The Slave Auction Meme

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>The Slave Auction Meme

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.


Snagged from here.

Comments

[thereinsofhistory]

Her body sang to him at a glance.

Vayne's eyes narrowed on the girl, appraising her with a look like a wyvern roused by hunger. She was beautiful, yes, but any leering fool could have seen that - and while her beauty alone could set a man's pulse racing with fever, Vayne's eyes were lured to...other details that her courtesan's robe could not disguise. That instinctive, weight-forward balance. That perfect kinesthetic awareness of herself. The reflexive way her back straightened when she refused to bow.

Her body sang of battle - and an art of battle. A very specific one. Vayne felt a thin smile tugging at his lips as he met her glare. Cid knows me only too well.

So focused on her was he that Vayne almost missed that kick that sent her gasping to her knees. His eyes flicked briefly to the guard. Such insolence from a maid of common birth could hardly be tolerated, true...but it was far graver insolence to strike a companion of House Solidor. He made a note to have that one flogged.

Vayne set his glass aside and crossed over to where she seethed on her knees. He reached down, cupping the girl's chin in his palm to turn her face up to his. No doubt she'd recoil from his touch, but the briefest glimpse of those eyes was easily worth a moment's disdain. "She's quite lovely," he said. "Does she have a name?"

"The Doctor tells us she is simply called 'Tifa.'" Gabranth made a show of looming over Tifa, casting her in his shadow. "He also made mention that a number of her conspirators from Lowtown are now his 'honored guests'...and that he would shudder to think of their fates should he learn Your Excellency became somehow displeased with his gift."

"How thoughtful." Vayne gave an upward nod of his head, yet his eyes did not lift from her glare. "Thank you, Gabranth. That will be all. Leave us."

The Judge Magister led his men from the room, though in truth they had already left Vayne's thoughts for the evening. The doors shut, leaving them alone in this chamber of amber lights and lurking shadows that had once been the home of her King. Vayne circled around her as a Worgen might circle its mate, his eyes wandering that exquisitely braided brown hair and the windows of skin bared by that scanty robe. For all the elegance of his birth and upbringing, he could not deny the tension knotting in his thighs.

"You needn't remain on your knees, Tifa. Here." Vayne arrived before her again, and offered his hand. A corner of his mouth lifted. "Unless a student of Master Zangan is so easily laid low?"

[thereinsofhistory]

"An apt student takes care to forget none of his teachers." A son of the Emperor did not lack for his pick of them, either. Even fifteen years ago, Zangan had been renowned from Archades to the Ambervale for his prowess in hand-to-hand combat - and more renowned to Vayne as the storybook hero of his youth. He remembered all his endless adolescent petitioning of his father until Gramis finally acquiesced, and sent word to the wanderer to train his third son in the martial arts. And for a time, Vayne had known the elation of being apprenticed to the greatest pugilist in the world...

Until the day he used those skills to kill his brothers.

He dismissed the thought. Presently, he was far more intrigued with Tifa. "Nor does he fail to recognize a peer," Vayne went on, brushing a fall of hair from his eyes as he stepped toward her. "Your form is commendable, by the way. You doubtless made a fine pupil to Zangan yourself. Amalia and her insurgence must have treasured you, Tifa."

His words were courtly but his eyes were not. The night breeze from the great, yawning window at his back was gentle, but strong enough to catch her robe, and the fabric rippled over Tifa's body like the surface of the Nebra. Vayne stepped closer to his less-than-willing new handmaiden with slow, patient strides, rolling his shoulders...and decided to allow his body to speak for him as well.

"What was that old sparring lesson of his?" Vayne mused, as though he and Tifa were old friends. "'Watch the chest, for the eyes of your opponent may deceive you, but his body never will'?" He stepped inside arm's reach of Tifa, and tapped a single finger on the solid plain of his bare chest, just over his heart. And Vayne's smile curved like the spine of a saber. "Here is mine. What does it tell you, Tifa?"

[thereinsofhistory]

Possibly for the first time since he'd buried his brothers, Vayne laughed.

No doubt it would startle Tifa to hear it (he was a man normally given, at best, to thin smiles and the occasional smirk of satisfaction), likely even angered her with its apparent mockery, but in truth, Vayne merely laughed at the irony that would have had a playwright racing for a quill and paper. He'd captured her by tempting her insurgence into battle, and now that she was his captive, with all escape cut off, she...did the same to him. Had Cid guessed after this potentiality as well?

Vayne's eyes played over her stance, and his chuckle quieted. Tifa faced him as though she were armored in scarletite plate, rather than adorned with a concubine's robe. It amused him...and enticed him. Perhaps not in the way she intended.

He wondered what it would be like, were they to spar and were he to prevail, no, dominate, completely and utterly. Overwhelm her. Vanquish her. Would she be flustered, even charmed, desperate to ignore the feelings that came to her in the heat of battle? Or would her eyes glisten with hate and frustration as she lay beneath him, defeated and helpless?

Vayne found either possibility put a rush in him that he could not deny.

"Bold words," he told Tifa quietly. "Let us discern if they are true as well...or at least discern your limits." He couldn't quite resist a barb at what some of Zangan's lesser students called their absurd attempts at Quickenings. He stepped again - but this time it was a step backward, as he slowly crossed over that spacious Galtean carpet to give his back to the window yawning into the warm night outside. That flicker of her eyes had evidently not escaped his attention. A fall from such height would mean certain death, even for his augmented body. Once more he felt that thrill flicker in his chest.

Vayne turned his broad-shouldered profile to Tifa, assuming his preferred stance. His eyes were bright with insolence over the curve of his shoulder, taking her battle-ready pose in, as though it were a sculpture he meant to treasure forever in his memory.

"Come and see then, daughter of Dalmasca. I mastered your arts. Just as I mastered your kingdom." His smile darkened, and his voice grew humid with lust. "Just as I will master you."

[thereinsofhistory]

Approval danced in his eyes when Tifa brought up her fists. In truth, Vayne regretted they were not sparring on more favorable conditions to her. She may have been of common blood, but there was steel in her eyes, a fervor as unyielding as mythril. The girl was a born fighter, a...

A curious expression flashed briefly across his face. Is it mere intrigue, this? he wondered, his dark eyes narrowing with amusement as a breeze swept his hair. He supposed it was enough to admit that Tifa was unlike any other maiden he'd known, common or highborn. And not merely in body.

"Terms are the right of a victor, Tifa," Vayne said, "but I shall hear yours nonetheless. What would you ask of me?"

[thereinsofhistory]

There was hope, of a fashion - enough for Vayne to enjoy bringing some of its light to her eyes. Some hunters were known to give their marks an avenue of escape to better ensnare it. It was, after all, the hope of a peaceful surrender that maneuvered Dalmasca exactly where Vayne needed it. Hope was...useful.

"One alone? I suppose they must be very particular to you. A childhood friend? A brother, a sister?" His eyebrow lifted over that intense stare. "A lover?"

Now there was a thought that heated his blood. The wind had begun to pick up at his back, as warm and inviting as her curves. Vayne felt the magic laced in his body beginning to murmur, his muscles loose but eager.

Eager to take that hope and crush it. Eager to wring surrender from those lips.

"An amusing bargain, my lady. I accept. But should I prevail..."

He was not smiling. "You will pledge yourself to me. You will renounce your dear Princess Ashelia," he said, making no pretense of the vagrant princess' false name. "You will forswear Dalmasca. I will be your only kingdom. And you will ask me, by name, to bear you to that bed and take my pleasure."

(Ugh sorry, lost most of yesterday to a funeral :|)

[thereinsofhistory]

She was quick as a Wildsnake, and the lash of her fist told him Tifa had practiced that strike many times before, with devotion worthy of their master. For the instant he had to react, Vayne felt his chin twitch toward that upward nod of approval. It was almost a shame to have to parry it.

Vayne stepped, not away from her fist, but toward it. The elbow of his left arm came up to meet her fist on its sharp point. Bone met bone, and muscle clenched, and it was a surpassingly inelegant thought but gods her eyes were perfect in that moment. Vayne grunted appreciatively at the force behind her fist as it rebounded, his own eyes dancing with intent.

"Well struck. Now, I reply."

His right hand raised, palm open and fingers clasped together as tightly as a phalanx, readying itself in a pose she'd no doubt recognize as the Lotus Palm their master was so famous for.

And how well Tifa recognized it might determine whether she noticed the sweep of his left leg toward her knee.

Ty!

[thereinsofhistory]

Her follow-through required Vayne to turn the feint to a more direct defense, his palm skating under Tifa's wrist to guide her blow past his chin. He did his best not to show surprise at the light whip of wind her passing fist swept over his face. Despite the several inches of height he had on her, Tifa was remarkably precise in her motions, yet that precision cost her none of the verve and speed of her strikes.

This girl had the gift of clarity.

Vayne considered replying with a fist of his own, and may well have, were he not so...oddly spellbound. It's merely the wine, he told himself, but Vayne was not so convinced. Frowning, he stepped in and thrust his shoulder forward in a bodily slam towards her chest, muscles knotting to put his weight behind the blow. Perhaps he could have chosen a more direct counterstroke, but Vayne did not care to bloody a woman he planned to take to bed. Besides, the finer techniques of Zangan's art were hardly necessary to defeat her. He'd need barely half his strength to bring her down.

[thereinsofhistory]

To have taken the first stroke of their little spar gave Vayne no small satisfaction. That little upward nod paid another visit to his jaw as Tifa stumbled back, and Vayne decided on making an early end of this. The sway of her breasts beneath her robe was something he would have ignored, ought have ignored, except his blood was up and his patience was clouded by wine and he could smell the advantage -

- and her fist smacked against his jaw.

What? He was more jolted than hurt, but Vayne felt her fist connect with the hinge of his jaw, her jab darting in and out of his vision like the wings of a snowfly. He felt himself stumble half a pace, both eyebrows lifting on his forehead. A feint he'd been prepared for. A strike of such haste, he'd...not.

Now this was getting interesting.

But only interesting. Still dispensing with his fists, Vayne lifted a hard knee toward her middle instead, seeking to drive the very breath of hope from her.

[thereinsofhistory]

Vayne circled with her, unwilling - or unable - to let her out of his sight. Now Tifa's back was to the window, the breeze running through her raven hair like a lover's fingers. His jaw had finally begun to ache from her strike, a sensation only pronounced by the rush of adrenaline and the lull of the wine and the damning distance of her body, just out of his grasp. It had his blood thundering in his veins. How long since I've had a quarry that could surprise me? he mused.

Tifa was still trying to regain her breath, and he felt her eyes combing his stance for any whisper of advantage. Vayne thought it best to press his own.

"I fear your friends are going to have to get used to Nalbina." And his leg lifted and scythed through the air in a sharp kick aimed at her hip.

[thereinsofhistory]

Unconventional and unexpected, this. Vayne had guessed her to simply veer away from the kick, the way Zangan would have advised - not to grasp his leg like a drunken Bangaa in his cups. He huffed his surprise when Tifa pulled on his ankle, the heel of his grounded foot readying itself instinctively to launch itself into one of their master's classic drop-kicks -

And Vayne realized he'd been had.

There were only so many working counters from the position she had him in, and all of them were too deadly to chance. Indeed, the only window of opportunity was...the window. Vayne clenched his jaw. Even another inch away and he might have been able to roll them both aside, but Tifa had veered them too close. Whether he struck with the other foot or tried to wrest his own away, the slightest exertion might now send her plummeting, and there was no telling if he'd have the speed to stop her fall.

Tifa surely understood this. Counted on it. Gambled her life on it.

Anger darkened his eyes. "You're bluffing," he said, on the heels of a growl - while the only heel he had left tensed on the carpet, immobilized by the weight of his frustration.

[thereinsofhistory]

His mood blackened with the night behind her. His fingers hooked at his sides, his anger demanding at least one last grapple, but the window was still too near and Tifa was too quick and her hands had darted too high above his knee besides. Her tugging finally overbalanced too much of his weight for his ankle to bear - and the Consul of Rabanastre found himself hobbling in the grasp of some common rebel girl. And just when the rage overcame her, so did she, launching her body at his like a javelin.

Damn it all.

Vayne fell. He hit the carpet on his back without a word, his hair lashing around his head like the tendrils of a Mallicant's mane, and he found himself pinned under his own courtesan and bloody hell she'd actually...

All pretense of his collected demeanor fled him. His breath smoked in his chest, and his eyes glared up into Tifa's face, but what he felt went beyond mere fury, just as the weight of her body pressing onto his went beyond mere temptation. And for once, Vayne's tongue could make no rhetorical foin. His lips formed a hard line on his face, mute and molten with frustration.

[thereinsofhistory]

His jaw clenched hard enough that blood welled under one of his teeth. Vayne's head lifted from the dark halo of his hair on the carpet, his muscles tensing with strength and a wild intent, wanting to test himself once more against her body, against the pressure of her chest and the pincer of her toned legs...but he stopped. Did he stop himself? Or was it the pressure of Tifa's body that held him back? No answer was apparent in his eyes. None he wished to reveal, at least.

A breath flared angrily in his nostrils, but his chest sank beneath hers. He was a son of House Solidor. Some dignity yet remained him.

"Very well." He scowled. "You win."

[thereinsofhistory]

He was prone a moment, his body still warm from the imprint of hers and his thoughts suddenly scattered to all corners of Ivalice. Hands tightened into fists, and fists loosened into palms, and then they were fists again. Vayne listened to the soft, steady patter of Tifa's footsteps across the floor behind him, a stark contrast to his heartbeat.

A quarry that could surprise me, he thought again. And growled.

Vayne rose to his feet. The night swept another breeze into his chest, but he could barely stomach the mere sight of the window any longer. He turned to where Tifa stood, panting and triumphant. For his own temper's sake, he kept his eyes on her face.

"Indeed. And doubtless you've never imagined you might sleep in the bed of a king." Before she could protest, Vayne turned the sort of stare on her that could silence even Gabranth. "I agreed to let you sleep untouched. I did not say you would choose where."

He went - stormed, perhaps, to the divan behind Tifa, over which his white shirt was draped. Vayne all but threw it on. "It should take me until tomorrow to return from Nalbina, so by all means, make yourself comfortable," he said without looking at her. He would remain calm. He would not chance what looking at her might entail. "Your friend has a name, I imagine. What is it?"