbolt and chain effective are inch-long screws and cheap wooden trim. One good kick, they splinter open. You shove one of those under the knob, it's harder. Good ones even come with a vibration sensor that triggers an alarm if someone's trying to force it. Ma'am." So... there's something actually actionable. Not that it'd do much good today, what's he gonna do, bar her out of her own apartment? But for later, for when she's home, for when the both of them are trying to get some goddamn sleep at night, for example. "But you already got the next best thing short of moving to a better place."

[reexamines]

Karen turns off the tap and leans a hip to the counter, watching him. One hand cradling the glass against her chest, her other hand curled around the lip of the counter. Her purse bangs against her thigh as she moves.

The look she gives him in return for his oh-so-helpful suggestion is far easier to decipher. She tilts her head at him with a soft scowl. But there's a sparkle of amusement in her eyes, and a challenge to the hitch of one of her eyebrows. Funny. Do better.

He offers the real suggestion, and Karen nods. She leans to the side, opens up the junk drawer and pulls out a pad of soft and worn post-its and one of those tiny IKEA pencils. She scribbles down safety stopper and vibration alarm?. Add it to the ever lengthening list of things she has to buy before she can figure out how to free him. (That's the best course of action. It must be.)

A glance up from the note, and this time amusement gets the better of her. It doesn't just sparkle in her eyes, it also tugs at the corners of her mouth. There's something akin to fondness tugging at her heart. She wouldn't have pegged him for a funny guy. But there's a deadpan sense of humor running through their interactions that's, well, funny.

"You?" she guesses, though it's not actually much of a guess. It's the obvious answer. It's not funny haha. But it's funny because it's true. She extends the glass of water towards him, an unspoken order. She would like him to take it and drink it; for some reason she's not entirely sure he's all that good at looking after himself. And with the dark sweat-stains standing out against the beige of his shirt, she's equally sure he needs to rehydrate.

"I've been reading up, you know, as a sentenced," and she's using that phrase lightly; they both know there was no actual sentencing involved, "collar you can only use force, or carry and use weapons in the direct defense of your owner." That'd be her. Unfortunately.

[terrorisms]

Truth be told, he was expecting her to dismiss the suggestion out of pocket, wholesale, immediately. Last thing he was banking on was her digging around for something to take actual goddamn notes. It'd be easy to assume he's just paranoid — because he is paranoid. The thing is, just because he's paranoid doesn't mean that he's wrong.

Especially at the rate she seems to piss people off, or tangle herself up in other people who do. Her association with Grotto, her involvement with the feds, then the cops from this morning? She's not exactly out here living with knee pads and training wheels.

You?

All it takes is a little twitch of an eyebrow, a subtle tug at the corner of his lips, not even enough to smile — just a hint of one. It's practically a broadcast message. Yeah. Me. Bingo. Got it in one. The look on her face, her amusement.... it's a good moment. Feels like they're both in on the same joke, even for as small and as under-the-radar as that joke is. It's stilll... different. He doesn't get that very often. Hasn't in a long time. Not since he was "one of the good ones".

He hesitates only briefly before taking the glass. This good owner caretaker shit she's doing.... It's something else.

Bringing it to his lips makes for a good excuse to delay answering the question, to buy himself a little time to think about how to respond. Two swallows down, and then he casts his eyes to the glass, dipping to hover about sternum-high.

"That's definitely what they say, ma'am."

Which is about the most vague and noncommittal acknowledgement he could possibly give to the sentiment. It's not even entirely like he's against the concept — it's not himself he's worried about defending. Her, he'll go to bat for — not because they're especially close all of a sudden, not because they've had any kind of magic moment of deep connection or any of that horseshit, but because in the case of violence against an innocent civilian, his first instinct is to return that violence right on back to sender. It's a matter of integrity, it's a matter of principal, it's a matter of the world being a little bit better when some piece of shit gets what they deserve for starting something they can't finish.

So yeah, sure. Force on behalf of the owner. Direct defense of his owner. Fine. He's sure she means to imply that he shouldn't be allowed to carry around a gun or a knife of his own volition preemptively, but he's electing not to acknowledge that.

[reexamines]

If Karen can afford the door stopper thing Frank wants, she'll get it. Hell, she'll even get the fancy one if she's able. (Though she doubts that one is affordable by any means.) She's lived just fine in this apartment, but if it helps him feel safer. No brainer, right?

Especially if it keeps him from sleeping with a weapon.

But let's be real, there are some organized crime organizations still out there who have real reason to want him dead. The purchase records of criminal collars is supposed to be sealed, so they shouldn't come poking around Karen's place for him. But there are ways around sealed records for someone tenacious (or connected enough). So it doesn't hurt to increase safety.

When Frank takes the glass, Karen flashes him a quick smile in reward. Positive reinforcement, right? If they're going to have a philosophical discussion about it, she'd argue that she's going for good person, not good owner. But maybe that's just semantics when legally (and in practice) she owns him.

She watches him drink, frowns when his gaze dips down. It's probably supposed to be deferential. Habit or practice or beaten into him for all she knows. But she really hates it. Does it make her better than his previous owners if she insists on eye contact? Or worse? Or is it just the same shit with a different name?

The non-committal answer makes her huff a low sigh, and she fills a second glass of water. This one for herself. They're back to that again.

"You wanna argue with me, Frank, then argue with me. You think it's bullshit? Tell me." Karen doesn't raise her voice, and the tone if stays gentle, but there's an edge to it now. She cradles the glass with both hands against her chest, one thumb rubbing restlessly along the side of it.

"They won't take you to court." They both know that. He breaks the rules, either she has to punish him or there are legal consequences. "But I'm liable for your actions. I don't want to go to court for you."

So if he's going to break the rules, he best do it in a way that won't come back on her.

[terrorisms]

There's gonna be a day, he knows, that she comes to regret giving him this blanket permission to talk back. Might even be today, as a matter of fact, and he won't be shocked if she backpedals and orders him to shut his damn mouth. But as long as he's been given leave to speak freely...

"So don't go to court for me," simple enough. Tell them he went rogue, threatened her, let them throw him back into the cage at that kill-shelter for lost causes. He exhales; shakes his head at the glass, and then sets it on the counter, levelling her finally with that eye contact she's so pressed about. Maybe she'll come to regret that too, but it seems to come as a package deal with his arguing. "All due respect, ma'am... since I've known you, you've been in no less than three different circumstances that could've ended with a direct threat on your life. If it had been anybody else but me chasing down Grotto, you'd probably be dead. And me- I've got more people pissed at me than Mitch McConnell, probably."

From former owners to cops to gang members to— some other group he doesn't know, but that seemed set on making sure he didn't live to see this collar come off his neck.

"If the time comes that somebody shows up to collect, or if you throw yourself into some other bullshit like that again, the last thing either of us is gonna want is for me to be sitting around unarmed with a thumb up my ass, scrounging around for a ten dollar IKEA soup ladle from your utensil drawer. People buy me for one reason. You leaving me like this is like buying a racehorse and sawing off its legs right before the Kentucky Derby."

[reexamines]

There may come a day when Karen regrets it, but it's not today. (Yet.) Just like last time, some of the tension slips out of her shoulders when he talks back. It feels more honest than the quiet deferential mode he slips into so easily, more real. More like she's interacting with a human being, less like she's trying to take care of a particularly violent floor lamp.

Doesn't mean she likes what he's saying. But she likes that he's saying it. Any of it.

Don't go to court for me. Like that's an option. Like she doesn't take this ownership -- however temporary she hopes it may be -- seriously. She's accepted the responsibility already, she's not backing down. Maybe he can read as much from the scoff that follows his statement.

Karen keeps the steady eye contact, not flinching away at the curses littering his speech, but she does make a face every time she doesn't agree with him. Like the three different circumstances that could have ended poorly, her throwing herself into something, and the singular reason people buy him.

When he stops speaking, she sets down her own, untouched, glass with a decisive click right next to his. The apartment's too small, and with the counter behind her, she can't exactly back away to put space between them, so she does the opposite. She steps forward, crowding him.

"I didn't buy you for protection, Frank. Or to be muscle." Let's get that one thing straight right out of the gate. If he's a racehorse, he was slated for the slaughterhouse when she bought him. There'll be no Kentucky Derby for either one of them. "And like it or not, I will go to court for you. So you better make sure everything you do from now on, you do with the knowledge that the consequence isn't on you. It's on me."

Obviously, he doesn't give enough of a shit about himself to keep out of trouble. Her fingertips begin to tremble and she presses them tightly against her skirt with one hand, the other curling protectively around the strap of her purse. In her heels, it's easy to meet his eyes even this close.

"Don't talk to me about could've or potential scenarios. Point is, they didn't end with a threat on my life. You were the one who came for Grotto. I am not going to live my life according to what-ifs or might-bes. If this is you telling me I should arm you? That's going to have to be a different conversation."

He could kill her right here, she's sure. Snap her neck like a twig. A gun or a knife won't make her life more or less in danger. But it feels more substantial, somehow. She's gonna have to trust you first, Frank.

[terrorisms]

She steps into his personal space, and the air changes. The atmosphere changes. It's got that kind of frisson that comes before a thunderstorm, charged, the kind that makes the hair on his arms stand up. He'd be tuned into her either way, locked onto every word just by the nature of what she is to him, but right up close like this, he's got to decide between looking in her eyes, or looking at her mouth. His attention flickers between the two every few seconds, unable to commit to one or the other — the intensity in her gaze, or the shapes her lips make when she talks. Lined up like this, this close up, he can see the rings in her eyes. She probably gets a front-row seat to his pupils dilating in real time.

The pause that follows her speech is pregnant, its own living entity burrowing into eye contact and too-quick heartbeats. Stretching.

"Arm me or don't, that's your call," He says at last, his voice low and rough like jagged glass — hoarse, but quiet. He doesn't say the next part, but maybe she can feel it in the air: but if you don't, I'll arm myself, you just won't know about it. Because— "Either way, I'll do my job. Semper Fidelis, ma'am."

Always faithful.

Marine collars don't swear to serve; they're already serving. They swear to defend. Until such time as he's proven wrong — and he doesn't think he will be — he's going to operate with the belief that he knows more about how to do that part than she does. None of this is likely to be terribly reassuring, and it's probably swiftly clear why he's never managed to be permanently placed after the military.

He's great at following orders.
Usually.
Until he isn't.
There's a certain subset.

Lower, gentler, "...but for what it's worth, I don't plan to drag any legal trouble your direction. I'm not gonna screw you over. I think your heart's in the right place. I just also think it's gonna get you killed eventually. Ma'am."

[reexamines]

As always, Karen charges in without pausing to think through the ripple effects of her actions. The tension is to be expected, she's ready for a fight. But she's not ready for the little spark of electricity that jumps between them. When his eyes flicker down to her lips the first time, it doesn't feel like a threat or a challenge to the authority given to her by circumstance and credit card. It feels like a promise.

This close, she is all too aware of the smell of her soap on his skin, mixing with sweat, and the cheap plastic they must've kept the standard-issue collar wear in before handing it to him. The split lip and the bruises don't exactly improve on closer viewing and something deep in her gut clenches.

Her heartbeat is tangled with her breath, chest rising and falling too quickly in the silence that follows. This isn't what she expected. It feels like standing right at the top of a rollercoaster, the moment before it plunges down that first hill. A soft and gentle ache rolls through her in response. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and put two fingers on his hip to steady herself, and it's the hardest to keep her hands to herself.

His voice drags over her skin, and she just barely suppresses a shudder. Her breath stills, and she has no control over the way her eyes widen in response.

Frank Castle is a dangerous man.

Karen knew that. But for the first time, she's realizing that dangers come in many different shapes. She swallows thickly, her lips parting slightly as she draws in a shaky breath.

The pamphlet is pretty clear that his job is supposed to be whatever she tells him it is, but it's obvious he's got a different idea. And equally obvious that they're going to fight over what it entails until she can figure out how to free him. (Which is still the goal, right? Karen might not think first and act later often. But she's already thinking about next steps here. The door stopper. Looking for a new apartment she can afford that gives them at least some more space. All of that seems like pretty longterm thinking, if she lets herself dwell on it. Good thing she doesn't.)

His voice softens, and it drags through her insides this time, leaving them in knots. Now it's her eyes that dip down to his mouth for a fraction of a second before dipping down to the heavy collar around his throat, and snapping right back up.

Another heavy swallow. She supposes she should be grateful that he's not planning on getting them both in trouble, But, she's starting to think that perhaps she's in deeper than she thought.

"Everyone dies," she tells him, surprised at the soft rasp in her own voice. "And I'd rather die with my heart in the right place than survive without it."

The closeness is tangled and complicated; Karen takes a step back and runs both hands through her hair. Shit. It takes her a moment to find her breath and regulate it again. Hands tucked against either side of her throat, she nods at the desk behind him, and the bag that's toppled over on top of it.

"I got you clothes. You should get changed. Then we can talk logistics."

[terrorisms]

It's nearly impossible to tell what Frank's thinking when she steps back, only that he is thinking. His eyes are faintly narrowed, sharp, studious — like he's running calculations in his mind that she isn't allowed to be privy to. Cataloguing everything from the moment she stepped up to him, to the moment she stepped back. There's a subtle sway in his shoulders like maybe he means to follow her, only for them to oscillate back an inch farther away than where they started.

She's right about at least one thing: everyone dies. The only thing he has any control over on that regard is maybe helping influence when that happens. Namely, later rather than sooner for her. Sooner rather than later for the hypothetical pissed-off friends of Grotto, potentially.

He knows what that guy was all about. Knows the people he rolled with. Knows about the basement full of slave-trade collars so far from even the wishy-washy loose legality that surrounds collars already. She's got a connection to him on paperwork, in public records. She better hope he didn't leave anyone alive that happens to be smart enough to look into it.

But that's not what's on his mind as he watches her smooth her hair back, affected. Recovering from something.

Sparks a few questions. Sparks something.

"Yes ma'am," comes the mild answer, tone lighter, crisp and efficient. He breezes past her close enough for their arms to brush, and there's not so much as a flicker on his face to suggest he thinks anything about what just happened one way or another. He's eager to change out of these bullshit prison scrubs, eager to wear something that smells like clean laundry detergent instead of whatever bullshit bulk cheap vinegar-based solution they use in those facilities.

A trip to the bathroom gives him the opportunity to re-center, hands on the sink in front of the mirror, exhaling slowly.

In the reflection, that titanium collar around his neck stands out starkly, and kindly recontextualizes everything that just was. It feels unusually good to cover the thing up with the hoodie he pulls on over top of everything; the extra padding of fitted fabric makes him look a little softer than he did in in the unflattering uniform. Rounds out his shoulders, brings something casual to a vibe that cuts harshly by default.

When he walks out, it's with the old scrubs bundled in his hands, and a careful, "What should I do with these, ma'am?"

Keep them for when she goes for her thirty day return policy, or burn them on principle? Good riddance.

[reexamines]

Karen doesn't even know what she's thinking when she steps back, much less what's going through his head. This time, she's the one breaking eye contact never quite looking back at him after nodding towards the desk.

She feels, rather than sees, the suggestion of a forward sway and her heart lodges at the base of her throat until he rocks backwards instead. It's not fear. That much she knows for certain. Beyond that, she's going to leave it unexamined.

Yes ma'am, he says and Karen's back straightens. It's a good reminder of who they are. Who she is to him. He moves past her, she stands her ground, daring only one curious look at him; she might as well kept staring at her wallpaper for all the insight it gives her. His arm brushes against hers and her breath trips over her heart and sticks again.

The bathroom door closes behind him, and Karen exhales shakily. Heat rushes up her cheeks and she scrubs her hands over her skirt to ease the aching tension from her fingers.

By the time he comes out of the bathroom, she has stepped out of her heels and she's sitting on the couch, legs pulled up beneath herself. Skirt firmly tucked over her knees. She has an honest to god yellow legal pad in her lap, and a pen. Her purse is nowhere to be seen (tucked into her underwear drawer for now), and his thick file sits on the center of the small coffee table next to the crumpled and re-flattened pamphlet. His still mostly-full glass of water sits on the sink, but hers is almost empty in her hand.

In the time it's taken him to get dressed and re-centered, she's obviously done the same. Well. The re-centering at least. The door opening sent tension vibrating through her spine, but she doesn't flinch when he addresses her, just looks up and over.

"Toss them," she says decisively with a nod over at the kitchen trash can. It's got a lid at least. If she had the means to burn them, she would. He looks different in real clothes. Closer to what he looked like before the warehouse, but softer somehow. He looks like a real person. Not a prisoner and not a killer. Just a guy.

It helps that the hoodie covers up all but the occasional glimpse of his collar.

Karen finds herself looking at him a moment too long, and she cuts her glance away. While he disposes of the bundle of can't-believe-they're-not-clothes, she finishes her water. She leans forward and sets the empty glass down on the edge of the coffee table. When she leans back, she gestures towards the other side of the couch. There's no way she's having this conversation sitting with him towering above her.

First thing, they should figure out the sleeping arrangement. He's too tall for her couch -- heck, she's too tall for her couch -- they're obviously not sharing the bed, and it seems he's not into the idea of taking turns with it either. So they'll have to get something. Air mattress? Cot? Sleeping bag? One of those dumb and frankly demeaning "collar beds"? She figures she'll let him pick. But, when it comes down to it, she can't make herself bring it up. Not right now. Maybe later.

"How does this usually work?" she asks him instead, honestly curious though she doubts most of what he's used to will work for her or her lifestyle. Much less her morals.

[terrorisms]

He does as he's told. Carries the bundle of cloth over to the kitchen where he found her trash can tucked away beneath a cabinet. They get stuffed inside, and he makes a mental note to take out the trash. Almost laughs at how goddamn domestic it feels after everything. All of this, it's so jarringly domestic, and he hasn't had that in... a long time.

it does shed a different light on things, seeing her in her natural state. Not gearing up to go toe-to-toe with a cop or a criminal, but relaxed, comfortable, barefoot. Looking soft, looking human, looking vulnerable — and every bit like somebody that makes for an appealing target to men looking for a woman to victimize. For a second, it becomes clear to him. All of it, this whole thing, this circumstance he's in, it crystallizes into a realization.

Out of everybody he's ever served since his discharge, all the people who bought him for muscle and murder or for protection from the consequences of their own actions, every hand he's passed through, hers is the first (and probably the last) one actually worth protecting. She'll be the first one who he'll cover willingly, the first who deserves it. This is the first time serving someone hasn't been in direct opposition with his morals, and inevitably doomed to fail from the start.

Unless her whole act turns out to be bullshit, and he doesn't think it will, this'll be the first time since he was a marine that he won't resent being always faithful.

Okay, then.

That makes things clear — clearer than they were a few minutes ago. It's good. Means he's got some idea of a path forward, how he wants to handle this. Incentive to help her do this right, make things smooth for her. Incentive to prove his value, rather than bide his time waiting to be returned.

"Which part?" He asks, and there's a certain kind of humor in his tone, aloof and casual, as he rounds the couch and lowers himself down into it, knees splayed open wide, elbows on his thighs. His back slopes forward, but his head's canted her direction, turned to look at her directly, leaning into the angle. It's a small couch; the way his knees are spread, they nearly brush against the fabric of her skirt. "Ownership? Depends on the owner. There's not exactly a quality control department. I'm sure they make handbooks, but either they didn't read it or they all read different ones. I think the bigger question is, how do you want it to work, ma'am?"

[reexamines]

Karen purposefully doesn't track him with her eyes as he comes to sit down next to her. Doesn't mean she isn't hyper aware of him in her space. Sure, she catches his movements in her peripheral vision, hears his footsteps, his breaths and the rustle of clothes. But it's more than that. It's that feeling of being in a room with someone versus being alone.

(It strikes her that, for the foreseeable future, her days of being alone are over. The chill winding its way down the length of her spine battles against a surprising warmth fanning out across her chest. The idea isn't all bad.)

A smile curves her mouth at the easy humor in his voice. He feels so much more real now. Maybe it's just the change of clothes, shifting her perception. Maybe it's him relaxing around her.

The couch dips beneath him when he sits, and Karen turns her body towards him, tucking her back against the corner between the armrest and the back of the couch. All too aware of the proximity between them, how little it would take for them to brush against each other.

The absurdity of the situation is inescapable. Two days ago -- heck, even an hour ago -- she wouldn't have expected she would be sitting on her couch with a killer. Even just skimming his thick folder, she's becoming aware that his kill-count is even higher than she thought. She should be scared. But it feels so normal. Other than the bruises, he could be anyone.

Karen makes a face at him, a scrunching up of her nose and mouth at his final question. Want is a strong word in this situation. None of this is what she wants. It's something she needs to learn to live with. For now. Until they can think of something better.

"I don't know. Logistics, I guess. The public facing part." Earlier, he said she wasn't ready for it. "What you think your job is here."

Clearly, he's already decided what it is since he aims to do it whether she arms him or not.

"For me--" Karen frowns and taps the back of the pen against her notepad absently as she thinks. "I don't want you to forget that I'm responsible for both of us. But, even though I'm in charge--"

She has to be, or this whole thing will explode in her face.

"I want you to have the space to be a person. With your own thoughts and feelings. Your own shampoo in the bathroom, you know?"

[terrorisms]

If she knew about the sealed and undisclosed missions they sent him on overseas, the redacted files that never made it back to shore, she'd know that kill count just keeps climbing. It's not an exaggeration to think he's hit triple digits by now — the kind of numbers that make killing a nobody like Grotto less than effortless. Of course he didn't even blink over it. Once you've taken down a compound of enemies in a suicide bottleneck with a semi-automatic rifle, killing starts to take on a different feeling.

Funny how putting down dangerous, bad men is perfectly respectable and heroic when it's done "over there", but when he does it on US soil instead suddenly he's a psychopath. If you ask him, people just don't want to see reality. That's all it boils down to. They wanna be safe, but they don't wanna know about it, and when you force them to confront what that looks like, all hell starts breaking loose. He fails to see how that's his problem.

He listens to her lay it all out, an interesting mix of confident and uncertain. Willing to charge ahead with this, just inexperienced, unsure of her footing. It's clear enough she's never owned a collar before, clear enough she's trying to understand lines and boundaries that may not even exist to other people — that very few of them have ever even bothered to consider.

Some owners ignored his autonomy. Some tried (and failed) to dismantle it. She's trying to reinforce it, and that's new. Vaguely amusing, considering how little he gives a shit about things like his own shampoo and what clothes he wears and the shape of his bed. Irrelevant details, things you learn not to care about after a couple years in uniform looking and smelling and sounding like whatever the government needs you to look and smell and sound like.

He elects to focus on that first part, because he gets the feeling she wouldn't like hearing about the last one. They can circle back to logistics after.

"My job," he says slowly, with the rattled-off enunciation of a man reciting something from memory, "Is to serve, honor, and obey the legal owner of my personhood and property, and to put them before myself, Above all else, it's my duty and obligation to oversee their safety, and to take all reasonable precaution to preserve that safety."

Above all else, meaning that comes first. That comes before obedience. That comes before serving — hell, that is serving. He's been trained specifically to be an expert on the ins and outs of what safety means; she hasn't. Following a bad order that'll get her killed when he knows better is tantamount to choosing to kill her himself.

"You're in charge, ma'am." Right up until that calls her well-being into question. "I'll do whatever you ask me to do. You want me to sit on my ass and eat pancakes, I'll do it. You want me scrubbing dishes, fixing your siding, standing guard at the foot of your bed, or helping your neighbor's daughter with her homework, it's your call. But I'll go ahead and tell you now, you ask for my thoughts and feelings, you're not gonna like most of 'em. Ma'am."

[reexamines]

Karen can't quite comprehend how someone carries so many deaths on their shoulders. There are two lives on her conscience and they weigh on her every day. Little constant pebbles of guilt in her shoes, that when she's reminded of them turns to boulders crushing her chest. How does someone even stand straight with all that weight?

Is it the soldier training or a switch that's been flipped in his brain? Does killing come easy to him because he was a good soldier? Or was he a good soldier because killing came easy to him?

Nature or nurture? Is this really him, or just what they made him? And if it's what they made him, could the right owner unmake it?

On the top of the legal pad, Karen has scribbled a stream of consciousness line of questions in slanted cursive: toiletries? food restrictions? coffee v tea? sleeping???

Frank might not care about any of it, but Karen does. A lot. She wants him to have his own scent, not just hers. His own sense of self. A baseline to build on. Perhaps they're important to her because they're all tangible things. Easy to figure out and just do. Easier, for certain, than to figure out what she is going to do with the human being she just bought.

Truth be told, she hasn't even properly read his file yet, because it seems an intrusion on his privacy. Technically she knows -- knew even before the pamphlet spelled it out for her -- that collars don't have rights in the same way that free people do. There are consequences for maiming or killing a collar (less so, if they're yours -- if you hurt someone else's collar, property damage gets tacked on) but beyond that it's a grayscape.

Frank recites his job description, and while he speaks Karen jots down:

serve
honor
obey
safety

They almost sound like wedding vows. Very, very messed up wedding vows. But all the same.

The soft frown smooths away when he confirms that she's in charge. Even though his list of imagined orders aren't things she'd actually ask for -- other than the pancakes, she supposes -- it settles something in her chest. Her shoulders soften and she sinks back a little into the couch.

"I don't care if I won't like them," she tells him, and maybe she'll come to regret that. But she can't imagine living with someone and not knowing the first thing about what's going on in their heads. "I still want to know them."

Karen leans forward and snags the pamphlet from the coffee table. It's obviously a copy of a copy, the image on the front inked in wrong and blurred to the point it's hard to tell what it's supposed to be. Karen thinks it's a stylized set of shoulders and a collared neck with a pair of handcuffs below.

The movement presses her knee against his thigh until she leans back again and re-establishes that fraction of an inch gap between them. Karen is just going to pretend it didn't happen, and if it did, that it doesn't mean anything. She holds the simple trifold paper pamphlet out to him.

Caring for Collars with Criminal Charges

"These are the guidelines we have to follow. I want you to memorize them and keep us both out of trouble." Notice how she doesn't say follow. Some of them are dumb. Just don't go obviously flaunting them, please.

"And what if I don't want you to protect me?" she asks, pretty sure she knows the answer already. But if her word is supposed to be law, can't she just order him not to do it?

[terrorisms]

Some collars buck the system; they fight tooth and nail, they rebel, they get sent to reeducation over and over and over again — either the government-run classes or, for the wealthy, privately run classes with a more tailored approach. Most of these are the ones who got the collar as punishment. In a way, Frank did, too — but he took it voluntarily. It was a choice. Collar and career service, or a prison sentence for assault and battery. There's a good case to make that part of him was already like this before he ever did any government-sanctioned killing.

In any case, the education program for military collars is a little bit different than in the public sector. The focus is different, the training's more comprehensive, and budget is not an issue. They take as long as they take, they're regularly reinforced with or without an inciting infraction as a matter of routine. He'd been through mandatory re-education a half-dozen times despite having a spotless service record; he could practically recite the damn speeches by now.

So yeah, he takes it seriously. Takes those words to heart. They're not just words, they're something to live by. Something he signed up for. They're a choice he made, and if you can't commit to your decisions, what the hell can you commit to? Maybe that's partly why he respects her for this stubbornness, somewhere in the back of his mind. She might've made the choice to buy him by impulse alone, but she seems bound and damn determined to stand by it.

He takes the pamphlet. Turns it over in his hand, a subtle little knit of concentration in his brow as he reads over the words, the guidelines — similar but different than the ones he's used to. And yeah, he caught that word. Memorize, not obey. Noted.

"Well, then, you have every right to punish me as you see fit to," he drawls, eyes on the pamphlet, tone perfectly casual — and then he looks pointedly back up to her and says, "Afterward. Ma'am."

In other words, ordering him not to comply with that tenant is not on the table. He will ask for forgiveness, not permission.

[reexamines]

While Frank's focus is on the pamphlet, Karen takes the opportunity to study him. The slope of his back and shoulders. The curve of his ear. The little dip between his brows. The shades of purple and yellow blossoming across his skin. The cuts on his knuckles. She should still see to those. And the rest of him, actually. For all she knows, he might be nursing broken ribs or internal bleeding from the not-so-tender-care of NY's finest.

She's already frowning by the time he gives her his (honestly, expected) answer. The frown just deepens. First when he mentions punishment, and again when he adds that afterward. She has no desire to punish him. Doesn't mean that she won't if it becomes necessary. But she's not about to -- how do people even punish collars? -- whip him or whatever for protecting her if she needs it.

"Okay." As in, she won't ask that of him. Karen's not about to set him up for failure. Not when the protection thing seems non-negotiable. But she has non-negotiables too.

"Frank--" she shifts and the note pad slides on her skirt. She catches it last minute and set it down on the table before straightening again. Shoulders squared, she seeks eye contact trying to imbue the importance of the next words out of her mouth. "I don't want you killing anyone."

If he kills someone now, their death will be on her conscience and she really doesn't want to have to bear that added weight.

"That's a standing order. No killing." Even if he thinks it's necessary. That one he should consider written in stone. "No pretending it was an accident, or covering it up, or taking your punishment later. No. Killing. Do you understand?"