#tw historical slavery

[kneelingshadowsalome]

prefacing this by saying I have absolutely no information on this period of history, but Rome was sacked and ultimately destroyed by Germanic tribes.

And naturally, the first thing I thought of upon learning that was Invader!König X Roman Maiden!Reader. Similar to your story, I’m thinking he decides to take the Reader as a trophy of war similar to his comrades. You and plenty of other maidens are tied up, thrown across horseback or across shoulders, and dragged off back to Germania. Depending on how dark you want it, König could wait for his little prize to want his cock, or he could have no patience at all and fuck her as soon as he gets a chance. Of course, he’s still somewhat of a gentleman, he’ll make sure she enjoys it, but like it or not his cock’s going in her.

I think this is an opportunity to lean even further into the barbarian König idea, with varying levels of darkness.

Save me dark barbarian!König... 🖤💋

CW: dark content, noncon groping, noncon cuddling, fear of SA, König's idea of hot sex is problematic to say the least, reader's level of enthusiasm/consent is ambiguous

He doesn’t care about your delicate sensibilities or noble background, he’s here to bring your Empire down and your weak men to their knees. It’s about time someone burned Rome to the ground; no amount of foreign perfume can cover the smell of shit in these streets…

But he won’t say no to gold or jewels, they might some day decorate his future wife's neck and wrists perhaps. Neither will he ride homeward without a slave to keep him warm. He hasn’t had a woman in months, the only thing closest to a cunt has been his calloused fist and he’s grown tired of that, nothing can compare with the real deal so a soft little female is exactly what he needs to keep him company when he and his warriors return North.

Your options are either freezing to death or crawling inside this giant’s cloak when he holds it open for you come nightfall, the voyage to Germania bringing with it the first snow and cold winds straight from Hades. You have no option but to go to this man for some body heat, the low rumble in his chest resembling the pleased purr of some untamed beast as he envelops you in wool and a hungry embrace.

He never speaks to you, only talks with his hands that roam all over your body as you cling to him with clattering teeth. Examining the wideness of your hips, the plumpness of your ass and tits, he serves himself a handful and some pinches as if he’s sampling fruit at the marketplace. Rubs your nipples between the pad of his thumb and pointer until you flinch from pain, mutters something pleased when he sees your skittish reaction. He won’t allow you to pull away however, not when you’re finally here, so back to his arms you go as he crushes you against his chest.

He’s amused at your attempts to both huddle closer and squirm away: why are you being so difficult when clearly, you want this too?

He saw how you looked at him back there when he was drenched in blood, that’s the reason he chose you. You’re sweeter than an apple, didn’t even scream when he swept your hair from your face to have a better look at you, you only eyed him with challenge when he inspected your lips, waistline and hips. A scared female would have avoided his eyes and begged not to be killed or worse, but you only lifted your chin and spat on his face, practically begging to get fucked…

And now you’re acting like you don’t want his cock while at the same time, you continue to stare at him like a deer in heat. If you don’t want him to fuck you then you should stop making him hard, but in truth König is only glad that he chose you out of all women. The ride back home won’t be dull with a fiery fox woman like you, he has to be careful that he doesn’t get bitten and bruised… How his men would laugh in the morning if they found out that the vixen he stole has made him hers, little teeth marks decorating his skin and betraying everyone your claim.

He would only be proud of you if you did that; women are quite adorable when they have some fire in them. But make no mistake, he won’t let you go no matter how hard you act like you hate him… Everyone here knows you want to jump on his cock; had he decided to inspect your pussy too while covered in your husband’s blood, he could’ve bet all his fortune along with his horse that you were already wet for him.

He could take you right now on this cold, hard ground, try to see how long it takes to make you wet and pliant. The only thing really keeping him from doing so are his men, no doubt wanting to see how a Roman lady takes their giant leader's cock. But he’s not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you naked, let alone watching him fuck you, he'd have to kill them all afterwards...

So he settles for making his naughty little slave warm, and both of you a little breathless. He can find a more discreet place for you tomorrow, order a break or two to ease the heaviness of his sacks, the aching hard ons he’s had ever since he saw you. He has to be careful not to break you, and remember to kiss you on your neck, he heard that that’s the key to make women wet and willing.

You seem so fragile and frail when you fall asleep, finally surrendering to him, your body yielding and molding against his. In the morning, you whimper sweetly when he squeezes your now warm, plush body, and plants kisses on your face, your neck. You have no idea that the warriors are already mocking him for “making you wait so long”, that he has listened to stupid jokes all morning with you securely tucked inside his cloak. You bite him when he tries to come too close, all the brutes around you burst to laughter as he howls from pain.

Not feeling at all sorry for him when he rubs his neck and looks at you with drowsy curiosity, you rise and spit again on the ground as if you had just tasted something vile. He can’t stifle his smile then, your idea of foreplay is much more fun than what he had in mind…

And you aren’t flung over his horse, but actually get to ride it with him, the arm around your middle like iron as he keeps you as close to him as possible. You don’t know that he’s reluctant to take an unwilling woman, and that this preference makes him the laughing stock of the group. Neither do you know that König has already pictured you inside his hut, baking bread and scolding children like the firebrand that you are, giving him a naughty little wrestle and a fistfight every night before bed... Shuddering from want like you do now on his horse as he exposes your breasts to the approaching winter.

You are about to faint as tiny snowflakes land on your nipples, melting instantly as this man starts to fondle your tits. Slumping against his blazing form, you can do nothing but accept your fate as the horse keeps walking and the men around you shout and whistle at the sight of your breasts. The rough barks of your captor quickly end their excitement upon seeing your exposed tits, the whistles stop and the men turn their eyes quickly away from you.

The man behind you is now perfectly content, riding in the crisp morning air while pawing your breast with one hand and holding the reins with the other, his groin grinding against you with the movements of the horse, making it clear that he might soon stop this torture altogether and take you to the nearby woods for a quick fuck…

[backpackingspace]

I am once again thinking about how odysseus who witnessed the horrors that the captured women went through (one of his main duties in the iliad was taking the women back home and making sure they were as comfortable as possible and safe because he was the only one trusted not to violate them further due to his devotion to penelope. And in the odyssey part of the reason circe sent him to the underworld was so that he'd have to listen to all these women's stories (before he could talk to the prophet) ). Who was one of the few that saw women as people and respected their space and opinions. And was then put in those exact same situations. I don't have the motivation right now to do a full literary analysis of this (I'll site the sources too) but oh man one day I'm going to write a full essay on this.

[theorahsart]

Incorruptible Chap 3 pt 3

We are still to an extent, having these arguments in modern day. And I thoroughly agree with Robespierre on this point. I'd rather my country lose any wealth it currently has, when that wealth is at the expense of other people's lives.

In the spirit of anti-racism- I wanna point out that although Robespierre played a small part in speaking up for the rights of black people, it should be acknowledged that the Haiti revolution and abolition movement was vm started by free black people asking for rights, and the slave rebellions organised later. You could read 'The Black Jacobins' for more information about this~

((edit: I used a lot of the same language Banarve originally used on this topic, but on refection I think his wording is too vague (I suspect on purpose...to avoid the ugliness of what he's arguing for lol) and it doesnt give much context to ppl not familiar to Frev, and what he/the colonies are arguing for. So I changed the dialogue. Sorry for anyone who reblogged the original, although thank you anyways :3))

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Runnin' Roughshod"

Pairing: Bucky x black female Reader

Rated: Explicit

Tags: civil war, westward expansion, homesteader Bucky, Black!Fem!Reader, slavery, historic AU, forbidden romance, interracial relationship, racism, period typical attitudes, brothel, prostitution

A Bucky x Black!fem!Reader historical AU fic that I decided to bullet point for funsies, and then wound up writing half of the damn thing that way 🙄

You're a slave living in 1860 Missouri, just outside of St. Louis.

You're the property of (and half-sister to) Master Lewis. Lucky for you, Master Lewis Senior is dead, and Lewis Jr.'s young bride Darcilla is kind and agreeable, with progressive notions that she brought along with her trousseau when she came from Maryland to wed Master Lewis.

Life is very good for you, compared to some others. You work in the house, as lady's maid to the new Mrs. Lewis (who insists you call her Ms. Darcy), and sometimes help in the shop in town.

The Lewis's own a handful of other slaves who help run their household and dressmaker's shop, but since the death of your mother you've had no family (well, except for Master Lewis, though nobody counts that). You do your work and keep to yourself. Sometimes you make a little money at the dress shop, which Mistress Darcilla lets you keep behind her husband's back.

You save up every penny, but buying your own freedom is a far off dream. Your whole life, you've never seriously contemplated running away. It isn't worth the risk.

But when tensions in the county begin to rise and you hear rumors of secession, you grow worried. You begin to squirrel away what valuables you can, gain the trust of your mistress, and bide your time.

With the uncertainty of war brewing, Master Lewis announces his plans to move the family deeper south. You can no longer afford to wait. You have to get out now, before your one and only chance is lost forever.

Your money gets you as far as Topeka, where you're forced to stop until you can earn enough to join a wagon train out West. You find work at a saloon, serving drinks and making flirty conversation with the men who come in for a good time.

In the mornings, you begin to learn the piano from "Old Freddie," and during the occasional slow afternoon, Madame Lapierre, the French woman who governs the "upstairs" girls, will play a game of chess with you whilst she tries to make headway in convincing you to "expand your employment opportunities."

Topeka is Free-Soiler territory, but there's always the fear that Master Lewis might find you. And, on the verge of statehood, the Kansas territory has tipped into increasingly violent conflict between anti- and pro-slavery settlers. With conditions worsening and all out war looming on the horizon, you have no guarantee of safety there anymore.

Desperate to raise the funds to go West more quickly, you tell Madame that you're ready to start selling more than drinks and conversation. You become her newest "poppet" prepared to do whatever it takes to get out of town before your luck - and your freedom - run out.

You've never been with a man, but you know the rudimentary facts of life, and with a little help from the other girls and Madame, you prepare to become just another "sporting girl."

Your first afternoon on the job, a roughshod rider comes into town, seeking lodging, drink, and the sort of "company" that you're there to provide.

The white girls get first dibs on clients, but the roughshod asks for you to be sent up to his room. You wish he wouldn't have. Not because you want to put off the inevitable, but because now the other girls will be nasty to you. The man is handsome, and the girls were all eager to get their hands in his pockets.

You're shaking in your boots, but Madame gives you a shot of whiskey, a spritz of her genuine French perfume, and a tiny pewter snuff case for "wetting the way," (whatever that means). She tells you to put it in your bosom and use it "when the time is right."

Terrified but determined to see it through, you head upstairs to the roughshod's room.

It does not go as you expect. First, he demands to know if you're working there of your own free will. You admit that he is your very first client - which you regret doing, because his face goes even stonier when you do. He barks out orders at you, insisting that you leave the room at once and fetch him the house's tub.

He wants a bath - a hot one! - and with soap, and a towel!! You're very happy about that, because it costs a whole sixty-five cents more, and it will also mean extra time spent with you, which leaves you with even more money in your pocket at the end of the day. You're still nervous, but elated at the luck you're having on your very first client!

The other girls are stewing in the hall with jealously and make snide comments about your race and the man's preference for you. They refuse to help you prepare the bath, but you don't care one lick. That's just more time the roughshod will be paying to spend with you, while you haul bucket after bucket of boiled water up the stairs.

Madame catches you in the hallway and tells you not to mind the other girls. She's a bit drunk on sherry, and she jokes that at this rate, you'll probably only have to spread your legs for two or three minutes! (God, you hope so).

The man is filthy, and he's hurt - as though he's been in a fight or fallen from his horse. He asks you to help bathe him, and you get started with your heart in your throat. His manners are as rough as he is, but he isn't mean to you, and he doesn't try to grab you, which is a relief. With shaking hands, you proceed to wash him.

This is your first time touching a naked man's body, and you try not to look down into the bathwater as you wash him. You're embarrassed, but it's not just nerves; seeing and touching such a handsome man has you warming as though you've downed another three shots of whiskey.

You squirm and fight not to let the roughshod see your flusterment, as your belly tightens with the familiar, but never indulged, feelings of lust.

The roughshod stays in the bath until the water's gone gray and cold. You kneel beside the tub and wring out the cloth, but squeak when, all at once, the man heaves himself up to standing, the water streaming down his body and his ... his Johnson right at the level of your face!

He grunts and swings his leg out of the tub - exposing all of his manhood jostling around not even two feet from your face as he does so! You blush and look away, but you can feel him staring at you as he grabs up the towel and dries himself off.

Surely, you think, now he will ask you to take off your clothes and join him on the bed. You know only the basics of what goes where for the act, having witnessed clandestine coitus a time or two in your life. You wait, unable to look up at him, as you expect to hear his gruff voice order you about. And it does.

"Get up."

You stand, trembling. But what he says next isn't what you're expecting: "You know how to rub a man's muscles?"

You look up at him. He's got the towel in hand, making no effort to use it to cover himself. Then again, you think, why should he? You're just another painted poppet (or, soon to be). "R-rub what?" you stammer - quite idiotically. Of course, you know what muscles are. ... You're just not sure if he's using the word as a ... a euphemism.

He rolls his eyes and brings the towel up to dry his hair. "Knew I should'a asked for the China girl," he mutters.

You clear your throat and look steadfastly at his face. "You're hurt," you say, because you've seen every part of his body now, despite your efforts to keep your eyes trained North. And you know he's got bruises all on his legs and back and sides.

The roughshod nods and abandons the towel to the floor. "Yeah." He's not a talker, but you get the impression he's waiting to hear something from you.

You struggle to think of what that might be. "I ... have ... rubbed my mother's shoulders, when they hurt her. Um. And her feet?"

If you're not mistaken, the man's mouth twitches up the barest bit, beneath his beard. "Eh," he says, then turns around, presenting you with his - very manly - ass. "How bad can ya be?" He walks towards the bed, waving you along without looking back. "Well c'mere then."

He climbs up onto the room's bed and lies down, face in his arms. "What're you doing?" he grumps. "I said get over here."

Swallowing thickly, you hurry across the room. With his back turned, you have less trouble letting your eyes rove over his naked body. His back is broad and muscled, going from impossibly wide and tanned shoulders, tapering all the way down to his slim hips and his pale ass. His thighs are hairy and---no. You force your eyes true north again, looking at the bruises that you're increasingly starting to suspect came from a beating. "What happened to you?" you ask.

His head stays pillowed in the crooks of his arms. "Get up on the bed," he grunts. "Sit on my ass and I'll tell 'ya what to do."

Your eyes all but bug out of your head, when he tells you to straddle him. You do, your skirt rustling as you move and get up on him. You're hesitant to put your weight down, but he huffs and tells you to sit.

"Speck like you ain't gonna feel any more'n a feather. Sit."

He talks you through giving him - what he deems a "goddamn lousy" - massage. He grunts whenever you press on his bruises, pained, but once you get the hang of it, he at least goes quiet and doesn't complain anymore, so maybe you're not so horrible at it after all.

You rub his shoulders, his neck and back; your belly coiling tight once again, filling with a swooping feeling at having his warm skin and hard muscles underhand, at the feeling of his body held between your legs. You worry that he somehow knows how you're reacting, but you don't speak and neither does he.

When he eventually groans from pained-pleasure rather than pain, you can't help but smirk triumphantly. You keep expecting him to roll over and declare the massage over and demand for you to touch his Johnson, but that keeps not happening (though he does groan a little more).

You check the clock and see that it's now early evening. The light outside is almost gone. You worry that he's lost track of time and might refuse to pay for the hours he's spent with you, which will get your wages garnished.

So, tentatively, you slide your hands down to his thick waist, the swooping feeling intensifying at watching all the muscles in his back tense and shift underneath the skin.

"Why'd you stop?" he grunts.

"Are ... are you sure ..." You hesitate, not knowing how to seduce a man.

"Spit it out," he says, annoyed.

You lick your lips. "Well I just ... it's been awhile now and ... Are you sure this is all you want?"

"It feels good," he snaps, voice muffled in his arms. "That's what I'm payin' you for, ain't it?"

His uncharitable response should make you relieved, but instead it just leaves you worried and confused. Are you not seductive enough? Is he going to complain to Madame once he leaves here?

You need to speak up, take action, or else you may be in trouble. "Mister," you say, "I--"

"James," he grunts. "S'my name."

You pause, surprised that he wants you to use it, since he doesn't seem to like you very much. "James," you try again. "I want to make sure you're ... um ... getting your money's worth?"

He's silent and still, then drawls, "You don't sound too sure about that."

FOLKS THIS HAS BEEN OUT OF HAND FOR AWHILE NOW. LETS GO BACK TO AN ACTUAL FUCKING OUTLINE:

He has you lie down on the bed, and he regards you tenderly and seems like he's going to finally do it, but his face goes sour when you nervously reach your hand for his Johnson, and he tells you he doesn't need anything else.

"That's enough." He rolls away, comes back with a dollar bill, hands it over and gruffly tells you to go over to the mercantile and buy him a fresh shirt.

Relieved and yet somehow also terribly disappointed, you do so. When you return, his hair is tied back and he's got his pants on again.

You expect him to dismiss you, but he tells you he wants your company in the downstairs, too. He takes you down and the two of you eat and drink together at his behest. As it's now evening, the other poppets work on men nearby, shooting you jealous looks every so often.

James slowly opens up to you, engaging you in conversation over his dinner. You can't help but talk back, the conversation coming naturally and your shoulders relaxing. James is much more likeable after a whiskey or two, and the two of you even laugh and joke together. He decides to teach you a dice game, and the two of you have fun well into the evening, until he goes back up to bed -- alone.

Madame is drunk and very proud--because the roughshod actually pays for the entire time! In one fell swoop, you've made a handsome sum! You begin to hope that soon you'll be able to buy your way onto a wagon train and go West!

But the next day, your fortunes change.

A lawman shows up with none other than Mr. Brooks--Master Lewis' most trusted slave. Brooks tells the lawman that you are the one he's looking for. He has your papers to prove Mr. Lewis' ownership!

Being only tenuously free territory, the lawman has the say so on what happens to you. Just when it looks like he's going to hand you over to Brooks, the roughshod comes downstairs. He claims you're his property and that your name is Pearl. He has no proof, but says that's because he bought you from a 'chief down in Indian country' (the Oklahoma territory).

One of the white girls calls out that that's not true: you work there.

It seems that the lie won't work, but when the lawman asks Madame if that's true, Madame says your name is Pearl and you showed up with the roughshod the other day.

The marshal decides to trust the word of a white man over Mr. Brooks (who looks very angry indeed). He brandishes the papers and promises to come back with Master Lewis.

With no time to spare, you make haste. You have to leave town now, no matter the fact that you don't have the money to make it out West. You stuff your things in your bag and leave with the wages you've earned.

Outside, the roughshod grabs your arm and pulls you in. He demands you tell him the truth, since he stuck his neck out for you.

You confess everything--running away, your plan to set out West for San Francisco. You fear that he's had a change of heart and will take you to the lawman, but he gets stern-faced again and gruffly tells you to come with him back to his home with him.

You're confused, but he is bossy and all but forces you back to his homestead with him. There, he informs you that, after getting into a "scrape" with some locals himself, he has to leave. He offers to take you out West with him, and part ways in California.

You agree.

Sometime, months later, in California:

The country is at war, but it feels far away from where you are now, as do Master Lewis' chances of ever finding you again. James has hope that the North will win and slavery will be done away with, when the two of you arrive in San Francisco. You make him breakfast, and ask: "What now?"

He gets quiet for awhile. "Woman like you?" He says, chewing the last bite of a biscuit. "Sews, can play chess, hard worker, beautiful, and you cook like this?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek and looks away for a moment. When he looks back, there's false cheer in his eyes. "You're gonna make some man a fine wife someday."

You inhale deeply, fighting to keep the sting of that comment from getting to your eyes. "But not you?" you finally say, once you've gathered the breath - and the courage - to do so.

The false cheer bleeds to sadness, fond and regretful, and he shakes his head softly. "No Darlin'. Not me."

(spoiler alert: you wind up together with a happy ending anyway)

IM SORRY IT'S TWO AM WHY DID I DO THIS I NEED TO SLEEEEP 😩

(Will def be writing (more of) this fic in the future though!)

[whereserpentswalk]

There was, once in the ancient days, when Rome had conquered the Britians, a faerie prince had left for the day the realms of fae, where all the faeries danced, he left his tree stump palace and his subjects of kobolds and sprits, and his fellow lords of the fae, and he came to the great villas and groves of England and chose to give the ultimate power of unseelie vengeance, to the mortals he'd consider most in need of such things.

And within his quest, he had found two souls more oppressed than most would ever be in their lives, two slaves, who had lived their entire lives mining tin within the mountains. One red haired, one yellow haired, and neither their names recorded by time.

And the faerie came to the two slaves, with moth's wings on his back, and the horns of a great stag, and an armored exoskeleton shining black-green on his body, with fire in his great golden eyes. And he told the two slaves shivering in the cold before him, "Greetings subjects of humanity, have no fear, for I bring today great fortune in exchange for my sweet entertainment. Choose whoever you believe holds the most of gifts deprived from you, and I shall swap your place with them, and you shall live your lives in their luxury and them in your misfortune. and take what time you need to select who stands highest above you, and whose deserves most to be brought down to your place."

After a few moments putting their pickaxes down, thinking about who could be most privileged, and who their greatest oppressor was, the red headed slave suggested, "Well I don't think kindly of the slaves in the gladiator pits now do I! They have it all good, fighting and winning praise down in Rome, while us real slaves up here are working hard for the empire. If we'd swap places with them they'd learn what work really was!"

The faerie, having in all his studies of humanity learned that humans do not like being stabbed, nor chopped into pieces asked, "Our you sure that the slaves in the fighting pits are the most privileged of people you can think of, I'll give you time if you must need it."

The yellow haired slave raised his hand, "The harem slaves! Oh, the harem slaves. They get to live right in the roman's mansions, all prettied up with perfume, all they have to do is lay back and make love. Never had to work a day in their lives!"

The faerie, having in all his studies or humanity known rape to be a crime worse than murder to most, tried to suggest something else; "The romans! Your masters! Yes, you've mentioned them. The people who enslaved you. Consider that perhaps they may factor into any discussion of your oppression, and who stands above you..."

The red haired slave answered, "Well of course! We've worked so hard for the Romans, and because of those slaves more privileged then us, demanding so much in regard to resources and attention, we get treated like dirt. If all slaves were miners and farmers, the Romans would treat us so well."

And the yellow haired slave added, "We keep the empire running. The empire could survive without the fighting pits and harem boys, but they need us for their metals! The Romans should be proud of us! Great Constantine himself, bless his soul, said that hard working men like us would stand with him in heaven..." (That final comment lead into an argument between the yellow haired Catholic and the red headed Arian, as to who was a heretic, and whose hard work would surely be recognized into heaven, the argument being too long and useless to write down here.)

Eventually, the faerie stopped them both, "Have you ever considered what it would be like to not be slaves? I heard that there were some places where slavery doesn't exist at all."

The red headed slave yelled, "Don't you go insulting us slaves, talking about a world without us!"

The yellow haired slave added, "Yes! We're proud and hard working! My father was a slave, and his father, and his father, and his... well his father was a warrior in the army of Boudica, but you get the point don't you."

The faerie said blankly, "I think I do." And, thinking his entertainment was boring him quite a lot, told them, "Just tell me quickly, who you think is more privileged than you, and I'll swap you with them."

And before the yellow haired slave could contradict him, the red headed slave cried out, "The slaves of Alexandria! That city is paved with gold, with pyramids at every street. I've never been there but I've known some slaves who have. Some of the slaves there are even teachers to the roman's children, able to read and write and all that, and its never even winter. Swap us with them, and we'll be the most privileged slaves in the world!"

And so, the faerie did. And so, the red headed slave and the yellow haired slave found themselves in the boiling streets of Alexandria, ready to be shipped off to a copper mine in lower Egypt. The faerie lord had learned too well that one cannot be freed unless the wish to be. And before the faerie stood two slaves from Alexandria, and hoping there were some people within the world of mortals who knew their own oppression, he asked them, "Greetings subjects of humanity, have no fear, for I bring today great fortune in exchange for my sweet entertainment..."

[rizzoto-whump]

Lazuardi/la·zu·ar·di/ - light blue (like the color of the sky)

TW: Nsfwhump, noncon, torture, slavery

With help from residents who felt sorry for him, Formoso finally managed to escape from the governor general who intended to sell him to the North. He swam away, trying to get back to his place in the East, or somewhere else, as long as he didn't see him again.

The governor general did not give up, he assigned Ronald and Artur to recapture him, no matter what. After all, the company's property was more important and losing such an expensive property would reduce their profits.

Formoso was caught again, and Ronald made sure he couldn't escape.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44028180?view_full_work=true

[villainanders]

I’m reading the roma sub rosa series rn (mystery book series set in ancient rome) and I haven’t read historical fiction much in years (I’m trying to get back into it bc I loved it when I was a kid) so I’m experiencing the feelings that I’m sure regular histfic readers have already reckoned with ages ago of not know how to feel about “”””good”””” characters doing things that are obviously evil but were considered normal at the time. so I went to goodreads and tried google to see if I could find people smarter than me talking about specifically how roman slavery is portrayed in the series (specifically the whole bethesda situation) (and also see if anyone mentioned if saylor addresses the mc’s hypocrisy more head on later in the series) anyway I couldn’t find anything so I checked tumblr to see if anything was interesting and michael bluth voice I don’t know what I expected

[themuseumofwitchcraftandpaganism]

This is true.

Below is a New England newspaper editorial article, written by Boston to New York. The writer likens the 1741 slave conspiracy to the frenzy of the Salem Witch Trials where accusations were being thrown around and panic was being stirred up for no good reason. This editorial shows a pivotal moment in American rhetoric; the phrase "witch hunt" no longer meant a literal hunt for witches but rather its contemporary use of a metaphorical hunt marked by paranoia and wild accusations to uncover a supposed conspiracy.

The best account of the 1741 slave conspiracy is in the book New York Buring: Liberty, Slavery, and Conspiracy in the Eighteenth Century Manhattan by Jill Lepore.

The transcription below is taken from The New England Weekly Journal, September 29, 1741, pages 1-2. This passage has period-typical language that is now considered offensive; I have not censored it to preserve its historical accuracy.

"Province of the Massachusetts Bay, 1741. Sir, I am a stranger to you and to New York, and so must beg pardon for the mistakes I may be guilty of in the subsequent attempt, the design wherof is to put an end to the bloody tragedy that has been, and I suppose is still acting among you, in regard of the poor Negros and the whites too.

I observe in one of the Boston newsletters, dated July 13, that 2 Negros were executed in one day at the gallows, a favor indeed! For one the next day was burned at the stake, where he impeached several others, and among them some whites, which, with the former terrible executions among you upon this occasion, puts me in mind of our New England witchcraft in the year 1692, which, if I don't mistake, New York justly reproached us for and mocked at our credulity about. But may it not now be justly retorted, Mutato nomine, de te Fabula Narratur? What ground you proceed upon, I must acknowledge myself not sufficiently informed of. But finding that those five that were executed in July denied any guilt, it makes me suspect that your present case, and ours heretofore, are much the same, and that Negro and specter evidence will turn out alike. We had near 50 confessors who accused multitudes of others, alleging time and place and various other circumstances to render their confessions credible, that they had their meetings, formed confederacies, signed the Devil's book, et cetera. And as long as confessions were received and encouraged, accusations multiplied and increased: But I am humbly of opinion that such confessions and the evidences founded theron are not worth a straw, unless some certain overt act (that nobody else could preform) appear to confirm the fame. For many times they are obtained by foul means, by force or torture, by flattery or surprise, by over watch or distraction, by discontent with their circumstances, through envy or malice, or in hopes of a longer time to live, or to die an easier death, et cetera. For anybody would choose rather to be hanged that to be burned. It is true I have heard something of your forts being burned, but that might be by lightning from heaven, by accident, by some malicious person or persons of our own color. What other facts have been performed to petrify your hearts against the poor blacks, and some of your neighbors, the whites, I can't tell. Possibly there have been some murmurings among the Negros, and a few mad fellows may have threatened and designed revenge for the cruelty and inhumanity they have met with, which is too rife in the English plantations, and not long since occasioned such another tremendous and unreasonable a massacre at Antigua. But two things seem to me almost as impossible as for witches to fly in the air, or change themselves into cats, namely, that the whites should join with blacks; or that the blacks (among whom there are no doubt some rational persons) should attempt the destruction of a city, when it is impossible they should escape the just and direful vengeance of the countries round about, which would immediately pour in upon, and swallow them up quick. And therefore if nothing will put an end to the doleful tragedy till some of higher degree and better circumstances and characters are accused (which finished our Salem witchcraft), the sooner the better, lest all the poor people of your government perish in the merciless flames of an imaginary plot. In the meantime don't be offended if out of friendship to my poor countrymen, and compassion to the Negros (who are partakers of the same nature with us and ought to be treated with humanity), I entreat you not to go on to destroy your own estates by making bonfires of your Negros, and thereby perhaps loading yourselves with greater guilt than theirs. For we have too much reason to fear that the divine vengeance does and will pursue us for our ill treatment to the bodies and souls of our poor slaves, and the meaner sort of people. And therefore let justice be done whenever you sit in judicature about their affairs. All which is humbly submitted by a well-wisher to all human beings, and one that ever desires to be of the merciful side, et cetera."

in 1741 there was a pogrom against the enslaved black population of new york who made up around 20% of the city. this came during a time of economic decline in colonial new york, as white settlers began to feel threatened by the growing number of women and enslaved people in the workforce. reports of slave revolts in other american colonies and abroad fueled increasing paranoia among the white population of a large scale revolt or insurrection.

after various fires were found around the new york, white settlers quickly spread rumors that the enslaved people were planning to burn down city and kill its inhabitants. other unrelated incidents that happened around the same time, such as three enslaved people robbing a store owned by a white couple, were seen as proof of the conspiracy and fueled the racist hysteria.

the evidence of the 'conspiracy' was based mainly on the testimony of one 16 year old girl, mary burton, a white indentured servant. promised a reward for her cooperation, mary accused dozens people of taking part in the conspiracy. nearly 200 people were arrested, including 20 white settlers. despite the lack of evidence, the judge sentenced nearly 40 people to death and many others to exile and forced labor in slave plantations in the carribean. many of those executed were burned alive, tortured, and had their corpses left to rot in the public square. slavery wasn't outlawed in new york until nearly a decade later.

fuck this country 1000000 million times forever. very little has changed

[oasisfrontier]

1851, Pebble Homestead

TW: Racism, slavery

Eliza was humanizing Thomas--taking a feral pioneer and molding him into a respectable husband and neighbor. Her sympathy for the Pancake family rubbed off on him, and he honestly called Bob a friend.

Thomas could see that his house embarrassed Bob, so they usually sat outside together. Bob poured out his heart to Thomas, telling him that his family had escaped slavery. Every day he lived in fear of being discovered; the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act required anyone who discovered their family to turn them in. He was ashamed that his family was living in such poverty compared to their neighbors. The Michaelsons had been born free in Pennsylvania, and Bob couldn't relate to their education and comfortable life.

Thomas assured Bob that he would do anything to protect him and his family.

[fanficsforfun]

Have you guys read Robert Harris' Pompeii? Either way, picture this:

! A word of warning here, this is suggestive and as mentioned in the tags, there's talk about slavery !

You are a child of a wealthy family with a large house and several slaves. It allows you quite a bit of freedom to pursue your interests, even though the role of women was not great at the time. Unlike most other people, you treat the slaves of your family, as well as those of others, with dignity (as any sane person should). One day, another slave is bought into your family. He's older and well learned, he knows a lot about many different disciplines. You find his stories interesting, and eventually ask him to teach you. He (and your parents) are pleased about it. It's not bad idea for a young person to learn about the world, even if they happen to be a woman.

You two get along great, and you enjoy his company. You're always friendly, always showing considerateness. No one pays much attention to your behaviour because, after all, you've always treated the slaves well. But you like this particular slave beyond intellectual reasons. Of course you love the conversations you have with him, but if only you could feel that soft but sinewy body against yours, if only you could just see what he's like under his simple tunic... It's inappropriate to even think such things, you know that. But when you're alone with him, you can't suppress your feelings. And so, under the guise of art leasson, you ask him to undress. You pretend to want to practise drawing with a live model, not just those age-old statues. To your surprise, he consents. And when he's all nude in front of you, you can't take your eyes off him. He's absolutely gorgeous. Maybe not in everyone's opinion, but most certainly in yours. Best of all, since you're pretending to do this simply because of art, you can study him as much as you like.

But what does he think of all of this? Well, he's not stupid. It became clear to him quite quickly that you were interested in him. All the smiles, and the amount of time you wanted to spend with him does tell something. And the bright blush on your cheeks and your lingering gazes when you're drawing him didn't leave much to speculation. So it came as no surprise to him when not so many days later, you asked permission to touch, when you wanted to embrace him, wrap your arms around him, bury your face in his chest. He's not at all bothered by the interest of his younger admirer. You look nice and, above all, you're kind. Rarely has anyone been interested in him because of himself instead of his worth as a slave. Therefore he's not saying no, therefore he lets you touch. As long as his owner doesn't find out...

[kyunniebuns]

˗ˏˋ Historical Au: Slave!Jinwoo x Noble!Reader ◛⑅˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 036 ✦ ┆・

‼️[ TW: Slavery, Violence, Yandere Jinwoo, Familial Abuse, strong language. Please don't read this fic if it is triggering or uncomfortable for you. I do not condone slavery nor do encourage such acts. This is simply a work of fiction ]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Cai Bot Link ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Devotion or Obsession? ] ¡! ❞

"A gift for you, my dear child" Your father mused as an 18 year old teenager, tattered and chained, was dragged to the floor and forced to kneel in-front of you Jinwoo looked up at you with expressionless gray eyes, his face was covered in dirt and his shirt was extremely filthy. "Hi." Jinwoo greeted you humbly.

"Father!" You shrieked, flicking the fabrics of your dress as you hurriedly knelt towards the slave and tried to support his limp figure.

He was hardly even concious with his bleary and sleepy eyes, his clothes are covered in grime and dirt as his face was dusted with blood and something else. He looked not much older nor younger than you, and yet all this man was made of was skin and bones.

"Why so upset, my dear?" Your father sneers, humming as he swirls a glass of wine in his his hand. "It's your birthday after all. Daddy thought that should be gifted, no?"

"But I didn't ask for a slave or anything at all!" You protest, only to be met by a domineering glare that instantly made you close your mouth.

"Be grateful, you goddamn pig" He bites, making you feel even more terrified than you older were. "If it weren't for the fact your fucking wench of a mother making a goddamn fuss before dying you wouldn't be here. The least you could do is accept whatever the fact I give you"

He calms down, continuing "That child was only a few silver coins. If you dont want him I could always give him to your sisters or work him to death."

"N-no!" You protest immediately, shivering at the thought of what your father might decide to do. "I-I'll keep him... I'll take care of him."

"There's a good girl," He chuckles, "Start with the imprinting."

You gulp, anxiously looking at Jinwoo who was tired beside you, he looked like he just wanted to to be done with everything.

"Your... Uhm..." His eyes would sweep towards you with an empty grey gaze. "Name?"

"Jinwoo." He says shortly.

"Alright, uhm, Jinwoo..." You hold your palm out. "It'll tickle, I have't done this before s-so—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, stretching his scarred left hand towards yours and pressing it together.

You tremble at the touch, not of disgust— But instead you were nervous. If you screw this up, you might get another beating or worse,... Something might happen to Jinwoo.

So with the little mana you hold; you started pouring energy out as a soft gentle light comes as the brilliant and pretty things somehow turned into pitch black and purple shadows— Twisting and churning before attaching themselves to both of your ring fingers.

Jinwoo seemed unamused, but your father certainly was.

"Now, get out of my sight" Your father simply said after recovering from the spectacle. "Your sisters are about to arrive, you bring a sour expression to their wonderful faces, so leave"

You could only respond with a polite bow as you helped Jinwoo up to his feet and guided him out of the main house.

There wasn't even a carriage prepared for the both of you as you silently walked towards the far west inside a forest and then finally arriving at a crude but somehow decent looking manor.

Jinwoo watched and followed you as you guided him to a dusty bedroom and sat him down before fetching a small chest with ointments and bandages. Though his gaze was still empty, he was looking at you with curiosity, wondering why exactly you're doing this.

"I'm your slave," Jinwoo breaks the silence. "Aren't you supposed to leave this to your servants?"

"Hahah... Sorry." You apologize, making him quirk up an eyebrow. "Your master is pathetic, I have no servant in my name."

He doesn't question that situation, instead asking; "Then why do it yourself? I can patch myself up just fine."

"Maybe... Because I feel guilty?" You fidget, applying ointment on him after wiping his arm. "It's my... Birthday and yet because of it you're here. I'm sorry."

"Don't." He simply said, not meeting your eyes as he looks out to the distant skies. outside your broken window. "It's not your fault. And besides, here is better than just wherever."

The silence ensues, nothing much being said any further as you directed Jinwoo to an empty room. He was given a decent place to sleep in. It was odd, since this bedroom seemed more comfortable compared to yours that was even more shabby and dusty.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

It an odd situation, not once did you have ever treat Jinwoo as a slave, you were often on your own in your little garden at the backyard and farming vegetables for both of you to eat.

Jinwoo actively avoided you for quite a while, before deciding that since he lives with you and is technically leeching off of you— He might as well be useful.

And in those days where he helped you, the walls that Jinwoo had built around himself crumbled the more time passed by.

For a while, he was happy, you were happy.

You were both happy.

That was until you had to attend a gathering with your family that had abandoned you.

Of course, you had to dress in your shabby and outdated dress, to which everyone in the ballroom responds with mockery and spite. Jinwoo expected it, sure he's mad, but there's nothing he could do since he is nothing more but a damn slave who cant even defend his own master.

With heads hung low like cowards, the both of you decided to just stay in a corner and be as far away from any and all interactions. It went well for the first hour.

Admiring the brilliant lights and listening to wonderful music around you. Nobility is truly such a beautiful thing, golden plates, silver spoons, brilliant and gleaming jewels stitched into fine fabrics made by highly respectable and sought after tailors.

Jinwoo wanted to admire the scene with you, he truly did.

After all, he spent most of his days being dragged through the mud, his body being flogged over and over just for the fun of a drunk knight, or worse— Hard labour with only a piece of bread you can barely chew on due to how hard it is.

Compared to the grueling days he spent sleeping on the dirt, compared to the devastation he had as he cradled his dearly beloved little sister's corpse when she died of starvation— The sight of these luxurious tiles is mercy upon his pitiful soul.

...

Jinwoo's face drained of it's colours as he watches your elder sister yell at you for simply trying to greet her. A simple greet.

That was all it took for you to be on your knees frantically saying sorry with your voice as humble and as quiet as it can be.

He felt so hopeless, so frozen as he sees your pretty face scrunch in grief at your own actions that isnt even in the wrong in the first place.

So why must you kneel? Why must you humiliate yourself like this?

They stare at you with those sly eyes, as if finding your misery a source of entertainment. Sneers and chuckles would come with each insult being thrown your way.

Was it your fault you were born as the bastard child of the duke when it was your father who willingly went to brothels and slept with multiple women. It wa sonly your mother who stepped up confidently to demand your father to take you in despite the fact that she is currently dying of birth complications. Your mother did all of that just so you could live a comfortable life.

And instead here you were, being punished over something you didn't do.

Isn't family supposed to love eachohter? Jinwoo loved his baby sister so much. So why is he watching another older sibling throw wine at their own blood just for breathing?

Jinwoo felt so... Devastated, his dear companion, his master. His own master— Is being ridiculed right in front of him.

The person he was sold to, the person who took care of him—

"Don't touch him, eonnie!" You scream, throwing yourself right in front of Jinwoo despite the fact you're already soaking wet from the wine splattered all over your pretty face and your already ruined dress. "Please, he's innocent. He's imprinted to me, but he shouldn't receive any punishment. We'll go, eonnie, we'll go. Please don't touch him."

You're protecting him.

That bastard woman would have continued her assault if it werent for her dear father stopping her and saying it's a waste of time dealing with a bunch of lowlifes.

Thus, the two of you were escorted— No, thrown out the main palace.

Jinwoo followed behind you towards the path of your shabby manor, and as the blowing wind caressed your skins,... You broke down.

"Sorry, sorry, Jinwoo." You sob as the man threw his arms around you. "I'm sorry, it was my fault, you shouldn't have seen that. I'm so sorry, Jinwoo. I really am. Please forgive me. Don't be mad at me.

"Why are you asking me those questions?" He asks, his soft voice barely even able to control his trembling voice. "You're my owner, shouldn't I be begging for forgiveness?"

"No, no," You sob even louder.

And Jinwoo couldn't do anything else but comfort you.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo didnt know how, but he managed to put you into sleep right after taking you home. He delivered some spare clothes to you for you to change in. He tucked you in under the shabby blankets and watched over you.

His gaze was stuck on you, contemplating deeply while guilt slowly clawed at his heart.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

"You'll get her killed." A voice suddenly says, and Jinwoo shot up, blocking his arm in front of you as you slept.

"Who—"

"Shut up"

The voice suddenly came from behind him, and when Jinwoo looked back— He could see a pair of purple eyes glaring at him. He can't quite see the face of the man, it was too pitch black and the moon isnt out tonight. He tried grabbing the vase on the sidetable but something had stopped him.

He can't quite tell, but it was as if the air itself is holding him back as those wicked and colr purple eyes glanced at him from the darkness right beside your sleeping form.

"You really think a damn vase can scare off an intruder?" The man scoffs. "You're pathetic."

"Who are you?" Jinwoo asks again, struggling to move as quiet murmurs surrounded him.

"Some guy" He answers.

"You must be one of those—"

"Ssh." The purple eyes gaze up at him again. "You'll wake the princess up with your voice."

Jinwoo shut his mouth, biting down on his lip as once again he felt so utterly hopeless. Not to mention the air around the stranger was absolutely wicked and somehow... Demonic? Otherwordly?

It was a feeling akin to staring at the abyss, the unkown that makes your skin crawl and itch.

That man is dangerous.

Dangerous But Not Hostile.

"That sister of hers," The man starts, his voice a little tense. "Will get her killed in a few years."

"Excuse me?"

"She'll die, and her blood will be on you, Jinwoo" He grits his teeth. "Just like your sister's who died from starvation, just like your mother who died from sickness, just like your father who died in your arms saving you from a bandit— Her blood will be on your hands just like theirs that is already on you."

"....."

"So quiet, now, huh? You're crying?" He sneers, the voice suddenly coming from behind him. "Crying wont do you any good, you fucking idiot."

"So what exactly do you want me to do?" Jinwoo yells, struggling as he tried to face the man. "I'm not strong, I'm built like a twig. I'm trying, okay? But I'm just a slave. This house is goddamn shabby, I've been trying to fix everything but it's lacking. I can barely even help in the farm, not to mention it's almost winter soon and if she wont die by that bitch's hands then she'll die because of this house! What the hell do you think I can do? I'm trying here and nothing is working!"

"...."

Of course he doesn't want to be in this situation either. Who does? He already lost his family, his blood, his precious kin— All gone and he couldnt do anything about. It was a hopeless situation. Of course, he tried getting a job in the capital since you let him roam as he pleases. He tried some odd jobs, several of them ranging from ordinary helper jobs to cleaning shoes to seeling newspapers; nothing is working.

He lost his family because of his weakness, and because of that same weakness he'll loose you too.

"Hypothetically, you are given a guide to becoming extremely strong to protect her but in the process you loose your sanity along the way as well as your emotions" The voice says, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room as he walked around Jinwoo like a ghost. "How far are you willing to go?"

"Farther than the limit."

"Even if you lose your limbs along the way?"

"Yes."

"Even if you get mauled by beasts?"

"Yes."

"Even if you go mad by the power you'll soon hold?"

"Yes."

"Even if you must become a murderer?"

"Yes."

"I'll do it."

"I'll do it all for her sake."

"Good" The voice hums, satisfied.

Jinwoo starts feeling dizzy, his legs giving in as he felt himself collapse on something soft.

"Protect her." The stranger's tone becomes gentle. "Where I failed to do so, be better than me. Devote yourself to her. Protect the heart that is more precious than anything in this world. Even if you go through hell, you must protect her. You must love her. Give her all the adoration you can ever give. Because I couldn't protect my princess. So don't make the same mistake."

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo had received the system from that night ever since. He had been busy from then on, often going out in the day and coming back in the evenings tired but somehow... A little different.

He'd go on long trips sometimes, which you honestly didn't mind so long as he promises to come home.

Soon enough, that same lanky, 18 year old boy— Is suddenly a head taller than you that you physically have to strain your neck just so you can meet with him eye-to-eye. Jinwoo had become from a lanky boy to a different person in just a blink of an eye in a matter of months.

Each long week he disappears; he comes back even more mature and lax in his demeanour. THe next thing you knew, Jinwoo enrolled himself as a hunter.

You're proud of him, of course you are.

That's your Jinwoo.

Your precious, precious and sweet Jinwoo who always stuck by your side even if you are a noble who had no servant to her name and a manor fit to be deemed as a haunted home.

The wealth would soon come pouring in with each succesful hunt Jinwoo goes through. And the more powerful his bounties were, the more famous he became. The money he accumulated directly went into rebuilding the shabby manor into an opulent home worthy of a duke's daughter. Your filthy, ragged dresses were replaced by finely crafted fabrics. Your neck and ears would be adorned in the meek but captivating jewelry.

Of course, he still had that title of slave over his head but weirdly enough... Jinwoo seemed to carry it as a badge of honor.

Why?

Because he was yours.

What's he is yours.

Naturally, jealous eyes come your way as the your dear hunter is now the most sought after. Who wouldn't want him anyway? Tall, handsome, a hunter— He is the embodiment of what is lusted for with a man.

And yet he never once bat an eye to those arrogant nobles who offered him the finest of fine wealth could ever give.

Love letters from all over the kingdom pine for your precious Jinwoo.

And yet he still chose you.

Those steely grey eyes of him would solely be for you and you only.

He looked a you like you are his precious goddess.

You Jinwoo is so... So Innocent and lovely.

Even as he held your father's severed head on his hand.

Even as a pool of blood puddled beneath his feet. Even as his grey orbs have turned purple. Even as the opulent pearl tiles reflected his maddened figure.

Your Jinwoo is just so... So lovely.

His heart, oh, his heart belonged to you. His innocent, pretty little master who looks up at him with a bewildered but awestruck gaze— He knew you weren't mad.

"I did it all for you, princess" Jinwoo would coo, cupping your face and swiping his thumb affectionately over cheek. "They were trying to make you cry again. We can't have that"

He whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "After all, I am yours. We're already binded by a contract. Even if it didn't exist I'd still choose the same choice I have made now."

He holds up his hand, pressing his palm against yours as the tattooes rings on your ring fingers glowed purple.

"See? Even our mark is like wedding rings" He intertwines your fingers together before bringing it up to his lips and kissing the mark on you. "It's okay. It's okay. This is for your own good."

"This is all for your sake, my precious god."

"This bloodbath is an offering for you."

꒰ A/N: idk what I made nor do I wanna know. The plot is all over the place wheeze. I'm quaking at writer's block. I should not write for Jinwoo until I get the energy back. I'm so mindblocked with him maybe it's because I cant draw fanart of him atm. ahhhhhhhhhh ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[littlesistersti-backupandspam]

Cw: mention of Black slaves

Mr. Rutledge from 1776 musical

Then what's that I smell floating down from the North? Could it be the aroma of hy-pocrisy? For who holds on the other end of that filthy purse-string, Mr. Adams? Our northern breathren are feeling a bit tender toward our Black slaves. They don't keep slaves! Oh, no. But they are willing to be considerable carriers of slaves to others. They're willin' ... for the shillin'. Or haven't you heard, Mr. Adams? Clink, Clink. Mollasses to Rum to Slaves Oh what a beautiful waltz

there's a reason why this villain song is so powerful

most white people during chattel slavery didn’t own slaves, but they happily allowed it to fund their businesses and the building of their homes and their trains and the grocery market and the textile industry and wouldn’t speak badly about their slave owner cousin bc well he’s keeping our funds high and wouldn’t stop befriending the local slave trader bc oh he’s keeping jobs open at auction sites and wouldn’t mind marrying into a plantation family bc oh isn’t the land beautiful and we get free maids! the average majority is often worse than the violent minority bc they will look u in the eye while you get whipped by their brother and justify it with “atleast i didn’t do it” as if that is enough to be forgiven

[carveredlunds]

"He looked like a boy, masquerading as a gentleman": A meta on Amadeo, Venice, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and standing on the cusp of adulthood

TW: Discussions of SA, underage SA, human trafficking, slavery, and NSFW content

From a historical perspective, Armand's life as a teenage enslaved boy in Venice in the early 16th century gives us a chance to discuss the culture of male-male attraction in Venice during this period, specifically the contemporary understanding that older men could be attracted to young boys. This historical grounding can, in turn, offer insight into why Armand is trapped on the cusp of adulthood, how this manifests itself in his physicality, and how his story can be cautiously and sensitively used as a mirror for the real experiences of enslaved people in Venice during this period. I will be referring to him by his birth name (Arun), the name Marius gave him (Amadeo), and the name the Children of Darkness coven gave him (Armand), where appropriate.

In 1496 in Venice, illegal sexual relations between young boys and older men were so prevalent that 'special patrols [went] searching for boys who were patientes (sc. passive partners), monitoring schools for fencing, dance and song, where youths might be found in the evenings, and once again looking for companions of unequal age.'[1] This was roughly 27 years before Arun was purchased from a brothel by the vampire Marius de Romanus. Due to Armand's fractured memories of this period, it isn't clear when he was forcibly trafficked to Italy, but it is likely that he was bought by Marius in around 1523 at the age of 15 (assuming he was born in 1508, given that he says he's 514 in 2022).

As a physically attractive enslaved boy, Amadeo would have been understood as an object of desire ("object" in a literal sense, with no personhood of his own) to the older men around him. In his recent study Forbidden Desire in Early Modern Europe: Male–Male Sexual Relations, 1400–1750, historian Noel Malcolm discusses the contemporary evidence for the attraction of men towards adolescent boys. Malcolm explains that older men desiring teenage boys was a common and accepted part of Venetian culture, provided one did not act on those desires, and that attractive young men were often described similarly to women in surviving sources and contemporary literature.[2]

The important thing to note here is that teenagers were supposed to be desired before they started to show signs of maturity, when they could almost be considered sexless. As Malcolm writes, when 'a young man's looks became properly masculine (with facial hair, developed musculature, etc.), that is, fully differentiated from a feminine appearance, was precisely the time when he ceased to be seen as desirable by the great majority of older men.'[3] Due to poor nutrition, this might have occurred later for teenagers in the 16th century than it does today, but it was usually between the ages of 17 and 23.[4] Given that Amadeo was an enslaved child, and therefore probably not well-fed, he was likely late to develop. Putting aside the fact that in the books Armand is 17 when he's turned, Queen of the Damned offers some evidence for this:

'Did Daniel know that Armand had been a boy when all this had begun for him? Seventeen years old, and in those times that was young, very young. Seventeen-year-old boys in the twentieth century were virtual monsters; they had beards, hair on their chests, and yet they were children. Not then. Yet children worked as if they were men.'[5]

In light of this, it is worth mentioning that Armand has the slightest hint of facial hair. You can see this clearly in close-up shots, for instance these ones in my gifset. Here's one clear example:

With his long hair, his high cheekbones, and his thin frame, Amadeo would have fit perfectly into the feminine, feminised, youthful archetype that Malcolm describes. It would have been socially acceptable for older men to be attracted to him in Venice in the 16th century. According to Malcolm, 'When early modern writers described good-­looking boys, the terms they used were drawn from a standard repertoire that existed primarily to describe female beauty: coral lips, pearly teeth, ivory skin, and so on.'[6]

Obviously, the last point doesn't apply to Amadeo. Instead, he would have been desired because he was exoticized by the Italian network of artists that Marius "donated" him to (that is to say, his Otherness would have been sexualised, as a young boy possibly from Bengal as @depressedraisin suggested here). This exoticization is apparent in how Amadeo is portrayed in The Adoration of the Shepherds — kneeling, enraptured, with a look of subservient wonder on his face. (For an incredible meta which delves more deeply into this aspect of Armand's history, I recommend reading "Armand, colonialism, and the weaponisation of anti-Blackness" by @shesnake.)

If we assume (besides his obviously lightened skin), that The Adoration is a fairly accurate portrayal of Amadeo at 20 years old, then the main difference between him at 20 and him at 27 is his slight facial hair. As discussed previously, the appearance of facial hair was a marker for young boys growing out of their desirability and into adulthood. Turned at 27, Armand is now stuck in this liminal space between boyhood and adulthood, and this is visibly apparent in his facial hair. His youth is mentioned in the show on a few occasions. When Louis first sees Armand in 2.01, he says that he 'looked like a boy, masquerading as a gentleman'. Madeline calls him 'young man' in a patronising tone in 2.06.

Interestingly, Armand's youth is mentioned more often than his race, though in the 18th-century flashback in 2.03, Nicolas asks Lestat, 'do you know this gypsy?' This is the only microaggression we've seen Armand face so far, but it offers a tiny glimpse into the kinds of comments that Armand will have faced for his entire life, both as a human and as a vampire. Obviously, Armand is not Romani, so the racial slur of "gypsy" does not apply to him (not that it applies in any context, but I mean it's literally inaccurate). However, this erasure of origins is common in contemporary historical references to people of colour. As historian Imtiaz Habib writes in Black Lives in the English Archives, 1500-1677: Imprints of the Invisible, Black people were often referenced in early modern sources using 'cryptic citations', referred to interchangeably as '"blackamore", "moor", "barberee", "barbaryen", "Ethiopian", and "Indian".'[7] Regardless of their country of origin, they were lumped together as one people.

In this way, Armand's lost origins could be seen as a representation for the surviving fragmentary evidence for people of colour from across the globe in English archival sources. He himself describes his memories in 2.04 as "fragments". This may be read as a metaphor for the sparse and fragmentary surviving archival evidence for enslaved people's experiences in the early 16th century, especially enslaved children. Where the evidence does survive, it is limited, and enslaved people's stories are usually recounted through the lenses of their white owners or observers, with their own voices lost to history.

There is another aspect of Armand's life which may be mirrored with the life of a real specific enslaved person. In Contested Subjecthood: Runaway Slaves in Early Modern Venice, historian E. Natalie Rothman recounts the story of Omar, an enslaved boy from Zara, living in 17th century Venice, who was given the name Pierantonio by his enslaver.[8] He had a long history of service since childhood, and had been baptised in 1648 when he was 10 years old, and, at the age of 32, was seeking permission to be married. Rothman writes that Omar's story:

'suggests ways in which enslavement as a child could actually facilitate effective forms of social, as well as spatial mobility, while curtailing others. His long years of service as a baptized slave were eventually rewarded by formal manumission [release from slavery], the acquisition of a trade, and insertion into a network of patronage that secured his ability to forge new kinship ties in Venice.'[9]

Likewise, it was Amadeo's long and loyal service to Marius, since childhood, which ultimately allowed him to become a vampire ('facilitate effective forms of social, as well as spatial mobility'). If Amadeo had not been Marius' property for as long as he was, if he had not had "skill", as he puts it, then Marius would not have shared the Dark Gift with him. It might be a slightly clumsy comparison, but vampirism could be seen as what Rothman describes — the reward of a trade and new kinship ties. However, though he had been rewarded, Amadeo was not yet freed from his service to Marius. He was now frozen in that place between boyhood and adulthood, having not quite lost what made him special to Marius, but not being the same boy he was.

Finally, this liminal state is manifested not only in his slight facial hair, his long hair, and his youthful features, but it is also realised in The Adoration. I made a gifset overlaying a quote from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde with scenes of Armand looking at his portrait, which is relevant in this discussion. Armand is almost Dorian Gray in reverse. He might have lived for five centuries, but he a part of his soul is still trapped in that portrait, in a position of unwilling subservience. The fate Dorian Gray laments has happened to Armand. He has grown older, and taken on the countless sins of his vampiric life, but his picture has remained the same — frozen in servitude, representing that young boy who was adored for his beauty.

Bibliography

1. Noel Malcolm, Forbidden Desire in Early Modern Europe: Male–Male Sexual Relations, 1400–1750 (University of Oxford, 2024) p. 44. 2. Ibid., pp. 179-81. 3. Ibid., p. 180. 4. Ibid., pp. 46-7. 5. Anne Rice, Queen of the Damned (Warner Books, 1996) p. 102. 6. Malcolm, Forbidden Desire, p. 179. 7. Imtiaz Habib, Black Lives in the English Archives, 1500-1677: Imprints of the Invisible (Taylor & Francis Group, 2007) p. 2. 8. E. Natalie Rothman, Contested Subjecthood: Runaway Slaves in Early Modern Venice, Quaderni storici, NUOVA SERIE, Vol. 47, No. 140 (2), Riscatto, scambio, fuga (AGOSTO 2012), pp. 425-6. 9. Ibid., pp. 426-7.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣 - ℂ𝕙. 𝕏𝕍: 𝔻𝕣𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕤 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you to @kavalyera for the beta read!

Summary: Vincent makes his case to retain control of the Myrmidons.

TW: minor character death, discussion of slavery

The sun had not yet found the time to bleach away the final traces of the crimson pool that had darkened the Castel Sant’Angelo’s bridge four days ago. Not that there was any red clinging to the cobblestones. It was, rather, a little shinier, a little cleaner, where Santino D’Antonio’s body had lain, in contrast to the surrounding stones. No other evidence remained under the golden glow of mid-morning, and in the distance, commuter traffic played an indifferent hum, hardly knowing how the underworld held its breath.

The Marquis toed at that polished spot before taking his seat at the black marble conference table that had been hauled out to the midway point of the bridge. Chidi took up a stand behind him, feet planted and hands clasped, his steady presence backing up his Marquis in every way possible. He could almost feel Vincent buzzing with nerves, longing to expel them in some biting way. “You know, all the cleansers my people use at cultural sites are approved for historical preservation,” said Vincent to Sr. D’Antonio conversationally. They’d both been careful to arrive a few minutes early. “Such as those which lift the grime from the surface of oil paintings. Nothing harsh enough to bite into the stone. Conservation is of the utmost importance in such cases, don’t you think?”

“That ‘grime’ was my son.”

“How true. That absolute smear of grime was your son.” Chidi had to stifle a laugh.

But The Harbinger tapped his watch meaningfully, as distant bells began to chime. “Gentlemen. The clock tolls nine. The time has come to present the case. But first, Sr. D’Antonio, please remind all present of the terms by which the Marquis must abide, should the ruling be cast in your favor.”

With his eyes narrowed in open contempt: “The Marquis must surrender forty percent of the Myrmidon army to the High Table at large.”

“Very well. And the Marquis? If you are acquitted?”

He shrugged. “Sr. D’Antonio has slandered myself and my family. He will die.”

From their seat beside The Harbinger, The Adjudicator nodded evenly. “I accept these terms on behalf of the High Table.”

“Wait – “

“Do you withdraw your claims, Sr. D’Antonio?” they asked.

Reluctantly, he settled back into the seat. “…No.”

“Very well,” said The Harbinger. “Sr. D’Antonio, please present your case.”

Giovanni had selected legal representation in the form of some droning bureaucrat Chidi had never seen before, who laid out the same points Giovanni had stated a few days ago. He used more words and examples but not, to Chidi’s mind, any more persuasive force. But then, Chidi was only halfway listening. Without turning his head, he’d focused his attention on the long parade of armored cars filing into the Castel’s parking lot, and grey-suited figures climbing out of each one, settling into formation at the end of the bridge.

The plaintiffs certainly did turn their heads. Their own cars were blocked in, and the entire entrance surrounded. Vincent’s people had closed off the street for several blocks in advance of the operation. By the time the second squad took up position, Giovanni’s representative faltered mid-sentence and Giovanni himself demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

“They’re my witnesses,” said Vincent. “Please, do go on.” He gave the prosecutor the kind of encouraging smile typically offered to precocious elementary students in the midst of rehearsing for a school play. The man stuttered indignantly for a moment, but there was little he could do except oblige.

Chidi looked down at his charge. Vincent sat with studied grace, shoulders squared and legs crossed, face impassible, silver strands glittering through the pale blue of his blazer like shooting stars at noon in a cloudless sky. Impossibly beautiful. He’d had so little time to share happiness with this perfect man, and now it was all threatened…his nerves strained so taut with sympathy for Vincent that time itself seemed to distort. Had thirty minutes really not passed yet? Or were ten minutes passing each time he blinked? Either way, the moment approached. The prosecution would end, and Vincent would make his stand.

And then he was standing up, the moment had come, and Chidi felt like his own knees might buckle. Only focusing on Vincent’s body, the every rise and fall of his chest, kept Chidi upright. He’s here in front of me. We’re okay, nothing bad has happened yet. We can win this. And either way…we’re together. Vincent shot him an almost imperceptible glance and both men felt the same surge of confidence. For once, Vincent didn’t have to face his battles alone. If you only knew what it means to me to be here for you in a moment like this, sir…

“Well.” Vincent broke into a slow clap. “That was very entertaining. But I notice that we haven’t heard from a single Myrmidon. It’s their lives in question, no? And the last thing I would want is for any Myrmidon to feel like a slave. Because, as we’ve discussed, Sr. D’Antonio, we all know what that feels like. So, let’s have the conversation.” He turned to the crowd, from which a young, low-ranking Myrmidon was running up with a microphone. “Thank you,” said Vincent, glowing with magnanimity, his honeyed voice now flowing across the crowd even to the far end of the parking lot.

“My friends. My siblings. My children.” Vincent paced from one railing to the other, slow and pondering, forcing the plaintiffs’ necks to crane after him. “Every one of you has someone you care for deeply. My father called them ‘leashes.’ And they are. To love is to be bound. But it is a grave misunderstanding to think that this binding comes from any external threat. In my short time in leadership, I have learned that every person’s desires carry the leash. No one else can do so. You want what’s best for the people you love. And you want what’s best for yourselves. That’s what rules you, not me. So I happen to offer myself as a path to a better life. That’s all. And I want to clarify, above all, that if you don’t take it, fine. I won’t kill you and I won’t kill anybody you love. I don’t need to. Regret will kill you. The world will kill you. Maybe even your wrongs against me will end up killing you. You spill a High Table secret, you piss off the people who care for me with your blatant disrespect, you cross me myself, and I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you. I don’t want things to be that way.”

Hundreds of eyes followed him, some lighting with hope, some unreadable, some internally seething. But none moved. How surreal, Chidi thought. If they all mutinied at once, they could kill Vincent and Chidi both. But they couldn’t bring themselves to do it.

“Maybe you haven’t thought about this choice. You could try to find a ‘normal life,’ you who have already been cast out once before…”

“Or you could stay. I protect you from your own kings and presidents. I treat you like my own family, because you are loyal to me. Do you want to be a citizen of the United States, of Russia, of China, of Afghanistan, of Chile, of all the so-called governments who try to govern us out of existence and fail, who promise so little, just a peaceful life, and don’t even deliver on that, no matter how loyal you are? Do you want to live under the High Table at large, which demands fealty regardless, from every living person, no matter whether you are aware of it or not? Or do you want to live under the Gramont branch, where your needs will be looked after and all that is expected of you in return is the fulfillment of your own greatness? Yes, sometimes, that will include acting as a soldier, as every citizen is asked to do. But I, personally, will protect you against petty disputes because no one kills our own, even in revenge. I will see that you get justice for the grievances against you, because our boot is on their throat and not the other way around. I will always put a roof over your head, and most likely, it will be richer than anything the world’s most promising financiers could earn for themselves in a whole lifetime. I will clothe you and feed you with exactly as much decadence as befits any servant of mine. I will give to you what you need to be the peak performers in the entire world. I will take care of you when you are sick – no fees, no questions asked, just care. I will honor you in your old age and memorialize you when you die. And yes, most importantly, I will do the same for the person you love most. Because love is the true motivator. We are a family. We are a sick fucking family who will kill and die and live for each other, and no one will ever understand us, and no one will ever stand against us.”

“Now, my children: you are going to walk past me one by one. And either you will kiss the ring of your parrain [godfather], with The Adjudicator and Harbinger as witnesses, thereby acknowledging that you understand yourself to be a free citizen, swearing to serve me for the benefits I offer…Or you will pass me by, and we’ll be nothing to each other. You’re free! You’ve always been free. Do what you want to do.”

Chidi was the first, of course. Leaving his mark before anyone else could touch that malleable fleck of gold. Taking Vincent’s hand to his lips and bowing low, looking up at his chosen master through the bars of his own lashes, and reading there the gratitude, the wonder, the benevolence, which ignited in response. The love answering to love.

He lingered, to be sure that no onlooker could mistake such devotion for mere discharge of duty. And then he took his place on the other side of the bridge and turned back, facing down the whole of the Myrmidon army, daring any of them to reject the man for whom he had just shown such affection. They’d have to stand right next to him afterwards. Come challenge the Marquis’ most loyal guard dog. I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Maybe not today, not in front of the judges, but one day, and you know it. Love itself has granted me the power.

So they filed on, through the crystalline autumn sunshine, by the dozens and then the hundreds. The day wore on. And they kissed Vincent, and kissed him, and kissed him. A whole army showered him with kisses while he smiled on them. Chidi made them do it, without saying a word.

It was afternoon by the time the whole affair came to a close. Vincent was sweaty and his hair spray had begun to wilt under the heat, but he was beaming. Not one person had passed him by. He sank back into his chair, sighing. “I rest my case.” Only Chidi could see how earnestly he was smiling, or make out the note of restrained buoyancy he held down at the bottom of his voice. Oh Vincent…have we made you emotional?

Again, their eyes caught across the crowd. Both were sparkling.

The Adjudicator, who had long ago shed their heavy black coat and gloves, rose with both draped neatly over their arm. “Impressive. I’ll begin by stating that anyone who can command such loyalty is an asset to the High Table. This has been instructive in understanding why the Myrmidons function so formidably. More to the point, it has been instructive on the topic of their employment and its true nature. I can now confidently offer a ruling. The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont is acquitted.”

For the second time, Giovanni interrupted in protest. “You can’t be serious! This is entirely outside the spirit of the law. Surely you of all people understand that these traditions were set forth to preserve the integrity of the High Table as a whole, and all its constituents.”

From the end of the bridge, Chidi watched Vincent’s figure turn on him coldly. “I would remind you of what you told me just three days ago: that when business was good for my family, it was always good for yours, and good for the Table. The Gramont seat is by far the highest earning. I would even go so far as to say we’ve personally bankrolled your operation in the Netherlands. Nobody, Sr. D’Antonio, wants the Myrmidons eradicated. Rather, it is you who put a personal vendetta above the good of the Table. And no one, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, is above the Table.”

“But this is a farce! These people have no choice, they – “

The Adjudicator quickly put a stop to the squabbling. “Silence. The spirit of the law is not in question. The letter is. If the letter doesn’t match the spirit, that is to be brought to the attention of the Elder through the proper channels (though of course, the Marquis speaks quite rightly in suggesting that the Elder has little reason to wish for the Myrmidons’ dispersal). For the time being, the letter of the law is fully intact. The Myrmidons have every right to leave without facing any immediate deaths as retaliation, either their own or their loved ones’, so I consider this matter settled. Let the decision be carried out.”

He fell into confusion then, as fundamentally confused men do when their luck has run out, shouting desperate things that all ran together. But the Myrmidons had already closed around him – the Marquis’ personal detail specifically, with Chidi among them, in a tight circle of grey suits and one blue. A dozen guns fired at once into the chest of the man who had tried to interpose between Vincent and those who ought to adore him. Tomorrow, the stones of the Castel Sant’Angelo bridge would be even more thoroughly polished.

They walked away with shoulders nearly touching and not caring that the whole army might see how close they stood. Who could call open affection anything but a strength after it granted Vincent such a victory? Vincent wiped some thousand kisses off his ring with a handkerchief and whispered, “Quand nous serons seuls, toi et toi seul l'embrasserez à nouveau. Compris? [When we’re alone, you and you only will kiss it again. Understood?]”

“Oui, Maître. [Yes, Master.]”

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Image Sources: One | Two...I've had this saved for so long that I truly can't find its source anymore, I'm sorry. But I think it was from Pinterest.

[rizzoto-whump]

Update a new chap!

Ronald and Artur, who were bothered by that damn merman, finally taught him a lesson he would never forget.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44028180?view_full_work=true

[meerawrites]

I don’t engage drama, or meaningless shouting, or unproductive discourse in any form. However, I would like to thank @methotrex8 for stepping up as a white ally, and not letting the troll have any remaining logic or semblance of moral high ground to stand upon.

If we’re talking “fake history,” the concept of whiteness is fake. It was invented sometime between the 15th, 17th, or early 18th century during the “age of exploration” to justify chattel slavery of black peoples, and gender essentialism towards everyone. India, the subcontinent, has had some cultural consistencies since well before the birth of Christ. 🤷‍♀️

We made it to the moon for cheaper than NASA or Russia, or any colonial power ever has! (very positive)

Take that Great Britain and screw you all colonizers and imperialism (extremely derogatory).