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]

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.

[thereinsofhistory]

The bed shook underneath them as Tifa fought his grip, but his arm may as well have been one of the bars on the Nalbinan cell from which he'd freed her friend. Vayne poured himself into the focus. He leaned in with the rest of his body, bearing down upon her with every ounce of lean muscle on his tapering torso clenched tight as wyrmscale. His free hand darted up to close around her right wrist, and with a surge of strength, he pried it from his forearm and pinned it over her head with an authoritative slap of flesh on flesh.

And now he was close enough that his hair draped over one shoulder, falling to the bed like a curtain at the close of a drama, as though to hide her face from the moon beyond the window.

Vayne lowered his head, close enough that his nose nearly brushed hers and he could feel the breathless gasps from her parted lips and now his fury crested into a dark, charged triumph. His arm rolled a hair up her throat, bracing under her soft curve of jaw to trap Tifa's face eye-to-eye with him.

"Yield," he said in a tone of iron command. "Yield to me, Tifa."

[thereinsofhistory]

He watched the fire in her eyes go mute with surrender, but the fury in him was unchanged. Vayne could feel it seething in his nostrils, smoldering in the heave of his chest against hers. Victory ought to have calmed him, returned some of his composure - but the way Tifa's body softened beneath his only stoked the urges rampaging through his mind.

Because it wasn't the fight he wanted to win. It was her.

The bar of muscle eased some of the pressure from her throat, enough to let her breathe again. Vayne's head tilted toward one side - and his lips glided over the curve of her cheek as he brought them to her ear. The hand pinning hers down tightened at that brief contact with her skin, warm like the sands of her kingdom. He pressed his full weight into her, whispering into her ear through gritted teeth.

"You know the price of defeat."

Vayne nudged her chin with his forearm, lifting her head just enough that her soft lips panted beside his own ear. "Say it. Swear yourself to me. I am yours, Vayne."

[thereinsofhistory]

It wouldn't have felt so right without a vestige of defiance. Vayne almost, almost felt his usual smirk return to his face. Even in submission she was still trying to strike at him, reach that part of his mind he'd buried so long ago - the part that knew what it was to doubt. But it was lost, along with his collected demeanor, in the blaze of sensations weaving heat and tension throughout his body. Her eyes, glistening in the dark. Her breasts under his chest, still quivering to catch her breath. Her legs, draped over the edge of the bed and splayed on either side of his.

And the whisper of his name into his ear, from those two lips that he could not stop looking at.

His forearm lifted from her throat, and reached over to cradle her face with a touch that was almost affectionate...until it wasn't. His long fingers darted up, and wove through the dark halo of her hair on the bed, gathering its strands - and closed into a possessive grip, tugging her head back. Vayne's body hitched along hers, the pressure of his hips flattening hers to those royal covers.

And along the thigh of the leg he had struck to send her to this bed, another sort of pressure made itself known, beginning to bulge through his leather leggings.

"You are mine," Vayne whispered to the face he held captive, the face that had maddened him for two nights. "You will obey me. You will serve me whichever way I ask. I am your master now. And do you know what your master is going to do with you, Tifa?" His palm hefted her head from the covers, soft but firm, commanding, inescapable. The fire in him dispensed with eloquence.

"Your master is going to fuck you into this bed."

Vayne lifted Tifa's head from the covers, her face falling into the shadow of his, and pressed his lips to hers.

[thereinsofhistory]

Her lips yielded beneath his and Vayne could scarcely recall a time where he'd felt such a fever of lust. It put a rush in his veins like a Quickening. He rolled his jaw into the kiss, feeling her breath shuddering in her mouth, still warm and thick from their spar - and barely holding back the words she doubtless wanted to say. Stop it. Let go of me. I hate you. It was all he could do to keep his breath a quiet seething hiss in his throat, rather than the groan it wished to be.

Vayne held the kiss a moment longer before his lips lifted from Tifa's, and now - now that familiar dark gleam was back in his eyes. He turned her face to curve her neck back, and then dropped his lips there, laying a breathy kiss on the hollow of her throat.

"You hate me so much, don't you."

The hand pinning hers down released it, skating down the length of her bare arm to her shoulder. Then his fingers closed around the strap of her blue dress, forcing her arm back to her side as he tugged the cloth roughly over the curve of her shoulder, as crudely as if they were coupling drunkenly in some Balfonheim tavern. Vayne pulled it past her collar and down to the flat plain of her belly, baring the mound one full breast to the night air - and to the cold fire gleaming in his eyes.

"Don't hide it, Tifa." Vayne's fingers closed around Tifa's breast like the handle of a sword, rolling it slowly on her chest, his lips following the heat of her neck to that small, beating pulse. "Show me that hatred. Succor me with it...so that I can drive it from your eyes when I take you."

[thereinsofhistory]

Somehow that instinctive brace of her hand against his arm stirred him as much as the way her breast molded against his palm. She's never hated anything as much as she hates me, he thought, and felt his blood quicken, his chest feeling like an iron grate over a furnace raging out of control. Has she ever felt anything so deeply as that?

Some of that furnace heat hissed through his teeth. Vayne's knuckles whitened as her nipple flowered under his palm, his fingers shifting between a worshipful cradle and a possessive squeeze of that soft globe, as though he could not decide how better to enjoy her. His lips trailed over her throat, kissing to the curve of her neck and shoulder, his eyes rolling up beneath a fringe of his hair to watch the play of hate and despair across her face.

"Go on. We both know there's more." His gaze smoldered with challenge, seeking out that helpless fury that had tears glistening in Tifa's eyes. "I killed your King. Now I'm kissing you, touching you, having my way with you in his bed...the bed your beloved Ashelia was born in." His teeth nipped lightly at her skin, and his hand shifted to let his thumb find the pink peak of her nipple. "You are the pleasure slave of a kingslayer."

One knee rose to push Tifa's thigh aside, the hem of her gown falling back from her leg to fold and drape above his prize. Vayne raised his hips. The weight forming in his leather pants came up between those battle-toned thighs, and pressed to the bared fabric of her underwear. The hand gripping her hair tightened at the touch, at that whisper of hidden heat.

"And no one is coming to save you."

[thereinsofhistory]

"I want no savior. I need no savior. Man and god alike can keep their salvation." His lips pressed another fervent kiss to the curve of her neck, just above her collar. Two fingers joined the thumb attending her nipple, trapping the little bud and rolling it between their tips. "Your hate means more to me than all their favor."

It was perhaps - no, it was careless of him to let those words free, to hint at the truth of the world when it was so irrevocably bound with his aims. But the warmth and smoothness of Tifa's body had an effect on him that even that forgotten wine on the table could not rival.

As if to evince it to himself, his hips tightened and ground more deeply against her, his erection now obvious and probing insistently at that tender seam hidden behind her underwear. Vayne could feel her seizing up under the pressure, the soft palm on his chest so eager to push him away and yet so trapped by her duty.

Vayne decided the bloody Espers could take his plots and secrets for tonight. The sight of her drove them all from his mind.

He released Tifa's hair, letting her head roll free, and that hand swept down to take hold of the other strap of her dress. Vayne peeled it with ruthless patience, baring her other breast but not stopping there, no, not stopping at all. He tugged it over that defending arm as it tried to conceal her dignity, wresting the cloth all the way down to her navel. Both his heart and his arousal thundered with every inch of the lush body bared to his sight.

"I will have no shortage of enemies with what I dare. Dalmasca. Rozarria. The gods themselves, though you would not believe it." His fingers softened on her nipple at the tail end of those words, whispered into the dark between them. His other hand moved down to stroke along Tifa's hip. Then along her thigh. Then along the inside of that thigh.

Then it joined the pressure forming in his pants, and stroked commandingly against her clothed sex.

"I shall not be cast down. You shall not be known as the mere slave of a kingslayer. I shall achieve what I wish, Tifa..." Vayne lowered his lips to her other breast, and now lips and fingers alike joined in attending to her body, above and below. "And you will be known as the lover of a new Dynast-King."

[thereinsofhistory]

Vayne did not reply at first. The pucker of her nipple against his lips spoke to the urges that had haunted him throughout that flight to Nalbina, and the merest brush of contact with her breast stoked that furnace of lust within him. It was a moment before he could slake his lust for it, lashing it slowly with his tongue whenever a heavy kiss would no longer satisfy him. Tifa had gone as taut as a drawn bowstring beneath him. That tension, the strained gasps from her lips as she tried to steady her breathing, and the soft rise and fall of her chest only encouraged him to sate himself on those stiffened pink peaks - stroking, plucking, tracing...indulging himself in her body as though it were a banquet laid out for his coronation.

Eventually, Vayne forced himself to slow. His manhood was beginning to ache from the constriction of his pants, from all the frustration and thwarted longing of the last day and night, from the barriers of leather and cloth that barred it from the heat beneath his fingers. Moreover - moreover, it was not the only tension in him demanding release.

His jaw set, and the words spilled out. And as gifted as he was in oration, the bile in his throat was nothing he could have pretended.

"The gods," and it was an effort not to spit the word, "gave Raithwall a sword. Cut him a stone. Sent him forth to conquer the age. Not because he wished it, but because they willed it. Because they have always willed it, throughout our history. Because they do not trust us to write our own."

Gritted out like that, the truth of the world's history seemed a small, pathetic thing. Vayne raised his head to look at her, and his hand released her nipple, opening into a palm over her breast. "I dare to give Ivalice, all Ivalice, the freedom it is truly owed, for the first and final time. No longer will the gods make our history their shadow-play. I will use them as they used me. As they used you. As they have used us all for centuries."

Below, his thumb pressed against the peak of her sex, then fell beside his bulge to trace down the crease of her entrance. Then it dragged upward again, grinding the soft fabric against the tender folds beneath. Vayne's eyes held hers throughout. "If I must grant you this freedom by force, then that is my duty."

The rest of his fingers gathered to the hem of Tifa's underwear, hooked under the band, and pulled. "And I accept it."

[thereinsofhistory]

"Does any Dalmascan hate me as much as you do?" Vayne gave a soft chuckle through his nose. "I suspect the answer is rather the same. But no. Archadia goes on believing, blind to the snares the gods have laid for Ivalice. Her people are much like yours." The hand still on her breast rolled it slowly again on her chest, lured to its softness and heft. "It is I who is...different."

Yet he did not feel so different from his fellow Humes in that moment, all bestial heat and arousal, his eyes drawn to the warm slit of her womanhood now laid bare. Vayne felt his erection straining again, not merely at the sight of her sex but the feel of its glistening heat against his knuckles. The grunt rising to his throat lost itself in a low, seething sigh. He felt warmth welling under his tongue, and a carnal urge he'd thought forgotten in years past returned to him now.

A breath flared in his chest, and Vayne lifted his hips from Tifa's. The hand on her underwear went to either strap on her lush hips, working them down her thighs. His eyes fell to her flushed face, and he wove steely command into his voice.

"Don't move."

He lowered his face, and slowly kissed down from the valley of her breasts along the warm plain of her stomach. His lips lost themselves there for a time like a wanderer in the desert, before pausing at Tifa's navel. He laid a deeper kiss there, parting his lips to allow his tongue to tease and roll along its rim, a foretaste of his intent. All the while the fingers at her breast kneaded and massaged her nipple, spellbound by its touch...and now one knee sank down onto the carpet at the foot of the bed, his chest relaxing on the edge of the bed, between her thighs.

The hand gripping her underwear opened and returned to Tifa's thigh, stroking its curve with a sinister adoration before pronating to grip it by the hamstring. Vayne lifted it high, forcing her sex to shift and splay for him. He could feel its warmth against his chest, and a breath steamed against her belly from between his clenched teeth.

"I'll not share your hatred with any other," he said, and now his whisper left the curve of her navel behind, an inch lower along her stomach - and then it was lower. Much lower. "Hate me, Tifa. Only me. Let me hear it in your voice now. Like the blackest of prayers."

Vayne tilted his head, breathed his lust, and sealed his lips against her sex.