#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…

[theorahsart]

Incorruptible pt 39

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))

[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.

[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..."

[rmstitanics]

Lincoln (2012) - Dir. Steven Spielberg

Sally Field as First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln, the fiercely ambitious and high-spirited woman who made Abraham Lincoln President of the United States.

“In her bearing she was proud, but handsome and vivacious; she was a good conversationalist, using with equal fluency the French and English languages. When she used a pen, its point was sure to be sharp, and she wrote with wit and ability. She not only had a quick intellect but an intuitive judgment of men and their motives. Ordinarily she was affable and even charming in her manners; but when offended or antagonized she could be very bitter and sarcastic. In her figure and physical proportions, in education, bearing, temperament, history — in everything she was the exact reverse of Lincoln.” — Alexander K. McClure, Lincoln’s Own Yarns and Stories

inspired by @winterhalters [ post ]

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Dead Ringer, part I

Masterlist

Summary: August's first day with the new holder of his indenture —his new master— is not a resounding success. (Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt.) Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, dehumanization/degradation, intimate/creepy whumper, burn.

A beam of sunlight slanted through the break in the curtains to fall squarely across his eyes. He tried not to squint to see his new employer or, rather, the new holder of his indenture. Why the drapes were drawn in the middle of the day was beyond him. Unless the intention was to make the study feel suffocating and shadowed. 

“Say that one more time.” 

August recognised the dare within the order. He swallowed, heart hammering in his chest in spite of himself. “I’m sorry, master. I don’t have it.” 

Master Keats hummed in mock sympathy. “And after all that rigamarole about your capabilities.” His silhouette plucked a cigar from the shadow of a desktop and took a few puffs until smoke further enshrouded his face. “How utterly useless literacy is when unaccompanied by intelligence. As is typical for servants.” 

“Please, sir,” he struggled to keep his voice level, frustration crashing through him in waves. “I only—

“I trust they disciplined mistakes at Elmwood?”

He clenched his teeth. “Yessir.” August couldn’t be certain if his master was watching him or simply sitting there smoking. His first day was getting worse by the second. From the ill-fitting uniform to his ill-fated first errand, he wasn’t sure if he’d have an ass left to land on by the time he was thrown out on it. 

By the time Master Keats rose out of his chair, August’s palms had really begun to sweat. He didn’t risk even a flutter of his fingers at his sides as he stood at attention. Keats sauntered around the desk, low-hanging smoke cloud trailing with him. When he reached the other side, a few paces in front of August, he leaned back against it, crossing his ankles and straightening his waistcoat. “What was it then?”

“Bed without supper, sir.”

“And for something such as this? For losing a priceless family heirloom worth more than your life twice over?” August wondered what was on the other end of the pocket watch chain crossing his master’s waist if it wasn’t the item in question. 

He cleared his throat. “Probably the cane, sir.” 

Master Keats twisted around to ash his cigar. “Probably? Are you implying that your service record was so clean? Or were you shown favour by that knotty old butler?” 

“The former, sir.” The latter was also true though he did not wish to give Keats any further ammunition.

“Well, unfortunately, it seems your luck hasn’t followed you here.” August could hear the amusement in the statement though he still couldn’t read the accompanying expression. The light shone in from just above Keats’ head, casting his face entirely in shadow behind the looming cloud of smoke.

He swallowed his defense. His shame and frustration were rising to a steady boil. It wasn’t exactly his fault that the watchmaker had apparently surrendered the watch to someone else claiming to represent Keats. August had only been a quarter an hour late anyway, despite following the written directions to the letter. It wasn’t like he’d lost the watch personally. In fact, August’s questioning had been surprisingly short-lived. Though perhaps someone was already going to corroborate his story with the jeweler to make sure he hadn’t indeed picked up the watch and simply stashed it for later. 

“I won’t pretend this isn’t a disappointment,” Keats said, finally stepping forward enough so that he blocked the light.

Not much of a relief for August’s clarity of sight. He couldn’t see jack all in the shade after staring into the sun. He blinked quickly, trying to get his eyes to adjust faster.

Keats took another step forward, close enough that August had to keep himself from taking a step back to maintain civilized personal space. His master reeked of the cigar, earthy and sweet, and his spicy cologne, all overlaying the smell of sweat. August took advantage of the closeness for the chance to curl his fingers into fists. This was all a game, meant to shame and intimidate him, and he’d be damned if he’d rise to the bait.

His master reached out to straighten August’s bowtie, thumbing the fabric. “You seemed so promising…”

“Sir, please. I do beg your pardon. It won’t happen again.” 

“Well, now—” Keats hooked his forefinger over August’s bowtie, not pulling him anywhere but letting August feel the weight of his hand on the fabric circling his neck. “How do you suggest we make certain of it.” 

It went against his every instinct not to twist away. “Sir?”

“I could have them give you the cane.” 

August swallowed, his Adam’s apple running into Keats’ knuckle. “You’ll know best, sir.” 

“I should fucking think so.” Keats eyes raked over his face. They were beady and dark and August already despised having them on him. He hadn’t been naive enough to hold out hope that his new master might be some shade of kind but he had tried to be optimistic. Clearly, even that had been a folly. “Growing up in the workhouse, I’m sure you know how to take it well.” 

His fists trembled at his sides. More from anger than fear, he told himself. “Yessir.”

Keats held him a moment longer before releasing him with a little push so he had to catch himself on his back foot. “Something more novel might suit you better.”

“I—” 

“Perhaps some time to think.” August didn’t like the look of the glint in his eyes one bit. He was practically twirling his mustache, though August would have wagered it didn’t move much with so much wax in it. “I’ll think on it, you can think on it. A week in the attic ought to be sufficient, even for you.” 

August’s heart stuttered in his chest. He hadn’t been shown the whole house yet, had no idea what ‘a week in the attic’ would entail. “Sir—”

“Now, show me your gratitude for sparing you the cane by saving me having to cross the room to the ashtray.” Keats took a final pull from the cigar, enshrouding them both with its heavy smoke before holding it between them. 

“Yessir.” August reached to take it. 

He pulled the cigar back, tutting his tongue. August met his eyes and knew instantly what Keats meant to do. He hesitated, just long enough to regret giving Keats the satisfaction of asking, “Something the matter?”

“No, sir,” he said through clenched teeth, holding out his right hand. He didn’t dare try to abscond by putting forth his left.  

 Keats took another drag from the cigar so the end bloomed orange before he planted it in the centre of August’s palm. August lifted his chin a fraction, keeping his hand steady. He raised his hand in equal force to Keats bearing down on it. He wanted Keats to feel his efforts, though they didn’t stand for much. Not with tears pooling in his eyes until they spilled over, ruining the effect and bringing a smirk to his master’s face. 

His palm kept burning even after he was sure the cigar was out. Keats gave it one final twist before releasing his grasp and letting it fall into August’s hand. “Give me your thanks then.” August wanted to give him something all right but he knew he would never get that far. Keats was above him on all accounts. “Thank you ever so much, sir.”

Next

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main   @maracujatangerine  @whumptakesthecake  @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts

[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

[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

[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...

[terrasu]

Had a bad thought I'm going to have to try to research. In material about historical fashion, historical interpreters/re-enacters/historical costumers will say that the fabric being natural (cotton, wool, etc) helps them not overheat.

We all know what was happening in America.

I'm pretty sure I've read somewhere that Britian had a huge cotton import/demand, but I don't know how much came from India. (The regency era completely decimated a strand of cotton and technique with the chemise a la reine, so I'm not sure if supply from the subcontinent dropped at all.)

Just hadn't connected the dots that slavery fed a huge appetite for cotton that was needed to make wearing multiple layers for 19th century fashion possible.

Victorian fashion, while it did use domestic wool for colder weather, seems to have underlayers (chemise/combination, petticoats, corset covers) that were largely cotton.

Going to see how the civil war changed global export and import.

[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).

[anitha-witchlady]

massa

Anitha-witchlady

crack! crack! crack!

the whip hits my back

ugly welts of blood cascade down

he is here: massa.

massa with that demonic smile

that I can see back turned.

massa with that blood lust

that I can feel surge in him.

massa with that savage glint in his eyes

gazing at me like a predator.

then the crack of the whip stops,

I don't dare look back.

massa backs away hissing

"Go!", massa rasps.

and then I amble away,

bleeding all over.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Dead Ringer, part II

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part I) August’s terrible first day continues and he meets someone hauntingly familiar just before things take a turn for the worse. (Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt.) Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, dehumanization/degradation, burn mention.

The man who brought him to the attic—or, rather, dragged him—was rough and burly. It was four flights up the winding back staircase, past the servant’s sleeping quarters even. A short door met them at the summit of their ascent, barely off the top step. His gorilla-escort produced an iron key and fumbled with it in the lock, thick fingers doing him no favours. August held his tongue. His palm smarted enough without adding a smack to the back of the head—or worse. 

When the lock finally came free, the oaf didn’t concern himself with the knob and instead used August’s body to push the door open, shoving him against it hard enough to shake the paint free. The force made the door bang against the opposite wall and sent August crashing to the floor in a heap. In a surprising display of reflex, the ogre caught the door as it bounced to slam it closed in one fell swoop. August hadn’t even sorted his head from tails before the lock slid back into place in about a tenth of the time it had taken to open. 

August didn’t bother standing as he listened to the clamour of his heavy feet fade. The snug fit of his uniform jacket had prevented him from throwing his arms out to catch himself properly and there’d likely been some straining of the seams. Not that he could do anything about it up here. At least he hadn’t torn through the knees of his trousers. 

This was truly the top of the house. A window sitting just below the apex of the roof drew his gaze first. The glass was filmed with dust but it was nearly as wide as his arm, offering ample light. In the center of the space he wouldn’t have been able to touch the ceiling without a ladder but if he stretched his arms out he very nearly could touch the eaves of the roof, they sloped down so steeply. August wondered what it must look like from the outside, such a tall and narrow space, like the steeple of a church. A laughable comparison. 

Here and there, patches of light interrupted the eaves wherever shingles had fallen away. Like the moth-eaten blankets he used to pull over their heads at the workhouse to make believe they were anywhere else in the world. The air was as plentiful as the light up here. In addition to the roof’s disrepair, the eaves were open at the end, a few inches past where the floorboards stopped. At midday, it was already brisk and plain to August that cold would be his primary punishment, hunger only being second. Although, the more he looked around, the more he wondered if thirst might be a more appropriate runner-up. There was a thin mattress in one corner beneath the window, pushed under the eaves so he’d have to hunch down to get onto it. It reminded him of the ones in the workhouse, probably filled with something that would make one itch to lie on directly. Behind the door there was another mattress and—

August skittered backwards, heart galloping in his chest.

He wasn’t alone. 

Another boy blinked at him from a third mattress by the door. He must have been watching August’s back the whole time but only now pushed himself up from where he lay curled in a ball, to sit with his back against the wall. He moved with a slow deliberateness, like a stag trying to decide if it had been spotted before bolting. August wondered if it was stiffness from the cold. What had he done to also deserve this fate? 

“Hello…” He raised a hand in a half-wave before realising how foolish that must look and used it to brush the hair off his forehead. “I’m August.” 

His new bunkmate blinked at him. He wore the same uniform, wrinkled from having been slept in, bowtie askew and not quite centred on his neck. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you, I don’t usually make such an entrance…” 

Nothing still. Though he was fairly certain the other boy was listening and could understand him. But he only went on blinking at August slowly, making him feel uneasy. August tried not to let it show. It wasn’t as though he could ask to change rooms if they didn’t get on. And for all he knew they’d be spending the entire week together. 

They must be close in age and there were other similarities they shared. Quite a few, actually. Perhaps that was why the boy was acting so odd. As if August was some mirror-image apparition, not truly before him. Their likeness couldn’t just be down to fortuity. Keats must have wanted a matched set, the thought of which made August’s stomach twist. 

August cleared his throat, looking down at the burn on his palm which had kicked up a dull throb. Just a day ago he was still at Elmwood, surrounded by familiar faces. He used to have a fair and well-respected master, had been treated no differently than the paid employees. He sobbed a laugh or laughed a sob, some cross between the two. 

By way of explanation, he held his palm up for the silent boy to see. “My own fault. Quite a first impression…I should have been quicker.” His eyes were starting to fill and he let the tears come. His pride was some number of floors behind him but he kept his gaze downward. His fingers had found a nail that wasn’t quite flush with the weathered floorboard. He traced the iron circle with his fingertip. How many footfalls would it take to achieve what a single well-aimed strike from a hammer could? Worn into submission over time or broken in an instant, it was all a question of willpower. Perhaps he’d left that behind, too. 

A tear ran down his nose, landing as another dark circle beside the nail. It soaked into the dry wood immediately, not even holding shape for a moment above the board. “I must have read the directions wrong, the address—”

“It was fixed.” 

“—what?” 

The boy took a laborious breath before repeating. “It was fixed. Whatever the task was, it was fixed so that you’d fail.” 

“But…I—” He’d recognised the confrontation as the game it had been, but for the whole thing to have been a play at his dignity from the beginning. As if he had anything at all worth taking. There was no reason for it when he was already little more than living property. August was crying in earnest now. He didn’t even realize the other boy had moved until he was standing right over August, holding onto the nearest rafter. 

August stood to get out of his way, sniffling. “It’s silly really, I shouldn’t have expected anything better. I’ve no right to—” 

The boy stumbled, either tripping on another dissenting nail or simply because his legs failed him. August caught him by the elbow, immediately resisting the urge to draw back his hand. There was no heat coming through the sleeve of the jacket. He was as cold as death under August’s touch and, face-to-face, he looked it too. Skin pallid, cheeks hollow, familiar brown eyes glassy. There was a turn of phrase August had heard but couldn’t recall just now. Words had a habit of disappearing from the tip of one’s tongue when they were too strongly occupied in the mind or the eye.

“Are you alright?” 

He nodded, avoiding August’s gaze, brow furrowed. August couldn’t tell if he was in pain or embarrassed, or something else entirely, but as soon as he had his feet back under him, he moved away. He shuffled the length of the room, hand outstretched to catch each eave as if he were climbing a horizontal ladder. Nearly at the end, he paused, stooping and turning in an odd way. August stepped closer and saw he was reaching through one of the holes of a missing roof tile. 

When he drew his arm back inside, he was holding a fistful of snow. “For your hand.” His was as pale as the rest of him, except his fingertips which were almost blue under his fingernails. 

“Thanks.” August gingerly let the snow settle in his palm, holding his breath. The sudden cold was like a second burn and fresh tears sprang to his eyes. He had to resist the urge to drop the ice until, gradually, it began to dull the throb. 

His companion was settling back onto the mattress, as slowly and stiffly as before, no more limber for having moved. August looked away, back to the snow in his open hand. One side was patterned with half circles, the imprint of the inside of the other boy’s grip. It was melting quickly in his warm palm, drips running between his fingers to fall to the floor or trail down the inside of his shirt sleeve. He backed up a few paces, meaning to sit on the mattress under the window.

“No, that’s—” He looked down and cleared his throat, voice flat when he spoke again, “Not that one, please.”

August was happy to oblige, crossing the room to sit opposite him behind the door. He was about to finally ask for the other boy’s name but he straightened, inhaling sharply. 

“What is it?” He didn’t answer but after a few moments, August too heard footsteps climbing the stairs. His companion pulled himself standing. August followed suit, adding his other hand to hold the remaining snow and melt it faster. His heart beat quickly, echoed by the footfalls growing louder and louder.

“It’s not your fault,” the other boy suddenly said. 

“What?”

He shook his head, swiping a lone tear from his cheek before standing straighter, at attention. A statue of pale marble, expression made of stone, even his eyes hardened. He didn’t flinch like August did when the oaf kicked the door open. He caught it with a meaty hand before it could rebound to slam in his face and held it open for Keats to enter.

August wasn’t sure which was worse: the grin on his new master’s face or the cane in his hands. Certainly, the combination was less than favourable. 

Next

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main   @maracujatangerine   @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise