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]

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?"

[thereinsofhistory]

"I did." Vayne saw no reason to be coy with her. He turned his body to face the profile of hers, with much the same expression he'd greeted the Lady Ashe with in Garamsythe. "I led the party that captured her in the waterway. I was there when they clapped the irons on her wrists. And I gave the order to have her given to Ghis."

He said the Judge's name plainly enough, but the word seemed to breathe frostbite into the air. Like Cid, the Commander of the Leviathan enjoyed a sordid reputation, though one more carnal in its undertones than the good Doctor's. Vayne had been quite clear to Ghis that the Princess was not to be similarly treated, but then, Tifa did not know that. The alarm and askance in her eyes were evident - and a bridge to the desire that had been perched in his mind all through that flight to Nalbina.

"Unlike your friend, the Lady Ashe is a hostage of particular importance. But..." Vayne twitched his wrist in a considering gesture, the wine swirling slowly in the proffered glass before Tifa. "I am prepared to show her some mercy. If her champion can win it."

[thereinsofhistory]

Though Vayne was usually discreet in expression, he could not hide the lift of his eyebrows or the slight tilt of his chin. Perhaps Tifa noticed herself, the sudden ripple of surprise - or intrigue - that spread across his face as she spoke.

"Interesting." His smile was one of wry approval. "I believe that is the first you have ever called me by name."

There was a saying in the Old Archadian tongue, some proverb that translated roughly to how a man should know he has the favor of the stars to hear his name spoken in the voice of a fascinating woman. Since learning the truth of the nethicite, Vayne no longer cared if he had the favor of the stars - but hearing Tifa demand this of him by name reminded him that, once, he'd believed it. His smile smoothing back into a flat line, Vayne set the wine glasses on the small Galtean end table beneath the painting.

"Dalmasca knows peace under my rule. Your friend walks a free man. You stand here untouched. I keep my promises, Tifa. My every promise." For the second time that night, Vayne leaned toward Tifa close enough that he could feel the breath from her lips puffing near his, warm and heavy with fear for her Princess. This time his eyes were dark. His composure fled him, and his whisper found the edge of a growl.

"And I promise to make you mine."

He drew back after a moment, her scent still in his nostrils. Collecting himself, Vayne brought a wrist to his hand, beginning to undo the buttons of his cuff. "My terms are unchanged," he said. "I trust you still remember them?"

[thereinsofhistory]

"Righting the course of history is something pursued for the good of the people, not for their love." Vayne kept his eyes on his sleeves as he unfastened and rolled them up the swells of his forearms. "And if ushering peace means I must first tame and bring Dalmasca to heel, then I will. Just as I will tame your insurgence." His gaze at last lifted, darting pyrefly-quick to Tifa's defiant stare. "Just as I will tame you."

Blithe as his tone may have been, Vayne was anything but. His eyes had taken the measure of her attire and recognized his advantages, but he had the self-possession to know they were only advantages. As encumbered as that dress left her, Vayne would not underestimate a woman who'd used the prospect of her own death to defeat him, and he knew firsthand just how educated those fists were. A slight bruise had already begun to pucker on his jaw, from the glancing blow Tifa had struck the previous night. He'd caught himself touching it all along the flight returning from Nalbina, testing the pain - remembering the desperate look in her eyes as she'd thrown it, the instant their eyes locked in the exchange that had been somehow slow and instant at the same time.

He'd realized he was impressed.

That infuriated him.

"Enough," Vayne said, his voice oddly hoarse as he turned and paced over the carpet, meeting her circling motion with a counterpart. His muscles were tight with purpose, his gait weighted down with barely repressed anger. His eyes turned a fulminous, covetous, burning glare at Tifa. At this common girl who had dared impress him.

"You are a lost little girl. You understand nothing of the shadow over Ivalice. You never will." Vayne lowered his head as a Coeurl might before the fatal pounce. "But I'll not have your understanding tonight. What I will have...is you."

Tensing, seething, and longing, Vayne turned a feint in with his shoulder, then pushed off his right foot and lunged forth, inviting her to raise her forearms in an instinctive guard - and threw a haymaker meant to rattle it to the hollow of her bones.

[thereinsofhistory]

He was too furious to appreciate the show of educated technique in Tifa's strikes. Even that small jab that pelted his striking arm would have borne a nod of approval from their master, to say nothing of the resilience of her footing. Had it been the night prior, Vayne would have traded blows with blithe amusement. Any trace of it was lost in the haze clouding his mind - a haze that drowned out everything but the face and body that had him so mad with lust.

She had the gift of clarity. Vayne's gifts lay elsewhere: in force of will.

There was no elegance to his parries. Vayne's left forearm met Tifa's probing punch like a club, and he almost seemed to relish the bite of her knuckles. He angled that arm and threw a blow that was more power than finesse, and missed her shoulder by a hair. Adrenalized as he was, Vayne recognized the stance she was slipping into, one meant to keep her evasive and light on her feet. But he knew her dress would only allow those skilled legs so much room to move.

His, on the other hand...

Hips twisting, Vayne threw his leg forward, his shin scything toward her thigh to deliver what was ostensibly meant as a way to break her footing - but considering his state, Vayne could not trust his own strength anymore. The rage of his frustration tightened the muscle as well as any empowering magick could have. And he was done fighting the urges that the sight of her body in that low-cut gown conjured in him.

[thereinsofhistory]

Breaking her footing had created a window of opportunity, and one Vayne knew he would have to seize quickly. Even reeling against the bed, Tifa's eyes seemed to blaze, like a wildfire a whisper away from flashpoint. So there was no pause of self-satisfaction, no appreciative smirk, no twitch of a raven-black eyebrow. There was no pause at all.

There was only her, him, and the hands he would use to vanquish her.

One stroke. As the falcon takes its prey.

The instant that his striking foot returned to the carpet, Vayne pushed off it, and lunged at Tifa in a motion that was more grappler than pugilist. One palm knifed toward her shoulder in a straightforward pin, easy enough to bat aside - while the other arm swung before him as though he were bringing a shield to bear, not to deliver a blow but with the intent instead to lock itself against her throat, force her head down, and lay all the pressure of that arm on her carotid. His own weight would do the rest.

Success would see Tifa pinned underneath him on that bed of kings. And if that were not enough to daze her, the intensity of the stare this would bring her face-to-face with just might.