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

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?"

[thereinsofhistory]

"Cloud." The names these southerners gave their sons. Vayne nodded curtly, buttoning the shirt as some semblance of calm returned to his face. He could chance looking at her now.

Vayne turned back to Tifa, and paced over slowly, hands empty at his sides. He stopped himself just shy of where the heat of her body might tempt him against his promise, and tilted his head down to look at her. For all the collected courtesy of his tone, he was not smiling.

"I will have my men bring you food and drink in the morning, and a Potion should you require it. Ask for a bath to be drawn and a change of attire brought to you, if you wish." He leaned closer, his voice gathering deadly softness. "You do not leave. You do not so much as think of leaving. If you are gone when I return, I will reap my retribution from your friend's flesh."

[thereinsofhistory]

The sun was slipping toward the horizon of the Westersand when the palace finally came astir with the news of Vayne's return. The murmurs had a level of anticipation emboldened by those that had filled the palace for most of the day. Even the maids had begun to whisper that the Consul had been seen leaving his quarters the night before, his consort for the night untouched, and departed on an Archadian shuttle that very night. It skirted between scandal and intrigue. What sort of woman could spur the Emperor's son to such actions?

But the gossiping hushed once the Consul walked the hallways again - and now he was no longer alone.

The door to the royal chamber shuddered once like a waking Shieldwyrm, and then opened. Vayne entered first, changed into a new white linen shirt and leather pants but still wearing the same sharp-eyed stare he'd left Tifa with. That stare swept only briefly over her, taking in her new, even more daring attire and the now-loose curtain of her brown hair. His eyes glanced briefly to her feet as well, noting a trace of moisture - but other than a curious twitch of one eyebrow, he voiced no disapproval.

Indeed, his eyes spoke a much different sentiment. You obeyed me. He was...not unimpressed.

Behind him strode four Judges in escort formation, for the man they led in chains: a young, lean Dalmascan with piercing eyes and an unusual manner of hair. Though shackled and muzzled, he had none of the grime of Nalbina left on him. Indeed, it seemed he had been freshly bathed, and his body wore the familiar pink lines of wounds recently healed by healing magicks. And his eyes were immediately on Tifa, alert and relieved.

He might have made a move to rush to her, had Vayne not paused between them, standing at his full height to look down at the shorter man with a cold stare. The prisoner did not shy from it, only glaring more fiercely at the Archadian. No doubt Tifa's dress had his mind darting down all sorts of nefarious avenues. Vayne thought that amusing. Amusing enough to spur.

Vayne turned to Tifa. "I believe this is the man you wished me to spare?"

[thereinsofhistory]

There came again that gauging upward nod of Vayne's head. After a moment, he turned from Tifa, and nodded to the Judge at Cloud's right. The guard grunted assent and plucked the keyring from his hip, but before he could bring it over, he stopped - frozen in his motion by Vayne's upraised palm.

"House Solidor honors its promises," Vayne said, taking the key from the guard himself. He selected the gilded key on the ring, stepped over to Cloud, taking ahold of his shackles without so much as looking at the boy. The key found the slot joining his hands together, and turned.

Cloud's face was a study in disbelief. His eyes flashed warily from the key to Vayne, and then over Vayne's shoulder to Tifa, and then back to Vayne again. Yet Vayne did not meet his eyes, focused on cracking open the shackles at their hinges. The chains rattled as they were loosened, and the iron cuffs fell away to the carpet, thudding softly for the guards to collect.

And just as Cloud was beginning to raise his hands, Vayne laid a palm on his shoulder, and met those glowing green eyes with the reptilian stare of a reflexive killer.

"You should know, boy," he said slowly, with all the frost of Paramina in his voice, "that your doings from now on will be watched closely. I shall forgive your attempt on my life, for her sake. A second defiance and I shall not prove so kind, Cloud."

Somehow he managed to make the boy's name verge on the edge of insult. Cloud at least had the wit to sense it, for he shrugged Vayne's hand off that muscled shoulder with acid contempt. Vayne turned from him to Tifa, lit by the fading light of day, and walked slowly to her side. He stepped close to her. Close enough that his promise to leave her untouched seemed more fragile by the moment. Close enough that even the Judges watching might have thought he were about to slip an arm around the swell of her waist.

"Return to your city a free man, son of Dalmasca, knowing that you live in debt to my mercy...and the affection I bear your friend."

He let that word hover like the hum of magick. Then Vayne tilted his head down to Tifa, looking down into her face with - something. Something in his eyes that was unclear. "I will permit you to bid him farewell, if you wish," he said simply. "Be quick about it."

[thereinsofhistory]

Neither did one of the Judges, who cast a look at his Consul as he departed, no doubt wondering if he might be given a curt nod to reprimand the newly-freed insurgent. But none came. As Cloud was led out of the chamber with that veiled threat, Vayne might have worn the expression on his face to a play whose ending he already knew. He simply watched the man go. After all, he'd known him for a night's flight already. Read him, rather. This was no surprise...as was what Vayne recognized in his exchange with Tifa.

The Judges closed the doors behind them, and Cloud passed out of sight, and then they were alone.

Vayne let a moment pass before he rounded on Tifa, meeting the wary and expectant stare of those wine-dark eyes. Again there was that whisper of possible intent. He looked at her as though he might brush a lock of hair from her forehead, or cup her chin, or otherwise disdain the promise he'd made. No motion came - but then he leaned in, chin tipping toward his chest in a motion familiar to any woman who has known a lover leaning in for a kiss.

And Vayne stopped, and whispered in a flat, hard tone:

"You know he will never love you back, Tifa."

He let the words hang there, in the short distance between their faces. Then he pulled away, and paced to the side of that grand bed, where the bottle of rich Valens red from the night before still sat half-spent on the table. Vayne took it, and one of the two glasses by its side.

"I trust you enjoyed your stay," he went on, as if he'd only just walked in. He poured a glass - and then a second. "Were you fed as well? Have you a thirst?"

[thereinsofhistory]

He only needed to hear her tone to know how deeply he'd cut. Yet no smile found his lips. Vayne imagined Tifa's bond with that boy was more complicated than his barb suggested. Friendships made in childhood, as he'd guessed they had, often were. But the truth of their relationship was their own affair. It wasn't the purpose of his words, besides.

"I am glad to hear it," he replied, setting the bottle down once the wine had been poured. "You are my guest, after all. It would have displeased me if you'd starved yourself."

Vayne crossed over the room, walking to Tifa with a glass in either hand. As blithe as he seemed, Vayne did slow somewhat to appreciate the cascade of her hair down her back. Free of its braid, and freshly washed, it caught some of the dimming sunset beyond the window and allowed the light to play across her dark brown strands.

He wondered what it would be like to seize his fingers in that hair.

The tension of the thought filled the fingers he had around one glass. Vayne dismissed it, lifting his eyes to the large painting before them as he came to a stop beside her. "You've an eye for art," he said to Tifa, as though they were a couple strolling through the gardens of the Verdpale in its prime. "This was a gift to the Royal Family by King Harithas of Nabradia, father to the late Prince Rasler. Painted by his own hand, no less. And..." A short breath left his nose, as if the irony demanded it. "Given on the occasion of Princess Ashelia's birth."

Vayne turned to Tifa, offering her a glass of the Valendian red. "Shall we drink to her good health?" An eyebrow twitched, and his head tilted with a sort of expectant curiosity as he looked down into her face. "Or is it her freedom you think to procure next?"