#wh slaves to darkness

[zmasters]

Age of Sigmar OC Part 4: Gods

Part 1: Alliance

Part 1.5: Order or Chaos

Part 2: Faction

Part 3: Race

The slave to the dark gods is a human, man. But which dark god(s) is the lv 1 human fighter a slave to?

[darktyrannomon]

WIP of my converted mindstealer sphyranx!

[thedinanshiral]

In preparation for The Veilguard i'll be exploring some of the companions we already have information on from other Dragon Age media. I'l start with Lucanis Dellamorte, who already had an impressive introduction in the story The Wigmaker's job from Tevinter Nights, and an implicit silent role in the short story The Wake.

Lucanis Dellamorte, Master Assassin of the Antivan Crows. Grandson of Caterina Dellamorte, First Talon of the Antivan Crows, and chosen by her to succeed her.

His cousin Illario Dellamorte whom he often works with might resent him a little for being the favourite but Illario is Lucanis' favourite to succeed as First Talon, as he's got the "silver tongue" required for the politics of it Lucanis does not.

Both of them are described as lean with dark hair and umber eyes; Lucanis is described as "the kind of man you couldn't look away from- until he looked at you".

Despite the abuse from his grandmother during training that caused him to hate her, now in his adult years he understands her motivation was preparing him for this life, and while on the job still recites to himself the same nursery rhyme she did when they were children. It goes:

One for silence Two for surprise Three for good measure Four's excercise Five for a slaughter Six for the thrill Seven means more sovereigns Eight marks the final kill

Seems it's a rhyme reminding how many extra kills are necessary/acceptable in a mission that didn't call for them? But while Illario also remembers it they don't make any other comments on it.

Focused, centered on duty, Lucanis never misses the mark. He carries multiple knives, daggers and blades he takes care of personally and carefully. Mostly seems to take contracts on Venatori and Tevinter mages to the point he's grown acostumed to their magic and can sense them pulling at/tunning into the Fade. Yes, he can sense where the Veil is thin. The way in which he senses a mage using magic is as an itch behind his eyes, or as an annoying headache. The worse the headache the more magic is being used. He can track Venatori mages by headache alone.

He's not just a killing machine, he also knows his enemy's ways, in this case knowing such a corrupt mage would have to have an artifact in use to keep demons at bay. When he found and destroyed said artifact demons crossed the Veil and destroyed the wigmaker's party. This event is what earns him the nickname "the Demon".

As good as he normally is in this contract he let his personal feelings and morals interfere and rather than fulfilling the contract he prioritized the slaves escaping and the victims getting justice in the form of vengeance, considering what the wigmaker Ambrose had done didn't make him deserving of an easy death. A Magister named Zara Renata ends the story deciding, since the Crow is now a Demon, that since demons can't be killed but controled, and Lucanis showed his weakness -having a heart - , she'll find a way to manipulate him to her benefit.

In the short story The Wake Crows Viago and Teia drag a drunken Illario back to his room after someone's funeral and by Illario's comments seems the deceased was Lucanis. Illario says they were brothers more than cousins, and now in his absence he has no one to follow. He mentions as a child one time Lucanis read a book about wyverns and became obssessed with wyverns, took him hunting and both returned to their grandmother made an absolute muddy mess. It's curious how as affected as Illario is the other two Crows seem very much not, so an alternative intepretation could be the one who passed is Caterina, their grandmother, and now Lucanis is First Talon so Illario is lamenting their relationship won't be the same, at the same time he's lamenting he wasn't the chosen one, when he bitterly says "It should have been me".

Some colorful notes sprinkled here and there: when asked by Illario what he'd do if someone sees his face and talks, Lucanis says he'd just grow a beard. Seems he did:

In The Wigmaker's job when Illario complains about not having being told the specifics of the contract it's revealed Lucanis did inform him via a dossier he wrote himself. This coupled with his childhood wyvern obssession and the rest of his personality presented in Tevinter Nights tells me he's very possibly ND on some level.

During The Veilguard reveals we learn from devs that Lucanis likes coffee and is a good cook. His writer Mary Kirby confirmed on Twitter his VA is good and Lucanis will have an accent like previous Antivan characters did (Zevran, Josephine), said he is "the sole dumpster fire of the crew" and that she wrote him "specifically to be a bisexual disaster of a human" (source). In Tevinter Nights Lucanis recalls he once found himself walking into an orgy during a contract at a party and i quote, italics included "Getting out of that had been interesting", implying he may have joined in some capacity in order to get out of it.

In his companion tarot card we see his colors are black and purple, the backdrop is a stylized design of crows and behind and around Lucanis there's a purple design that looks like a wing made of eyes.

The pauldrons on his outfit also have a design of many eyes.

The back of his outfit has a bird -crow?- design as well, with a bigger single red eye

And it's not known yet how but during combat that part of his outfit projects a pair of purple wings.

This is likely how that ability looks in combat menu

Because of the purple and the eyes motif plus learning he's known as "the Demon" has made some very excited at the possibility he turns out to be possessed by a Pride demon. But as it turns out, knowing how this Demon nickname came to be, and that he's a Crow, spies and assassins who have "eyes everywhere", plus this wings combat ability i think it's safe enough to say no, he's not possessed, he's not another Anders, if there's a Pride demon walking around looking like a man that's more likely to be Solas than this Antivan handsome man.

Another detail is the other crow motif on his clothes, i think these are rather cute

Because of The Wake some propose Lucanis died and a demon rose him back from the dead or that he's possessed by a Pride demon because purple and eyes and all that, but as i proposed back in 2020 chances are Lucanis faked his death to escape his fate as successor to a position he had zero interest in, a role that was being pushed and forced on him with absolutely no consideration to his feelings or thoughts on the matter, or he is now First Talon, reluctanctly. Considering he thinks simply growing a beard is disguise enough and now in The Veilguard we see him with a beard tells me he is in fact hiding his identity to some, either because people think he's dead or because he doesn't want to be identified as the current First Talon.

[gureumz]

are you mine? (are you? part 2)

rating: explicit

members: sunghoon, heeseung

notes/warnings: fem!reader, INFIDELITY, angst, bf!heeseung, reader cheats on heeseung (again), university setting, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampies, mentions of degrading words in a non-sexual manner, i reiterate again: THERE IS CHEATING IN THIS STORY

a/n: i didn't intend to write a part 2 for 'are you?' but a lot of people wanted to know how it would turn out so here it is! this is much shorter than the first part and is mostly just vibes but with the events of the first part, what else is there to say? 🧍🏻‍♀️

read part 1 here

"do you want to meet my parents?"

you tense under heeseung's touch, hand midway down his bare chest. he's laying on his side, facing you, your legs tangled underneath the blanket. the warmth of his body fades away when a silent chill runs down your spine.

"yeah," you let out uneasily, chuckling in an attempt to mask your nerves. "but, not anytime soon."

heeseung's face remains the same, eyes unreadable as he examines your features. he brushes your hair behind your shoulder, running his fingertips down the flesh of your arm.

"why not? it's been almost four months since we started going out," heeseung replies softly, drawing circles on your elbow.

you move your arm away.

"i just don't think i'm ready," you say with an air of finality, hoping that heeseung would drop the subject.

you don't think you'll ever be ready. not after...

heeseung watches you for a few moments. to your surprise, he nods, lips spreading into an understanding smile.

"okay," heeseung chirps. "that's fine."

your chest feels like it's been caved in, relief and dread filling in like heavy sand.

"thank you," you say, smiling up at your boyfriend's face.

heeseung moves closer and plants a chaste kiss on your lips. you respond, endeared by the gentle pass of his mouth on yours, a contrast to how rough he was with you merely minutes before.

"if anything's bothering you, you know you can always tell me right?" heeseung whispers, placing slow, loving kisses on your face.

your heart seems to stop, then picks up beating ten times faster. heeseung isn't very vocal, and this sudden display of affirmation has you reeling.

he knows. he must know.

you laugh, a nervous shake in your voice. a half-baked joke enters your mind.

"anything?" you attempt playfully. heeseung takes the bait and pulls back, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"what if i was secretly a serial killer?" you deadpan, narrowing your eyes at heeseung. a smile tugs at the edges of your lips.

heeseung chuckles, pulling you against his chest. he presses his lips one more time to your forehead.

"then i would gladly be your victim."

---

"i'm yours."

you whimper at these words, pulling him closer to you, face buried in his sturdy shoulder. he moves passionately against you and your whole body erupts in invisible flames.

"all yours," sunghoon reiterates, tongue running along the line of your jaw.

"you don't mean that," you argue weakly.

your cheeks burn up as you realize just how loud the two of you are being. his dorm bed creaking, headboard banging against the wall. you knew it was safer to meet him here, less of a chance that your boyfriend might find something that isn't his.

"i do," sunghoon replies gruffly. "a slave to you, to this—god—to this fucking pussy."

you sob at his words, a mix of arousal, elation, and remorse rising in you. with sunghoon, it just felt too good, too alluring to refuse. he was a lighthouse, standing out in a sea of darkness you didn't even know you were stranded on.

with him, you were, you are shameless.

sunghoon finishes inside you, but not before you reach the finish line first, sans condom this time, as he had so many times since that night in his car.

the thought makes you feel filthy all over, in desperate need of a shower, to scrub all sin from your skin.

"spend the night," sunghoon says once he hands you a towel for you to use. you hold it to your core, wincing when you feel the simultaneous ache and squelch of his release dribbling out of you. you catch it before it stains his sheets.

you've never spent the night here before. you check the digital clock on sunghoons desk and it reads 1:13 a.m.

"i can't. heeseung's coming over early to walk me to class," you inform, twisting the towel in your hands.

sunghoon watches you from where he sits on the edge of his bed. you meet his eyes and you know he can see right through you.

heeseung's not really coming over.

"fine," you finally concede. you pretend not to notice the brief twitch in sunghoon's mouth.

"i kinda want to shower though," you add, eyes flitting over to the bathroom door.

sunghoon grins, leaning close. you wrap your arms around your knees protectively. he stares at your face for a second before kissing you softly, so soft you barely feel it.

"whatever you want," sunghoon says.

---

sunghoon holds you close under the shower now. a million thoughts are racing through your mind. in this space, at this time, it seems like the world has stopped and only the two of you are living beings in existence.

"text me tomorrow," sunghoon reminds, deep voice echoing against the bathroom walls.

you sigh, lifting your head from where it rests on his chest.

"you know i can't do that."

and you can't.

all your exchanges have been through brief, curt phone calls. sunghoon was smart enough to punch in his number on your phone after you were done in the parking lot that night. since then, you've labored over deleting every call log your phone creates after each conversation.

heeseung was none the wiser.

"then call," sunghoon corrects himself. "i love hearing your voice."

ironically, you don't say anything more to that.

---

"i can't believe i've been assigned on a project with him!"

your ears perk up.

the restaurant you're in is empty at this hour, with the rush of lunch ending some time ago. you pick up a french fry from the bowl you and heeseung are sharing, popping the greasy treat into your mouth.

"who?" you question.

"sunghoon."

the initial reaction you have to your boyfriend mentioning the guy you've been fucking behind his back has grown weaker over the past few weeks, but with how often heeseung references sunghoon, it's a surprise you haven't thrown up all over yourself in sheer guilt.

"oh, him again?" you throw out nonchalantly. you busy yourself with your phone, ignoring the way heeseung looks at you quizzically.

"what do you mean 'again'?"

you look at heeseung, trying to portray the perfect mix of exasperation and cluelessness.

"it's always sunghoon this and sunghoon that," you explain. "if i didn't know better, i'd say you were in love with the guy."

ha ha. what a funny joke.

and much to your surprise, heeseung finds this absolutely hilarious. he lets out a genuine, hearty laugh, slamming the table with his palm.

"he wishes," heeseung responds with a snort. "he's always trying to one-up me, copying everything i do, following me around like a puppy. i'd say he was in love with me."

wrong.

you laugh along, finishing off another french fry.

---

"you're trying to steal my boyfriend's life, is that it?"

sunghoon stops typing on his laptop, turning to you from where he's seated at his desk. you're sprawled over his bed, wearing one of his shirts.

"excuse me?" sunghoon says, as if fighting off the urge to laugh.

you slide off the mattress, sauntering over to him. you throw a leg over his lap, sinking down until you're straddling sunghoon. his large hands hold you by your waist. looking down at him at this moment, you feel every fiber of your being light up with a sort of giddiness you've never felt before.

"heeseung told me about how you're always trying to one-up him and 'beat him at his own game', so to speak," you explain.

"and now you're banging me, his girlfriend, every chance you get," you add cheekily, kissing the corner of sunghoon's mouth.

sunghoon exhales, hands traveling up your back, cradling you, holding you close.

"i don't want to steal his life," sunghoon says, voice low.

"even if i came with it?" you question, tilting your head to the side. sunghoon grins, kissing you so suddenly, you fall back against his desk.

"such a clever, clever girl."

you're trembling now.

anticipation. want. need.

"my clever girl," he adds.

---

the first cracks start showing the day you ask sunghoon about his wanting heeseung's life.

you promised to meet heeseung for dinner later that day but not before you rid yourself of sunghoon's shirt, of course. he sent you off with a long, heady kiss against the door of his dorm.

you were distracted for the entirety of the meal. heeseung could tell. you know heeseung could tell. something was eating at you from inside.

it didn't help when heeseung made a mindless comment on the way back to your own dorm room.

"you smell different," he had said.

you surrendered to the idea that you were irrevocably fucked at that point. you made a sorry excuse about borrowing a friend's perfume, nonetheless.

the cracks are spreading, spiderwebs of destruction in the walls of your relationship.

sunghoon is a proud man, not unlike heeseung. he's greedy, selfish, controlled by his desires.

you aren't as careful as you used to be. first, a hair tie, a black one, like any other hair tie. you left it at sunghoon's dorm one day. to this day, he wears it like a badge of honor.

a shirt next. a considerable jump from a hair tie, but sunghoon lent you one, and delirious with sleep, neither of you noticed when you waltzed right out of his room still brandishing the white tee that was obviously too big for you.

you made it under your own covers on your own bed when you finally realized.

lastly, a hickey.

you've done it now. you've fucked up so bad you can already see heeseung razing both heaven and hell as he finds out.

"fuck," you mutter under your breath, staring daggers at your reflection, at the red-purple mark just above your collarbone.

"fuck!"

how could both of you reach this point? practically gallivanting your affair under heeseung's nose. it sickens you. you're disgusted with yourself.

but you know you're only this appalled because you're a hair away from being caught.

you jump when you hear the door to your room slam shut. of course. of course. heeseung has a copy of your dorm room key. you gave it to him a few weeks ago as a sort of milestone in your relationship.

you think to yourself with much irritability that you shouldn't have done that.

the ceiling is caving in. run. run now.

"_________?" heeseung calls out. you hear him approach the bathroom door. he knocks and you feel like screaming.

so polite. heeseung's always so polite.

"i don't feel good, hee," you manage. you definitely feel sick and you want to pass out.

"what's wrong? do you need to go to the hospital?" heeseung asks, voice growing loud with concern. he tries the doorknob.

"no!" you yell a little too loud. "it's just—i just need to be left alone, please."

silence.

you hold your breath, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

you don't even know who's looking back at you.

"okay," heeseung finally says after a few moments. "let me know if you need anything, please?"

you call out a reply, collapsing to the bathroom floor once you hear your door close once more.

---

you ignore him for a week.

he tries to come over but you shoo him away with one excuse or another. your conversations are contained in dry texts and obligated phone calls. he asks what's wrong. he pleads with you.

nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong!

heeseung seems like a far-off memory now. you haven't properly looked at his face in days. you haven't held him in much longer.

today, he's waiting for you outside your dorm. he looks like shit. dark circles under his eyes, hair disheveled, clothes unironed.

"baby, what's happening?" heeseung asks, not even sparing you any formalities. no 'hey', 'hi', or 'hello'.

he holds you by the arms, still gentle as ever and only now do you see the damage in his eyes. damage you've inflicted.

"i—," you begin. what are you going to say? sorry, i've been fucking sunghoon behind your back for the better part of four months, i let him call me his and i agree when he says he's mine?

"i can't do this anymore," you whisper, head hung low.

"do what? what can't you do?" heeseung demands, voice rising into a desperate whine.

"baby, please," he continues, sinking to his knees. he looks up at you and he's crying.

"what did i do?"

you watch heeseung sob at your feet and it's the most difficult thing you've had to watch thus far. you ball your hands into fists, confused, angry, regretful.

where's that ego now, heeseung? why aren't you mad? be mad! yell at me, blame me for something, tell me how much better off you'd be with someone else! make it easier for me to tell the world that you hurt me!

"you didn't do anything," you say, tears now falling from your own eyes.

heeseung just looks at you. looks at you for what seems like hours. his face, previously crumped up in despair, morphs into an expression of clarity.

he knows.

heeseung pulls himself up from the ground, letting go of you and stepping back, as if shocked by electricity.

"i hope you're happy."

you know what that means.

go fuck yourself. fuck you and whoever the guy is. you're a whore, a bitch, a waste of my time!

you look at heeseung one final time, shoulders shaking as your whole body is racked with sobs.

"i love you," heeseung declares.

he brushes past you, down the stairs, out the lobby, out the exit.

out of your life.

---

you truly are sick. you're vile. you're the worst.

sunghoon knows even before you can say anything. he pulls you into his room and into his arms, whispering nonsense to you as you cry into his chest.

and then you're kissing, hands pulling at clothes, tongues dragging against skin, blood rushing in your ears.

you know this makes sunghoon feel better about himself. you're not stupid. you carried out a secret affair for weeks. of course, you aren't.

you realize now that it's sunghoon who has an ego.

he relishes in the way you cling to him so desperately, basks in the sounds you make, mixed with his name.

"i've got you," sunghoon reassures, arms braced on either side of your head as he fucks you down on his bed.

"please," you whimper out, holding sunghoon's face in your hands. he's going so deep, abusing your hole and it feels so good.

sunghoon kisses you and it's forceful and needy and everything you need at this moment.

"you're mine," sunghoon grunts, your bottom lip caught between his.

you mewl as he lets go of your lip with a tug.

"i'm yours," you say.

sunghoon leaves kisses all over your chest, neck, and jaw. he's getting you closer to your release. you want it, you want it so bad.

"and i'm yours?" sunghoon questions, kissing behind your ear.

"all mine," you confirm.

---

you wake up the next day, limbs heavy and a colossal headache bursting through your head. you feel arms tighten around your midsection and it's a tidal wave of memories of the day before for the next few seconds.

you bury yourself further into the pillows and covers.

sunghoon kisses the nape of your neck and you drift back into sleep.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Top!Feyre x F!reader - Have a Seat[*]

A/N: I blame the raspberry ripple entirely for this

Warnings: mommy!Feyre, face-sitting, kind of coercion, power imbalance, rim job (a bit), face riding, kind of becoming a sex slave?? But willingly??

She led you by the hand to her bedroom, shutting the door hurriedly behind her.

You looked at her curiously as she stood blocking the exit, her hands clasped in front of her as she attempted to look calm and collected. She moved forward slowly, so as not to frighten you. That in itself was worrying, so you took a small step back, glancing throughout the room.

“Don’t worry,” she soothed, moving her hands in a calming gesture as she glided smoothly across the room to place her hands on your shoulders which stiffened further beneath her touch. She was your High Lady, she shouldn’t be touching you so casually. A flush crested your cheeks at the care and concern in her eye. The flush deepened as her scent wrapped around you, the heavy arousal. You flinched, stumbling backwards as your legs hit the bed, sending you cascading down right where she wanted you.

“It’s okay! It’s okay, don’t worry honey, I’m here,” she murmured as she moved forward to cup your face, tears of confusion welling at the corners of your eyes. “Wh-…huh?” You mumbled, curiosity peaking through the haze of loss. “I just need you to be good for me, can you do that for me, pretty?” She spoke softly as her eyes roamed over your mouth, feeling the weight as they passed over you.

You swallowed lightly, before nodding hesitantly. “Yeah? You want to be a good girl?” She murmured, a soft smile lifting her lips as well as relief. Your brow furrowed but you nodded again. “I want you to lie down for me, on the bed. Can you do that?” She encouraged. You bit your lip lightly, before shifting on the bed, moving to crawl upwards but she stopped you. “I want your head at this end, darling,” the term of endearment slipped out so suddenly she hadn’t even realised what she’d done. Not that you noticed. You complied easily. She was your High Lady after all.

You lay down, looking up at her curiously as she moved round to your side. You wondered at her scent, what it could mean. You couldn’t think clearly as her fingers lifted the edges of her soft cotton top, slowly removing it from her upper half until she was bare. A deep flush heated your cheeks as you looked away. You shouldn’t be seeing your High Lady like this. “I want you to look at me, little bird,” she ordered, softly.

Hesitantly, you turned to look at her as she slipped off her pants, leaving her only in the thin fabric clinging to the sweep of her hips. The flush deepened as heat dampened between your thighs.

She crawled onto the bed, stopping to peer down at you. “Are you all right, pretty thing?” She murmured softly, dipping down to your neck. You shivered as you felt her breath fan across the skin. You barely managed a nod of your head before she was lightly sucking at the skin, kissing it into dark purples. Her nostrils flared as she scented your own arousal now flowing and mixing with her own.

Feyre bit her lip as she moved away from you, in favour of crawling further up your body, shifting until her thighs were either side of your head. A single thought had the slip of fabric vanishing from her wet heat. “I want you…I need you to be a good girl for me,” she murmured, fingers lacing in your hair as you kept your eyes on hers, too overwhelmed to look at what she was baring to you, “I need to borrow that mouth of yours, will you lend it to me, pretty girl? Let mommy use that mouth of yours to clean herself?” Her words send a hot throb of heat sparking between your thighs as you clenched them together.

“Yes,” you mumbled, quietly, your eyes shifting to some point behind her. Her lips pursed into a thin line, “look at me,” she orders, nails scraping lightly at your scalp, “I want to feel your eyes on my pussy,” she moaned softly. Embarrassment heating your body, you moved your eyes to look between her parted thighs.

She laughed softly, “good, little girl,” she hummed as her thighs widened suddenly, bringing her pussy down to settle on your mouth, her clit perching on your nose. She smiled slightly, “you look so pretty under my wet pussy, she’s giving you a kiss,” you felt it as both her holes clenched, imitating a kiss.

She moaned louder as she swayed her hips, her slick quickly coating your face as she wound over you, her clit on your bottom lip until her ass was brought to the arch of your nose, then back and forth, back and forth. One of her hands lifted to palm her breast, moaning slightly louder but keeping quiet.

Abruptly she stopped, lifting from your face, but not before pressing down firmly once, giving you a kiss. She shifted, moving until she was stood directly above you.

“Mommy’s sore, and needs a place to sit, if only there were a seat for me to rest somewhere,” she murmured, a soft, teasing smile on her face as she turned round, bending over as she spread herself for you. Wide enough for you to see how her slick was dripping from her pussy, coating her thighs. You bit your lip at the sight. “Can mommy have a seat on your face? Be a good girl for me?” She moaned, finger oscillating over her clit slowly as she watched you from between her legs.

“I need you to clean me up, darling. You’ve made me such a mess, now take responsibility.” She tutted softly. “Open up for me, I want to ride your tongue.” Your mouth opened as she grinned slightly, arousal heavy in the air. “Good girl. Mommy’s good girl,” she moaned as she sat on your face, her ass on your mouth with her heat on your nose.

“Lick.” She ordered. “I want you to lick me clean.” You moved your tongue as instructed, swiping over her rear entrance as her fingers played with her clit above you. “Can you taste me?” She moaned above you.

You weren’t sure what to do. A little overwhelmed at having her seated atop your mouth, ordering you to do things you hadn’t even dreamt of. Yet she was there, above you, settling on using you for her pleasure. She’d decided you were worthy of lapping between her legs.

Hesitantly, you raised your hands, gingerly settling them over her hips. Your fingertips brushed over the sweep of bone; when she didn’t pull away or recoil from your touch, you applied more force, pushing up into her as your arms pulled down. She was sweeping in on your senses in the most delightful manner. If she was an ocean you would gladly loose yourself in her.

“Fuck,” she gasped, when your tongue eagerly lapped over her, swirling and flicking as she wound her hips over you. Her fingers rubbed and rolled over her clit, palming her breasts as her head tipped back, revelling in the feeling.

She’d been after you for months, and finally she’d caught you. She should have taken advantage of her powerful position earlier. Only now did she feel as though she had a proper throne to sit on. “Keep doing that,” she panted, “just a little more — yes!” The moans tumbled from her lips, riding your tongue as the hand that had been between her legs laced through your hair.

“So good, aren’t you?” Her thumb rubbed in soft, comforting circles, cooing as your arms tightened around her waist. “Mother above,” she gasped, feeling the warmth building in the pit of her belly, her nipples peaking as awareness lit her body, firing along her nerves. Everything became hypersensitive. “You should have told me you were good at eating cunt,” she moaned, rolling her hips desperately. “Could have been indulging myself in your mouth months ago.”

You released a pleased moan onto her, tongue circling her tight ring of muscle before flicking up to her glossy entrance. “Oh, fuck!” The curse slipped from her mouth as your tongue pushed inside, fucking her delightfully. Her hand fisted in your hair, softness leaving, “I just want to come on your mouth day after day. So good,” she panted, “such a sweet girl with such a dirty mouth.”

She was getting close to that point, you could tell. Her praise settled deep in your belly, heating you as you worked on her harder, desperate not to disappoint. “Would you like that?” She moaned through the pleasure. “I could leash you to my bed,” she panted, “keep you all secret and tucked away. Mine.” Her nails scraped over your skin, silently commanding you to give more. “That something you’d want, too?”

You moaned into her pussy, whining needfully as slick dripped from your thighs. “You could eat me out every morning,” she fantasised, breathless as she ground against your mouth, “every night, before we go to bed.” Her hips undulated, fucking herself on your tongue, about to hit her peak. “Then I can come on your mouth again, and again, and again.”

The pads of your fingers bit into her, adding the pain that was essential to her pleasure. “Tell me you want that as much as I do,” she released in a high-pitched moan, “tell me you’d enjoy that as much I would.”

Her release hit her hard, her mouth dropped open as her eyes shut, grinding her pussy over you as your tongue slowed to soothing laps. “So good,” she whimpered, repeating it beneath her breath, her thighs trembling as they gave out. You squeaked as her weight pushed you into the mattress, her cunt smothering you. Delicious.

She knew you couldn’t breathe beneath her. Arousal flared in the pit of her stomach, her heat tightening as she looked down to see you trapped beneath her but not even wriggling for escape. Already so well acclimatised to being her little sex toy. For whenever she wanted.

Feyre knew she shouldn’t have done that, guilt sweeping through her chest. She’d knowingly taken advantage of her position and used it to bend you to her will. It was wrong. She bit her lip, too nervous to lift her hips to see how you would react. Maybe she could keep you there, make you suffocate beneath her. The thought sent a painful sting through her chest. She needed you so badly.

Beneath her, she felt your mouth moving, causing her to twitch at the sensitivity. You’d need air soon. Very soon. But instead of clawing for breath, your fingers rubbed in smooth circles, like she had done to you. A soft, surprised moan left her mouth as you pressed a kiss to her entrance, wriggling gently so you could see each other. Her eyes latched onto yours as you pressed a second kiss to her, followed by a questioning lap.

Both of you were nervous.

It had to be done and sorted eventually.

Feyre lifted from your mouth, shifting down your body to your side. Your tongue darted out to lick her flavour from your lips, most of your face gleaming with her arousal, making heat spark in the pit of her belly. “I…want to,” you murmured nervously, pushing up from the bed to tuck your legs beneath you.

Her brows dipped in confusion. You swallowed, crawling forward until you were kneeling in front of her. Her eyes widened marginally as you lifted her slender hand to your throat, “I’d like that.”

At your confirmation, both arousal and adoration thrummed through her, hauling your mouth her hers, pulling you over her on the bed as her mouth devoured your own. You moaned, enjoying the attention she gave you. Even more so when her thigh pressed between your legs, grinding against you.

“Good,” she panted when she broke the kiss, “you’re mine now, okay? Not anyone else’s. Never. Not even your own.” Her words were harsh, strict. But she was desperate. She didn’t know what she would do if you weren’t entirely in her possession. “You’re mine to use. Whenever I want. For however long. For whatever purposes.”

You whined, nodding your head as pleasure built in your lower belly. You were already sopping wet from having her seated on your face, having her come on your tongue, from your tongue. You nodded your head, “yes, mommy.”

Feyre bit her lip at the title.

You were going to be the death of her. But the most mouth-watering one anyone would ever receive.

Taglist: @myheartfollower

[tiramegtoons]

Okay so last night i finished watching the entirety of Okage Shadow King and-

.... I dont even know where to start. this is unlike any game ive watched or played before. It felt so weird yet so enticing and half of the time i couldn't tell if my brain was rotting or there was just some real deep lore or hidden meaning in here Maybe both??? and it left a strange, creepy, yet longing and nostalgic feeling in the back of my head too.

Let me explain.

spoilers ahead!!!

okay so First of all, the visual style of the game looks awesome I loved the characters and the dynamics going on between the NPC's and especially the main characters. I loved enjoying the witty banter and arguing between Stan and Rosalyn the most. But also, why is Stan insulting and body shaming her so much SHE AINT EVEN FAT??? i LOOK AT HER MODEL AND IM LIKE BRUH

for some odd reason i still found it funny though. Some of the humor might've even been exaggerated to a degree as well(not sure if that was intentional). Even if the writing and dialogue was a bit lost in translation, maybe perhaps, it was still pretty good as a whole and it caught me by surprise.

As for the world and NPC's... something definitely felt off at the beginning and i guess thats what gave me the initial unsettling feeling. Everyone just seemed so bent on doing their own part like dude i couldn't even explain to you Our main protagonist, Ari, is just a wet pathetic little boy who lets everyone step on him/lh Damn, even his own family doesn't seem to care much for him as an individual person and doesn't consider that he has his own ambitions and it rubbed me in a weird way. and yet for some reason i was still hooked. and then came STANLEY HIHAT TRINIDAD THE FOURTEENTH(the 3d challenged flappy shadow)to sweep our poor little boy off his feet and make him his "slave"(adoptive son/j) so he can conquer the world bfhdgsdvhgdfbgdhjg which btw how could anyone take any "evil king" that seriously with a name like that? I LOVE IT. i really enjoyed him getting his ghostly ass handed to him by the NPC's it was hilarious. He was-without a shadow of a doubt(hehehehehe)- the best character. Also it's so funny how he claims to be an evil king but intentionally and unintentionally does good things? I love that trope with villians. Anywho getting off track a little, Another thing that struck out to me was the soundtrack. It's pretty unique, but at times can get pretty repetitive. The ones i enjoy a lot are -Forest of willkur(just really encompasses the feel of the entire game) -Evil King Battle and my favorite- -Addashi Desert(got me in a shimmy FR)

YEAAAAAAAAAA

anywho going back to repetitive things... Eeeeeee... the fighting mechanics are sure something(GOD WHY ARENT THE COMMANDS BEING CARRIED OUT ON TIME WH- IS THE GAME POSSESSED??? DID STAN POSSESS THE GAME???) Also why are there ghosts in broad daylight?? WHY ARE THERE SO MANY GHOSTSSSS) i get it, you do need to grind for items and XP in this game but it looks pretty tedious, especially deep grave pit... oh lordy dude there are literally eight floors in the cave its not a cave its the 7 circles of hell(plus front desk)/j I don't wanna dunk on this game but the fighting could use improvements. Back to the story... i like the melancholy turn it takes when princess Marlene was revealed to be a doll which made total sense when Stan found she had no soul, the reveal of Beiloune's true identity, and when Ari becomes totally ignored and forgotten by just about everyone and from that point going forward the game took a more serious turn... also why does Triste(which means sad in spanish and i see what they did there-)

... why does that remind me of the wasteland from Epic Mickey where other people who've been forgotten reside there... also the dark, odd vibe of both games kinda match too. Another thing, I'm not sure if anyone else had the same thoughts but did anyone else expect a twist where Ari would become the evil king??? i mean, if this was a supposed journey of our main character who is always reminded about how much of a pushover he is would've lead me to think that the buildup would lead to something like Beiloune making him all powerful and force him to fight against his friends. But the last chapter also surprised me with its own twist and im digging that too. but yeah just about everything was coming back together about why the world was and felt as it is. its always the butler isnt it? Also Stan's final form:

I CANT-

im sorry i can't take this seriously when he's just letting them hang out like that(his moobs)

... anywho that happened. As for any hidden meanings and morals I'll have to talk about that later cause my smooth brain still cannot grasp. And its just

SO MUCH

[spnexploration]

Collared part 26

Pairing: Dean x Reader eventually

Series summary: Sam and Dean save a woman from where she has been held as a slave by a witch. But things turn dark whenever they try to take her magic collar off, leaving them with a slave to look after and a curse to break.

Episode summary: Your high continues.

Warnings: drug use

Word count: 1.6k

Series masterlist | Supernatural writing masterlist

Part 25 <- -> Part 27

It was a long afternoon for the brothers. At times Sam thought of you like a child, you were so excited, jumping round and singing. And then a minute later you were screaming at him, or more frequently, at Dean. It was the yo-yoing of the past week, on steroids.

Well, he reflected, it pretty much was you on steroids.

He had watched you for a while before Dean took over, telling him to get some sleep so he could take over again to get you to bed later. Sam agreed with Dean’s assessment that you were more likely to go willingly if it was him, not Dean. And they needed to watch your breathing, opioids could depress it to the point you stop breathing altogether.

So here he was, ushering you to your bedroom. You were dancing around and pretending to be a fairy, which he had to admit was adorable, but also slightly unhelpful for what he was trying to do. The two of you made it to your room, finally.

“Ok, how about you get changed,” Sam said while he was looking on the floor for your pyjamas. He turned around to find you full-frontal naked. He quickly shut his eyes and turned away. “Uh, I meant when I wasn’t here...” he said lamely. He passed the PJs behind him to you. “Put these on, please.”

“Are you a bit prudish, Samuel?” you asked with a cheeky edge to your voice.

He felt himself starting to blush, “I don’t think you’d be doing this if you were in your right mind.”

“You’ve never seen me in my right mind,” you said, suddenly sad. He had to agree with you though, you’d either been controlled or traumatised the whole time he’d known you. He wondered when or if he’d ever get to see the real you.

“You can turn around now!” You called, seemingly happy again. Yo-yo, he thought.

“Ok, how about you hop into bed now and try to sleep off the rest of the effects? It’s pretty late.” You pulled back the covers and jumped on to the bed, bouncing on your knees on it like a kid. He hadn’t actually meant the real bed, it was just a turn of phrase, but he wasn’t going to stop you now that you were there. He was pretty sure you’d never touched it before.

“Uh, ok, I’m going to turn the light out and I’ll come back soon to check on you, ok?”

“Goodnight Sammy!” you said in a singsong voice.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

---

You woke up. Your head felt heavy. What happened?

You realised you were on something soft. Your eyes flew open, worried about where you might be. You were in a bed. You breathing quickened, you couldn’t remember getting on to the bed.

“You ok, Y/N?” Dean’s gruff voice asked.

You panicked, where was he? Your eyes moved quickly around the room, finding him sitting on a chair against the wall, near the door.

You backed up against the headboard, bringing your knees to your chest.

“Wh-what happened? Di-did you- did we…?”

His face softened, “No, no, of course not. You don’t have to be afraid of Sam or I doing anything to you, we’re not going to touch you like that.”

You bit your lip but nodded. That didn’t explain why you were in the bed.

“What do you remember about yesterday?” he asked.

You shook your head, terrified of what he was going to say.

“Ok, you took some pills and got delusional. But aside from Sam and I having to disarm you when you were playing with a revolver, nothing bad happened. You skipped around pretending to be a fairy a few times, that was pretty funny.”

Now that he said it, you had vague memories of sneaking to the infirmary and getting the bottle of pills. “Oh.”

He didn’t say anything, just let you sit with your confusing memories.

“How-how did I get on the bed?”

“Uh, I think Sam said you just climbed in. It was his shift when you went to bed.”

“Shift?”

“To watch you.”

“WHAT?”

“Did you know opioids can stop you breathing? At least that's what Sam tells me. So yes, we took turns to watch you. Plus, I didn’t want you finding any more guns and blowing your fingers off, or worse.”

“Well, um, my breathing is fine now. You can go.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tomorrow, you can choose whether you talk to Sam or I or both of us, but if you want to be let off suicide watch then you need to open up. For now, I’m sitting here.”

“Suicide watch?! What the fuck?!”

“You took a bunch of pills, Y/N. What do you want me to call it?”

You stared at him. You hadn’t meant- that hadn’t been the point- that’s not what you were… But now that you thought about it, you couldn’t really remember why you took them. You were upset. They seemed like they would help. You didn’t think further than that.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you said very quietly. “I just wanted it to not hurt.”

Dean nodded.

You started to tear up. Great, emotional overload again.

He stood up and took a step closer. He opened his arms, looking a bit awkward. “Do you, um, do you want a hug?”

“You don't have to pretend to care about me anymore, the collar’s gone.”

“Who said I ever pretended to care about you? Why do you think I was pretending?”

You didn’t say anything. You knew it was true, he was just nice to you with the collar on because he pitied you.

“You were entitled to comfort when you had the collar on and you are still entitled to comfort, sweetheart,” he said quietly. This time, the nickname didn’t annoy you.

He stepped towards you, watching you carefully. When you didn’t react, he took another step and gently put his arms around you. You lent into him and let him hug you properly.

“I know it sucks, but you will get through this. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life, I’ve even literally been to hell. But when I look back, the resounding thing is – I got through it. I am sure there is more shit in my future because that’s just the kind of life my brother and I lead, and some days, the only thing that keeps me going is knowing that we get through these things. And you do too, you will get through this.”

---

Dean sat in his chair, watching you sleep on the floor. It’d taken some convincing, but you’d finally agreed to go back to sleep. You’d looked so exhausted, so drained.

It was killing him. This was all his fault. First he let you get captured by Azaneth again, then he’d let Azaneth get away. You were so upset about it you’d done this.

He put his head in his hands.

.

.

.

Taglist (removed the ones that didn't work last time)

@malindacath @stoneyggirl2 @iprobablyshipit91 @tiggytaylor @ellie-andthemachine @muhahaha303 @deans-spinster-witch @mrswhozeewhatsis @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @sassy-pelican @saiyanprincessswanie @sojuxxi @ilovedean-spn2 @lacilou @agirlwithdemonblood @rachiem4-blog @miss-madness67

[purplehairedwonder]

Chapter 1083: By Any Means Necessary

Color me shocked, but we’re actually following up from last chapter to learn the truth about Reverie!

But first, that cover.

On the surface, it makes me laugh a bit. But, upon further reflection--and I’m going to look way too deep for a cover request--this makes me think of the way Doffy took in children. He’d find these heavily damaged children like Law and Baby 5, he’d wrap them in his coat (give them a place in the Family, make them feel wanted and needed, make promises about the future) while offering only the barest care for their actual trauma, like the bandage here. (In fact, he was actually making the trauma worse.) 

See? Way too deep for a cover request 😅

Anyway, on to the chapter:

So, the Revolutionaries had three main aims for infiltrating Mariejois:

I can only imagine that cutting off the Celestial Dragons’ food reserves is going to lead to some dark things. (I mean, even cannibalism hasn’t been off the table so far in One Piece, so...) While the Revolutionaries aimed to help as many slaves escape as they could, you know they didn’t get them all. And the ones left behind are really going to suffer from this.

Excuse me, why does this silhouette of God’s Knights look like Shanks?

It’s probably a misdirect (we all know how the silhouettes of Kaido and Big Mom looked before we met the actual characters, after all) but considering the background for Shanks that we got from the Film Red material and the fact that the Five Elders were willing to meet with him... it doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. (Or maybe one of Shanks’s family members?)

Side note: on a shallow note, I really like this panel of Sabo:

Anywho, Dragon acknowledges that Cobra was actually a kind and benevolent ruler, but that doesn’t matter for the cause of the Revolutionaries. For the greater good is the type of attitude that leads to those who rebel against the corrupt to become the very thing they were fighting against once they are victorious.

“Unfortunately, misinformation spreads faster than nuances like that” is such a true line.

And Sabo...

The boy is fine being seen as Cobra’s murderer because it’s potentially helpful to the cause. It’s nothing more than a cold calculation for him. It’s also such a contrast to Luffy, who focuses on the individual people he cares about and the things that matter to them rather than the bigger picture; for instance, liberating Dressrosa wasn’t about the importance of freeing the people who’d been living under Doflamingo; it was because Doflamingo hurt Law and Rebecca, people he cared about. Freeing Wano was for Momo and Tama and the others he’d come to care for (and because he wanted a good fight against Kaido, ha.)

It’s interesting; we think of Luffy as being so selfish that he’s practically selfless. He fights for selfish reasons but ends up doing selfless things like freeing countries as a result of his actions. 

On the other hand, Sabo is, arguably, so selfless that he’s selfish. He doesn’t care about the consequences for him in all of this because it redounds to the Revolutionaries’ benefit, but at the same time, he’s willing to let others--like murder victim Cobra, for instance--suffer for the purposes of the mission. It’s selfish.

 I can’t help but think of Makino’s reaction to seeing the newspaper:

And now we know what she was looking at:

To be fair, this is a pretty damning picture (though Sabo easily could have just come across Cobra’s body when this picture was taken). And Sabo being willing to be seen in this light shows just ties into his selfless selfishness. 

Moving on, we start a flashback to a month earlier in Mariejois. The Revolutionaries are attacking and causing enough chaos to bring down two admirals. 

On a random note, Karasu’s Devil Fruit is just perfect for his aesthetic, and I love that for him.

It’s also very funny to me that Ryokugyu, who we saw as being incredibly bullheaded when he attacked Wano, is holding back to avoid causing damage in Mariejois...

while Fujitora is pulling his best Ivan Drogo:

😂😂😂

I completely forgot Bonney snuck into Reverie. Whatever happened there is clearly tied into how she ends up in the water for the Straw Hats to find her.

And my girl, Vivi. Fiery Vivi is the best Vivi. I love her a lot. 

I’m interested in, between this flashback and Egghead, where Lucci’s character is going. It feels like he’s becoming disillusioned with the orders he’s been following; he’s a definite wild card.

It’s interesting that Cobra is going in to meet with the Elders without anyone with him--almost like he knows what’s likely to come of this meeting and doesn’t want to drag anyone into it.

I’m looking forward to seeing how we get from this to Vivi and Wapol, of all people, hiding out with Morgans.

With all these revelations, we really are in the final saga, aren’t we?

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Hello dear friend,

I was wondering if you have a favorite Josh era and when you have time or spoons, if you’d tell me about it or even (if you wanted to) share your favorite art. ❤️

Hi Winter, First thank you for sending this ask, it means the world to me at the moment. Things have been highly overwhelming and I love yacking about the rat muse when I'm down like this. <3 My favourite Josh era might be the Arkanis era (post-Corprus disease pre-Nerevarine). It covers the quests Corprus Cure, Mehra Milo and the Lost Prophercies, The Path of the Incarnate and Urshilaku Nerevarine. As well as a few Twin Lamps and Morag Tong quests and a murder misery in Vivec City. He's got a sense that he needs to at least see through getting the information that he'd stolen from Holamayan to the Urshilaku out in the Ashlands. He's not convinced that he really is the Incarnate like everyone says but not many people can say they survived Corprus Disease with their mind at least some what intact. He's struggling with keeping his mind present, however and it's what starts his rampant sleep avoidance. The less sleep he has, the less likely he is to connect to the Blight Hive. This backfires a lot. He's looking for answers as to why things have gone the way they've gone. He wants to know why these creatures keep calling him Nerevar and he wants to know why he's been cursed in the way that he has. He doesn't believe he's the Nerevarine but he's never been this accepted by people before. It's the first time he starts embracing his Ashlander side and starts using his father's name. He feels connected to something and he's always searched for that sense of belonging.

He's also madly in love with his Urshilaku Guide and it's driving him nuts.

This version of Josh is just finding his purpose for the first time. Before that he felt like he was aimlessly flailing about. He started working as a vigilante freeing slaves and burning down plantations and markets. This purpose was born out of a desire for revenge on his behalf. Being called the Nerevarine is something he's still deeply uncomfortable with but he is curious as to why he's being flung into these prophecies. Josh after Corprus finds some direction and is slowly regaining stability in the new body he's in. He's gone through a lot with his recovery. The wasting of his muscles, the 60% body burn and the removal of both his right pectoral and the first two toes and half the ball of his right foot left him severely weakened. It took him a few months to be able to stand with the assistance of crutches and he was stuck being unable to really get around without them until he designed his foot prosthesis out of scrap he'd found in Dwemer Ruins.

It's a fundamental change in his character that gives him some perspective. He's very reactionary and it's not often at that point in his life he gets that time to just sit and be. After he puts on Moon-and-Star he's got a whole other set of problems. The progress he's made during those months he was sick and then finding himself again is fundamental to who he becomes later and why he feels a certain responsibility for what happens next. Deep down he knows he chose it and he feels like a puppet because of it. It's Josh before he gets that constant apathetic melancholy that defines his character after the Main Quest. He feels like he might have a life ahead of him, like the darkness from his childhood and adolescence was behind him. It's his most hopeful.

As far as art, my faves so far are from this time period, I think it's the version I draw the most.

This one I still love (my actual fav is the nude version but this one gives you the creation of his never nude robe so...) He's meant to be lazing about in Etana Ilaba'andul (Erra's older brother)'s guest yurt. This concept kinda predates this whole Arkanis concept but is what gave birth to it. As a result he's missing a few scars and moon-and-star is present but it's meant to be around that time. This is really when I decided he'd have different designs for different periods. Before that I hadn't settled on any design for him. It was just a handful of ideas.

This one was 100% painted because of my Kogoruhn fic and is the most up to date depiction of this version of Josh. My next work will also be based on a scene from this fic. Part of this work involves the hivemind connection that he keeps losing himself to, and it's a huge aspect of how I visualise Corprus and the Sixth House to work. Arkanis is when I figured out Josh as a character, and I think that's why I like it so much. It's the most fleshed out.

[zmasters]

Age of Sigmar OC Poll Part 3: Race

Part 1: Alliance

Part 1.5: Order or Chaos

Part 2: Chaos Faction

The slaves to darkness is the winner of the pervious poll. So the next one will be what race the character is going to be.

Everything on this list is on the list on the slaves to darkness lexicanium page.

[mylostlenora]

more queer (mostly sapphic) books on my tbr pt. 2!🤍🤍

1. Solita, Vivien Rainn

“Sadie is her name, and she is passing through the motions of a life soaked through with the stench of death. Grief-ridden nightmares plague her every sleepless night, only to continue into the day when she awakens to the burden of running her family’s centuries-old estate:

The Hacienda Espinosa, a yawning, black-wooded beast of a mansion nestled in the jungles of the Philippines' Palawan Island, a house that offers Sadie nothing but a perpetual reminder of what once was, what can never be again. She is alone, save for the sound of her own lonely, broken heartbeat—that is until the day she hears another. And it’s coming from beneath the floorboards.

Unearthing what was left to rot beneath the house, Sadie realizes her fatal mistake; the dark secret was never buried to be forgotten. It was buried to be sealed away.

It’s no mortal, no man, but the Hacienda’s first owner—a demon.

And he’s nothing like she expects.

It’s only through facing the past and her buried fears can Sadie find salvation as she upturns the Hacienda’s twisted roots, roots born from the faith and fire of the conquistas, the Spaniards who came from distant shores, bringing with them not only their God, but also their demons.”

2. In the Roses of Pieria, Anna Burke

“When Clara Eden is offered a job as an archivist working for eccentric estate owner Agatha Montague, she thinks her prayers have been answered. Soon, she finds herself sucked into the world of her research, captivated by a romantic correspondence thousands of years old. But as her feelings for her employer’s assistant, Fiadh, deepen, so too does her suspicion that something about Agatha Montague isn’t quite right. Unfortunately for Clara, by the time her suspicions are confirmed, it is far too late to run.”

3. The Deep, Rivers Solomon

“Yetu holds the memories for her people—water-dwelling descendants of pregnant African slave women thrown overboard by slave owners—who live idyllic lives in the deep. Their past, too traumatic to be remembered regularly is forgotten by everyone, save one—the historian. This demanding role has been bestowed on Yetu.

Yetu remembers for everyone, and the memories, painful and wonderful, traumatic and terrible and miraculous, are destroying her. And so, she flees to the surface escaping the memories, the expectations, and the responsibilities—and discovers a world her people left behind long ago.

Yetu will learn more than she ever expected about her own past—and about the future of her people. If they are all to survive, they’ll need to reclaim the memories, reclaim their identity—and own who they really are.”

4. Our Share of The Night, Mariana Enriquez

“A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality.

For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar’s father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate?

Moving back and forth in time, from London in the swinging 1960s to the brutal years of Argentina’s military dictatorship and its turbulent aftermath, Our Share of Night is a novel like no other: a family story, a ghost story, a story of the occult and the supernatural, a book about the complexities of love and longing with queer subplots and themes. This is the masterwork of one of Latin America’s most original novelists, “a mesmerizing writer,” says Dave Eggers, “who demands to be read.”

5. The Gilda Stories, Jewelle Gomez

“This remarkable novel begins in 1850s Louisiana, where Gilda escapes slavery and learns about freedom while working in a brothel. After being initiated into eternal life as one who "shares the blood" by two women there, Gilda spends the next two hundred years searching for a place to call home. An instant lesbian classic when it was first published in 1991, The Gilda Stories has endured as an auspiciously prescient book in its explorations of blackness, radical ecology, re-definitions of family, and yes, the erotic potential of the vampire story.”

6. To Be Devoured, Sara Tantlinger

“What does carrion taste like? Andi has to know. The vultures circling outside her home taunt and invite her to come understand the secrets hiding in their banquet of decay. Fascination morphs into an obsessive need to know what the vultures know. Andi turns to Dr. Fawning, but even the therapist cannot help her comprehend the secrets she's buried beneath anger-induced blackouts.Her girlfriend, Luna, tries to help Andi battle her inner darkness and infatuation with the vultures. However, the desire to taste dead flesh, to stitch together wings of her own and become one with the flock sends Andi down a twisted, unforgivable path. Once she understands the secrets the vultures conceal, she must decide between abandoning the birds of prey or risk turning her loved ones into nothing more than meals to be devoured." Sara Tantlinger's To Be Devoured capitalizes on our macabre preoccupation with the uglier side of nature, with love that topples into obsession, and with madness that is strangely beautiful in its barbarity.”

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 19: Leannan Gets a New Name

2265 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, noncon with multiple whumpers, restraints

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

Titus 2:9

Teach slaves to be subject to their masters in everything, to try to please them, not to talk back to them.

~~~

“You understand you belong to me now, yes?” Captain DuPont asked.

“Yes, sir,” Leannan smiled sweetly.

They had come for him after dark. Leannan had fallen half-asleep on the floor, near Phineas but not quite next to them. He had been yanked out of his doze and forced to his feet. He had stumbled along between two guards to the door, their hands firmly around his arms.

“Do we take Councilwoman Jeanette, too?” one guard had asked the other, putting all his scorn into the title, “Have twice the fun?”

Leannan’s heart took a dive at that, bringing him fully into wakefulness. He knew what he was being taken for. Jeanette – even if she was a heathen – was a real person, and ill. Real people shouldn’t be made to do what Iowans do.

“Don’t you know what disease she has?” he had asked innocently, “It’s terribly contagious.”

“Ugh,” the guard had cringed, “Nevermind.”

Now Leannan stood in the dining room, next to the head of the table where DuPont sat. The table was filled with guards, sitting elbow-to-elbow, stuffing their faces with what looked like a month’s worth of food preserves: dried fruits, jarred vegetables, smoked meats and sausages, dried fish, jams and jellies, and bottles upon bottles of wine – or rather, they had been eating, until Leannan entered and took their attention. Now they all watched him, whispering amongst themselves.

“You know, I’m not all that interested in you,” DuPont said, “I’m married. I love my wife. But, I am willing to take care of you. Give you a good life. Protect you.” His eyes flicked to the ogling guards, then back to Leannan. “But I love the men and women who work for me, as well. I want them to have a nice celebration tonight. So here’s what I’m going to do,” he leaned forward, “You’re going to see what your life would be like with them. And afterwards, you can pick. Them or me.”

“But you’re my master, sir,” Leannan said, hiding his nervousness with more smiles, “Of course I’ll pick you.”

“I know you will,” DuPont smiled back, “But I want you know know exactly what’s waiting for you if you ever disobey me.”

It was getting harder for Leannan to keep smiling.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said softly, “I’d never disobey you.”

“You’re talking back to me right now.”

“Wh – No, I…”

“There it is again,” DuPont said calmly, “I don’t want to ever hear you say ‘no’ to me, Leannan, or that I don’t need to do something, or that you don’t like something, or that you don’t want to do something. What I want from you is unquestioning obedience. What I want is for you to be quiet and do as I say. I don’t want to hear a word from you unless I ask you a question or give you an order. Can you do that, Leannan?”

“Yes, sir.” It had to be just a power trip, the Captain reveling in his new authority over Leannan, or a show for his subordinates. There was no way DuPont would actually be that strict.

“Call me Captain.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And you will be called Chien, not Leannan, from now on.”

“Sean?” Leannan tried to repeat, his Iowan tongue not quite forming the word, while the guards around the table laughed. DuPont heaved a sigh.

“What did I say about talking, Chien?”

“I – I will not speak unless spoken to, Captain,” Leannan stammered out. No, not Leannan – Chien.

“Good boy,” DuPont smiled, and then his gaze slid from Chien over to the guards at the table.

“Alright,” he said, “You can take him now.”

The table erupted into whoops and cheers, and the guard sitting nearest to Leannan – no, Chien – stood and scooped him up into his arms.

Chien let him. He knew it would be easier, to just let them do what they wanted. Even so, he couldn’t resist looking over his carrier's shoulder at the entourage of guards following them out of the dining room, trying to count them. Fifteen, maybe? Mostly men.

Chien had never taken on fifteen before. He felt a little sick.

This was happening. This was happening, and there was nothing he could do. The guards behind him chattered excitedly about what they were going to do to him, how long they’d been waiting, how Chien’s ass was just begging for it – Chien tuned their vulgarity out. It helped that his blood was pounding in his ears, loud and fast.

He missed being Leannan already. Leannan felt stronger than this.

He screwed his eyes shut and prayed it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

He was dropped onto a bed. He opened his eyes, and found himself in his room. Was it still his room? Was it ever his room, really? It didn’t feel like it, anymore.

Hands were on him, tugging at his clothes. He shut his eyes again.

Take a breath.

Turn it on.

He sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head, unveiling a smiling face. A new person. Chien.

“Oh, wow!” he gasped, pulling his pants down, “There are so many of you! Are you going to take turns?”

They were all around, some kneeling on the bed, some hanging back and watching, some already partially undressed. It was hard for Chien to keep smiling.

“We’ll figure it out as we go,” someone said, and the hands were back on him, pulling him down, onto his back, lifting and spreading his legs, pinning his arms. Someone had the bottle of oil, pouring the cool liquid onto him, drizzling it up onto his stomach, hands massaging it onto him, then into him as a finger plunged. His legs were pulled further apart, too far, it hurt, and it was hard to keep smiling. But he moaned, in the way people liked, and they were asking him something but it didn’t really matter what they were asking, Chien would always say yes. Always.

Someone leaned over him, reached out; and Chien was blinded by a length of cloth wrapped around his head. He laughed, like this was fun. Someone laughed back.

The loss of one sense made the others feel worse. There were too many hands on him to count. Blood rushed through his ears like a storm. He smelled sweat, and distantly, his own perfume. Lavender.

A second finger entered, prying him open, and Chien tilted his hips to help the process along, like he was supposed to. Someone grabbed his wrist and guided his hand to their dick, and Chien obediently closed his hands around it and began to stroke.

It was hard to keep smiling.

The fingers withdrew but Chien only experienced the relief of emptiness for a moment before they were replaced with a hard cock, sliding in and out as the owner groaned and spoke to Chien.

A lot of people were saying things, actually. There was a lot being said to him, about him, around him. But he needed to keep making the noises they liked and he needed to press up into the man fucking him and he needed to keep jacking the other one off and he didn’t really have the space to listen to what anyone was saying. As long as they were happy, they were laughing, he was doing his job. God would be proud.

He breathed “Yes,” every time a sentence ended with a questioning upturn. That was the only word he really needed to say.

“Do you like that?”

“Are you a desperate whore?”

“You like my cock, huh?”

“You’re the star of the party, aren’t you?”

“Don’t cum inside him, I’m not sticking my dick in your spend, dude.”

The cock inside him pulled out and spilled wet heat onto his stomach. The bed bounced as one person left and was replace with another. Hands pushed, tones became negotiating, and Chien was rolled over. His hips were pulled up and someone new entered him, fucking him slow, gentle. His head was lifted by the hair, and the mattress sagged as someone knelt in front of him.

“Open,” an order made it through the haze. Chien obeyed, taking another into his mouth, groaning, choking, gasping. This one wasn’t slow, or gentle. He couldn’t really smile anymore.

Someone reached under and began to work Chien’s cock. He was hard, as he should be. They’d have fun making him cum. That was good, it was good when they had fun.

He was breathing too fast. He tried to slow down, but it was hard with his airway blocked half the time.

He swallowed one, the other came on his back. People cheered. That was good. He was putting on a good show. It didn’t matter that the blindfold was growing damp against his eyelids. It didn’t matter that his arms were shaking beneath him. He was bringing pleasure to his betters.

The two left, and two more replaced them. The one in his mouth came quickly, to jeers and ridicule, and was replaced. No matter; so long as no one was upset with Chien.

Chien came too, eventually. It was inevitable. This was met with cheers and whistles – but the hand on his cock never left, it just kept going, pushing him into painful overstimulation. A sob forced its way out, stifled by his full mouth. He’d never tell them to stop, though. That wouldn’t be right.

But…

“Please,” he choked out the next time his mouth was free, after swallowing another load, “I need a minute!”

Laughter. Someone grabbed his hair.

“The Captain said to work you as hard as we could. I don’t think you get any breaks!”

Hands pushed. New position. More fucking.

It just kept going. Chien wasn’t counting. He couldn’t have counted, even if he tried. Everything was too loud, too painful, too fast.

He was fighting back before he realized it. Pushing them away. Clawing at the blindfold. Crying. The hands became harsher. They seized his wrists, twisted his arms behind his back, tied them up with something. He kicked – they tied up his legs too.

Hands pushed. New position. More fucking.

Chien screamed for Phineas.

~~~

Phineas woke when the door to their makeshift cell banged open. Their internal clock told them it was about what-the-fuck in the morning. In the slim light coming through the door from the hallway, they saw a guard drag in and throw down a body. Then he was gone, taking the light with him as the door closed and locked.

Phineas stood, crossing the room as their eyes readjusted to the dark. Jeanette lay off to the side, slowly pushing herself upright.

“Is that Leannan?” she asked.

Phineas didn’t answer. Of course it was Leannan. They’d recognize the whore’s naked body anywhere, even in the smallest sliver of starlight eking through the boarded-up windows. He lay on the floor, bound and blindfolded with scraps of fabric, his chest heaving with labored breaths. As they drew closer they could smell him, even through their stuffed up broken nose: sex, sweat, and fresh blood. The blood was smeared across his ass and down his thighs, nearly black as it dried and disappearing into the blueish belt marks that still colored the back of his torso and legs. They wrinkled their nose in disgust, but knelt and reached out anyway, pulling off the blindfold. Leannan blinked up at them, dazed.

“Phineas?” he croaked.

Now that they were closer, Phineas could see the semen dripped across Leannan’s skin, his face, his torso, his hair, some of it already dried and flaking. Phineas felt a flare of revulsion, mixed with jealously. It should have been Phineas defiling Leannan’s body like that, not anyone else. The two feelings culminated into petulance, directed towards Leannan. They dropped the blindfold and stood, walking away.

“Phineas!” Leannan pleaded behind them, “Phineas, please untie me!”

“You don’t belong to me anymore,” they said, settling back into their corner, “I don’t owe you anything.”

There was a moment of silence as Leannan processed this, then an audible sob. He drew his knees up to his chest and turned his face down towards the floor, crying.

Phineas was about to let their eyes drift closed to sleep when they saw Jeanette, crawling laboriously across the floor towards Leannan. They lifted their head to watch.

“Leannan?” she touched his shoulder, feather-light, “Leannan, it’s me, I’m going to untie you.”

“Thank you!” Leannan gasped, “Thank you, Jeanette!”

It took her a minute to unwork the knots, but soon Leannan was sitting up, rolling his wrists and ankles out.

“Thank you, Jeanette,” he said again, and Phineas felt another spike of jealously. Leannan’s gratitude used to be all theirs. Now it could be anyone’s.

“It’s alright,” Jeanette replied softly, “I should be thanking you, for what you said when they threatened to take me.”

Phineas rolled their eyes. Of course, these two would get all soft and chummy with each other.

“Oh,” Leannan sniffled, “It just slipped out. I’m really not supposed to lie, ever. That’s probably why…” Leannan stopped, pressing a hand against his mouth. His shoulders shook with a silent sob.

“I’m sorry, Leannan,” Jeanette said, “I wish I could do more.”

“My name’s not Leannan anymore,” he said, his voice thick with tears, “It’s Chien.”

“Chien?” Jeanette echoed faintly.

“Mhm.”

“That means ‘dog,’” she informed him.

“Oh,” the Iowan hung his head, fiddling with the talisman around his neck, “Okay.”

Phineas huffed. How come they had never thought of that! Hundo would have been adorable.

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

[thehours2002]

I haven't seen this documentary because I can't seem to find it listed in any libraries and it doesn't seem to be on the Brontë museum's online shop anymore.

Excerpts from the article:

Claire O’Callaghan (C.O.): In A Regular Black, the contemporary novelist, Caryl Philips, author of The Lost Child (2015), another contemporary novel that takes on Heathcliff’s legacy, argues that the date of Mr Earnshaw’s walk to Liverpool in the summer of 1771 makes it apparent that Earnshaw visits the city to participate in ‘some kind of business’ and that business must have been the slave trade.1 Do you agree with Philips’ assertion?

Michael Stewart (M.S.): Well, I think A Regular Black is a very interesting film, but I think that that point slightly over-states its case.

C.O.: Do you have any thoughts on how the suggestion that Earnshaw was participating in the slave-trading business impacts his character’s dynamic? It seems to me that the idea makes him a far less likeable figure than if we read him solely as a philanthropist for bringing a young orphan home?

M.S.: Yes, I think there’s a great dark side to Mr Earnshaw. He goes to Liverpool in the middle of summer as a gentleman farmer. There’s no business for farmers in Liverpool; it is a port, not a market town. He bypasses Bradford, Keighley, Leeds, all of the places where farmers would have had business. He travels on foot. I’ve done that journey myself to research Ill Will and it is a fair old way. He did it in three days there and back. It took me three days to get there, and I’m not a slow walker, I wasn’t shirking. So, he goes on foot in the middle of summer, but he’s got horses in the stable, as Joseph mentions, and there’s a coach from Keighley to Liverpool. That begs the question: why is he covert in his movements?

C.O.: The purpose of his visit is never fully explained, but I also wonder why he walks when he can take a horse. After all, he tells us it is ‘sixty miles each way’ and that ‘that is a long spell!’.[2]

M.S.: I made it more than that, I tracked closer to 70 miles. He comes back with what I think are joke presents, really: a fiddle and a whip. Very symbolic, actually.

C.O.: Why do you think they are joke presents? They are problematic objects in relation to the history of institutional slavery.

M.S.: What I mean is that they are actual objects that are also verbs. You can ‘fiddle’, as in, play around. And you can ‘whip’, as in, wind somebody up. That’s representative of the children’s respective characters. Anyway, he also brings back an orphan boy that Mrs Earnshaw takes an instant dislike to. I mean, Caryl Philips says that he sees Mr Earnshaw in the tradition of John Newton, the English Anglican clergyman and later abolitionist, who wrote ‘Amazing Grace’.[3] I think you have to leap forward to put those things together. There’s no evidence for any of that. But certainly, what was interesting for me was the mystery of Mr Earnshaw going to Liverpool. He goes there and back in three days, so he has no time to hang around to see The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour. He goes for a specific purpose. He has two or three hours when he gets there and then he’ll have to walk back again. So, he is there for a specific purpose and he’s already pre-arranged something. He’s not just mulling about. So yes, absolutely, there is a dark side to Mr Earnshaw. I mean, why does he call him Heathcliff after his dead son? Why does he favour him?[4] There are so many unexplained things there.

[...]

C.O.: Importantly, black characters are not wholly new to Brontë fiction. The character ‘Quashia’ appears in their juvenilia, he is ‘the only indigenous African in Glass Town’.[10] However, on the point of potential historical sources for Heathcliff and the questions surrounding his racial origins, although Heathcliff is named after Mr Earnshaw’s deceased son, Emily also draws attention to the fact that his name ‘served him’ both as a ‘Christian and surname’ (WH, p. 40). It is noted in the documentary that the single moniker was also used for enslaved people.[11] What are your thoughts on this?

M.S.: I think Caryl Philips nails this. And he also rightly points out the use of ‘it’ to refer to a child and the phrase ‘his owner’. I like his phrase ‘an act of unexplained intimacy’ to refer to Mr Earnshaw’s naming Heathcliff.[12]

C.O.: Yes, on the topic of language, the documentary notes that in chapter four of Wuthering Heights, the scene where Mr Earnshaw returns from Liverpool, the word ‘it’ appears prominently. I counted Emily’s usage and it appears seventeen times here with reference to Heathcliff.[13] Emily’s phrasing, as Caryl Philips says, decidedly evokes the language of slavery and property, themes that the novel is concerned with more widely. What are your thoughts on Emily’s deliberate use of language in this pivotal scene?

M.S.: Yes, Emily’s such a clever writer in that sense. ‘It’ and ‘its owner’ are even more telling in that respect (WH, p. 39). But she never explicitly addresses the issue really, so all of these things are food for thought. The ethnicity of Heathcliff is another thing that she refuses to come down on – the idea that he could be a ‘gypsy’, a ‘lascar’, this or that, or as an ‘American or Spanish castaway’ (WH, p. 54). You know, the idea of a lascar in itself is ethnically very ambiguous. The term refers to a ship worker, but they could be from North Africa, India, Arabia, China. She doesn’t want to close any doors, really, and it is absolutely open.

C.O.: Nelly complicates things by encouraging Heathcliff to ‘frame high notions’ of himself when she says, ‘Who knows, but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together’ (WH, p. 61). This seems open to me. And yet, the documentary is adamant that the imagery is certain and explicit; the historian Iain McCalman claims that Victorian readers were ‘likely to have known’ that Emily was referring to a ‘West Indian mulatto’.[14] How do you respond to the idea that Emily’s use of the term ‘it’ gives power and possibility for a whole range of identities and/or non-white subjects, rather than only black people as asserted in the documentary?

M.S.: Certainly, Heathcliff is described as ‘dark almost as if it came from the devil’ (WH, p. 39). He is also described as a ‘black villain’ (WH, p. 119) and as having a ‘black countenance’ (WH, p. 190), and reference is also made to his ‘black father’ (WH, p. 187) and the ‘blackness [visible] through his features’ (WH, p. 194). And some people say well, you know, that’s a moral judgement, rather than an ethnic idea. It could mean that he’s not black or that he is black. ‘A regular black’ is another very telling phrase (WH, p. 61). And it is very interesting the way it is used there in the book, isn’t it? Nelly says, ‘if you were a regular’, but she doesn’t fully finish the sentence (WH, p. 61). It’s just left there for the reader to think about.

C.O.: Yes, the key word there is ‘if’ (WH, p. 61). To me, ‘if you were a regular black’ implies that Heathcliff is not a ‘regular black’, whereas in Low’s documentary, the quotation is being used with a different emphasis and omitting the ‘if’ to qualify a perceived textual certainty about Heathcliff, asserting that it is clear on the page that he is referred to as ‘a regular black’, so he must have been ‘a regular black’ (WH, p. 61). At the same time, it is also interesting that Heathcliff’s voice is described as ‘deep’ and ‘foreign in tone’ (WH, p. 99).

M.S.: I think he’s bi-racial. I mean, that’s just the way that I interpret that. Of course, other people interpret it in different ways. Terry Eagleton is absolutely adamant that he’s Irish, for instance. And you can make a compelling case for that too.[15] One of the interesting things about Eagleton’s point is that the language used to racially stereotype the Irish pejoratively in the nineteenth century overlaps with derogatory images and words used against black people.[16] And Elsie Michie says, ‘direct references to the Irish are difficult to identify [in Victorian literature] because they are screened by references to China, India, Turkey and the West Indies’.[17] In some ways, those reminders leave open the possibility of reading Heathcliff as black, bi-racial, Irish, or, of course, as someone who is physically unclean, as he is when he first appears in the text. And cleanliness is an important context for how others perceive Heathcliff. On his arrival at Wuthering Heights, of course, he is described as ‘dirty’, and Mr Earnshaw instructs Nelly to ‘wash it and give it clean things’ (WH, p. 39). Later, when Catherine returns from Thrushcross Grange, she and Heathcliff have a heated exchange about his cleanliness. She tells him ‘If you wash your face, and brush your hair, it will be all right. But you are so dirty’ (WH, p. 59). But interestingly he responds quite defiantly, telling her ‘You needn’t have touched me! […] I shall be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty’ (WH, p. 58). So, there is not only a wider class connotation to her statement about being degraded if she married Heathcliff, but potentially something that is intersectional, rather than a binary either/or class or racial comment.

[...]

C.O.: Yes, and to circle back to this point, in the documentary, Caryl Philips says that when Hindley takes over the Heights after Mr Earnshaw’s death, Heathcliff’s life is analogous to that of a slave: he isn’t living in the main house, he is beaten, he is given the worst domestic tasks to do, and he is treated as inferior to others around him.[20] Heathcliff, of course, also later says, ‘The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don’t turn against him, they crush those beneath them’ (WH, p. 120). So, with that information about Liverpool in mind and Philips’ comments, to what extent do you read the different behaviours and happenings in the house in relation to slavery?

M.S.: I think one of the most interesting aspects of A Regular Black is that it exposes the practice of farmers using slaves in their farms in and around Yorkshire. I don’t think that is common knowledge. But Emily may have been aware of this. We can’t say for certain, but it’s plausible. And knowing this, we can read the characters from that point of view. To come back to the notion of the whip, for example, read in that way, this takes on a further symbolic meaning.

[...]

M.S.: Yeah, the Reverend Patrick Brontë was an abolitionist. The siblings were home educated, and they would have had these kinds of conversations with Patrick, which ordinarily they wouldn’t have had at school. And he lost his wife in 1821 so, in a way, they were playing a surrogate figure for him, and it is entirely plausible that they would have those kinds of conversations together. I believe Wilberforce was his mentor at St John’s College in Cambridge and funded him to be there. So yes, absolutely, why wouldn’t Patrick have had conversations about abolition with his children if there were, in fact, slaves working on farms around Haworth? Of course, they’d discuss those things. They were interested in justice on all levels, whether that was for women’s rights, the abolitionist movement, workers’ rights. Patrick was very vocal about that. So all of those conversations would have been things they were talking about.

C.O.: At the end of the documentary, Caryl Philips makes the point that during Heathcliff’s three years of absence, the only possibility for Heathcliff to have made money during his three-year absence would have been by participating in the slave trade. Philips says categorically that that’s the only thing that both accounts for Heathcliff’s rapid wealth and what made him ‘unhinged’.[23] I know that your novel, Ill Will, offers some thoughts on that, but, when reading Emily’s novel, what are your thoughts on Heathcliff’s absence?

M.S.: Heathcliff is missing for three years. He runs away in the summer of 1780 and returns in the summer of 1783. He could have made his money through any form of criminality – as I imagine he does in my book. There’s absolutely nothing in Emily’s novel to suggest that Heathcliff is involved in the slave-trading business. Caryl Philips is very certain about the savagery that Heathcliff returns with is through the slave trade. They are abused and then they become abusers. I sort of get that. But it does feel to me to be about many other possibilities other than him entering the slave trade. Of course, that is one way to make money, but there were lots of other ways to make money too. Not all of them legal, but why would he have cared about that anyway? My book is about him going back to Liverpool to get revenge on the people that he blames. His mother is a slave. He discovers this in returning to Liverpool and he wants retribution for his mother’s enslavement and imprisonment. You know, it’s compelling, isn’t it? Liverpool as a centre of the slave trade, but also, as the largest black community in Europe at that time, all of these things really make sense. Seeing it in that light and the advertisement from the Liverpool Gazetteer, the local paper, they call it in the film, you know, before I saw this film, I came across that in the archives of the public records of Liverpool Library. I also came across the bill notices of the slave auctions and I just cut and pasted one of the those into the book.[24] And when Heathcliff goes to Liverpool, in my book, he sees a list of people who are being sold that morning. I guess again, I hadn’t given it that much thought – that it was so open, not just open, but on the streets, in people’s faces, slavery wasn’t hidden in some sort of auction room somewhere, it was an outside arena.

---

[2] Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights [1847] (London: Penguin English Library, 2012), p. 39. Hereafter in-text as WH.

[3] Philips, A Regular Black, 05.14 minutes.

[4] The suggestion that Heathcliff was treated favourably by Mr Earnshaw is established, as Nelly says, ‘from the beginning’ on the night that Earnshaw brings him home (WH, p. 40). Brontë writes that Mr Earnshaw ‘took to Heathcliff strangely [,] petting him up far above Cathy’, and that this ‘bred bad feeling in the house’ (WH, p. 40).

[10] The Brontës, Tales of Glass Town, Angria, and Gondal: Selected Writings, ed. by Christine Alexander (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), p. xxvii

[11] See Cassandra Pybus, A Regular Black, 06.22 minutes. Corinne Fowler also makes this point in her article ‘Was Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff black?’ See The Conversation, 25 October 2017 < http://theconversation.com/was-emily-bront-s-heathcliff-black-85341> (accessed 25 April 2019).

[12] Philips, A Regular Black, 05.46 minutes.

[13] Such references appear close together across pp. 39–40 in chapter four.

[14] Iain McCalman, A Regular Black, 07.50 minutes.

[15] See Terry Eagleton, Heathcliff and the Great Hunger: Studies in Irish Culture (London and New York: Verso, 1995).

[16] Several images from nineteenth-century periodicals used the same dehumanising stereotypes for both Irish and black people, portraying them as ape-like to suggest racial difference and inferiority. With respect to the Irish, see, for example, John Leech’s ‘The British Lion and The Irish Monkey’ (1848), or ‘Mr G-O’Rilla, I presume?’ (1861). For more detail on this topic see L. Perry Curtis Jr., Apes and Angels: The Irishman in Victorian Caricature (Smithsonian Books: Washington, 1997) and Sheridan Gilley, ‘English Attitudes to the Irish in England, 1780-1900’, in Immigrants and Minorities in British Society, ed. by Colin Holmes (London, 1978), pp. 81–110.

[17] Elsie Michie, ‘From Simianized Irish to Oriental Despots: Heathcliff, Rochester and Racial Difference’, Novel: A Forum on Fiction 25:2 (1992), 125–40, p. 125. Of course, there were Irish subjects in Liverpool too. For more on the connection between the description of Heathcliff’s arrival at Wuthering Heights and Victorian representations of Irish children in Britain as a result of the potato famine, see Winifred Gérin, Emily Brontë: A Biography (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971).

[20] Philips, A Regular Black, 07.00 minutes.

[23] Philips, A Regular Black, 13:56 minutes.

[24] See Michael Stewart, Ill Will: The Untold Story of Heathcliff (New York: HarperCollins, 2018), p. 182.

[artzychic27]

More Addams Class Stuff (Mainly quotes, some original and some from the show)

Zoé: It’s the day your entire family gathers around you and judges your worth as a human being!… I hear it’s like Thanksgiving.

—

Mme. Bustier: Demeter, care to explain to me why I caught Marc trying to stab Nathaniel?

Mme. Mendeleiv: Near the heart?

Mme. Bustier: … Yes?

Mme. Mendeleiv: Oh, Marc’s just in love. Once, he told me he wanted to bite his head off like a female spider during mating season.

Mme. Bustier: And you’re not sending him to therapy?

Mme. Mendeleiv: Well, if he gives him a bouquet of roses, we’ll see.

—

Simon: *About Denise* I would die for them. I would kill for them. Either way, what bliss.

—

Simon: When we first met years ago, it was an evening much like this. Magic in the air. An enby.

Denise: A demiboy.

Simon: An open grave. It was my first funeral.

Denise: You were so beautiful. Pale and mysterious. No one even looked at the corpse.

—

Denise and Simon are the Gomez and Morticia of the class

Whenever Denise speaks Spanish, Simon will drop whatever he’s doing and rush to kiss up and down their arm

Simon may or may not have ordered a couples’ coffin for the two of them

Yes, they met at a funeral. When they were nine, Simon snuck out of his room in the dead of night and Denise was just walking through the rain when they came across the service and they found each other

—

Austin T: What if you met someone who would worship and be your eternal love slave?

Jean: I’d pity them.

—

Marinette: *About Zoé* She’s a black widow!

Kim: We are all in the tastefully decorated bedroom… Of a killer!

*Dramatic sting*

Adrien: It is tastefully decorated.

Kim: Eh, it’s okay.

—

Zoé: So, I killed! So, I maimed! So, I slaughtered every girl I’ve been in a relationship with! Don’t I deserve love? And happiness?… And jewelry?!

Reshma: Aw, of course, you do.

*The Science Kids all hug her*

Ismael: Everyone deserves those things, especially the jewelry.

—

Cosette is praying for the day Zoé attempts to kill them. They’re hoping for cyanide poisoning

It’s actually on her bucket list to be offed by a black widow, along with going to the Bermuda Triangle, getting struck by lighting twice, getting bitten by a black mamba, and skydiving without a parachute into shark infested waters

It’ll be hard to kill Cosette though. Its’ organs come out very easily all the time

One time on Valentine’s Day, Cosette left their heart in Zoé’s backpack and in return, got a hatchet to the back. She loves them!

—

Reshma: This day is looking bleak. All joy will be drained from this very room and children will be left in agony for hours on end, praying for Death’s cool hand to save them.

Alya: Was that a prediction?

Reshma: No, exams are today.

—

Nathaniel: *After kissing Marc, he immediately starts coughing* I think something crawled in my mouth!

Marc: Oh, I think that was Eliza. I hope she finished laying her eggs.

Nathaniel: Wh-what?!

Marc: Yeah, she was going to lay them in me this morning, but she seemed a little shy about it. Well, if you feel a sudden weight in your chest, she probably laid them.

—

Nathaniel would be terrified if Marc weren’t so damn beautiful

Nathaniel would die for him, he’d walk across coals for him, he’d take a dagger to the heart, allow Marc to eat his head like a female spider during mating season

In short… Nathaniel’s crazy about him

They met when Nathaniel was sketching one day in a dark corner of the school and Marc was hiding in the shadows, writing Nathaniel’s eulogy

—

Ismael: Mme. Mendeleiev, it was terrible! He killed them!

Mme. Mendeleiev: Caline’s students?

Ismael: The dragon!

Mme. Mendeleiev: What dragon? Who killed a dragon?

Ismael: A knight in shining armor, he killed the dragon.

Mme. Mendeleiev: I can't believe anyone would kill a dragon.

—

Demeter doesn’t really approve of the books Caline has both their students read

They’re filled with unnecessary violence and other terrible things- Children murdering old women, corrupt royals slaying dragons, and strange older men kissing younger women

She’d rather have them read the works of Edgar Allen Poe and maybe a few books by Stephen King

Mireille sometimes accidentally summons one of the ghosts possessing Lacey, and she will just end up wherever Mireille has her seance set

Mireille may or may not be trying to raise an army of the dead to do her bidding… And you can’t prove it, either

After school, the students like to hang out at an old funeral home, which, thankfully still has an intact embalming room

Aurore makes sure to leave a rain cloud pouring over the funeral home 24/7

—

Jean: Austin...

Austin T: Yes, raven?

Jean: Last night, you were unhinged. You were like some desperate howling demon. You frightened me… Do it again.

Austin Tomassian fell for Jean the moment he walked out of a burning building, looking so elegant amongst the screaming crowd trying to escape

He fell again… Literally. He fell into a sinkhole. When Jean walked by, one just opened up out of nowhere

Jean eventually caught feelings when there was an accident in wood shop class and Austin T got cut right in the finger crotch. There was a so much blood, and Jean was smitten that day

—

Mme. Mendeleiev: Class… Why do you hate Zoé?

Reshma: We don’t hate her. We just want to hang out with her.

Simon: Especially her head.

Mme. Mendeleiv: Do you think I like Zoé more than all of you?

Science Kids: Yes.

Mme. Mendeleiev: And do you think that when a new student comes along, one of you has to die?

Science Kids: … Yes.

Ironically, Simon has good dreams at night. He barely gets any sleep because of them

—

M. Monlataing: What are you doing?

Cosette/Ismael: *Hiding makeshift mines behind their bqcks* Nothing!

M. Monlataing: Oh, I don’t think so. *Hands them a bag of explosives* If you want to make a proper mine, use this.

Cosette/Ismael: Thanks, M. Monlataing! *Run off*

M. Monlataing: What are they teaching these kids today? Not knowing the proper methods to make an explosive.

M. Monlataing fully supports the students

And in response, they don’t try do blow him up every day… Only every other day

[300yearschallenge]

Winter came to Åland, and on Christmas morning 1782 the Park household was all bundled up in warm clothes and hurrying out of the door so they could walk to church.

With winters being cold and dark, the sun was only barely rising by the time everyone was out of the house.

They marched in a row. Joseph took the lead, and Théo and Charles Elias were in the rear to make sure no one was left behind.

The family was giddy with excitement, knowing that a delicious feast of Christmas food was to follow and that they would all get to exchange gifts after mass.

Théodora, Iliana and the maid Rebecka had been slaving away in the kitchen for days on end, preparing all sorts of delicacies.

But for one member of the family there was no giddiness nor any excitement.

Charles Elias trailed behind, lost in thought.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, he stopped.

"Mother?" He said. "Can I ask you something?"

Théo turned around to her son.

"Of course, dear," she said, "What's the matter? Aren't you excited for Christmas?"

"Mother," Charles Elias said, "Why does Joseph not love me?"

"Wh--" Théo paused, "That's... Why would you ask that?"

"Don't pretend you don't know!" Charles Elias snapped. "I know that you know! I heard you!"

"I heard you and father speaking about what you got us for Christmas just last week," Charles continued, "And I heard him say he didn't get me anything!"

"And when you told him off you said 'why would you do such a thing' and he told you that you already knew why!"

"So don't pretend like you don't know! Or that I am wrong for asking!" He said. "He's my father! Don't I deserve to know?! Just tell me what I've done wrong!"

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

[offsidekineticist]

Since it's taking me a little longer than usual to finish the next chapter (I say as if the last 2 weeks have been at all usual as far as my writing pace goes), here's a deleted scene of Giliys trying to talk his way past a Reclamation checkpoint. It goes so well I had to completely scrap it and come up with a totally different plan for how he gets into Rivad.

Cw: references to slavery, torture, systemic corruption, etc.

You’ll never get anywhere near the citadel unless you can pass yourself off as someone who is supposed to be here. Trying to pass yourself off as a soldier would require a uniform–a set of the “glorious” tabards they can somehow afford to equip each of their soldiers with. But you’re a halfling. Nobody would believe that you’re a soldier anyway, even “enlightened” as Westcrown’s liberators may be. A recently freed slave, though, serving the Brave and Good soldiers that had emancipated the city? They would believe that easily–it was a common enough story in the weeks since the Reclamation took Westcrown. And the costume for that role is far simpler–a threadbare shirt, patched pants, no shoes.

There’s only one problem: paladins can sense evil. And cheerful emancipated halflings eager to serve the Reclamation aren’t evil. There are ways of masking your nature, but you don’t have access to any of them.

(Qweck had been real annoying about it, too. “The children of Irori learn to face their imperfections,” she said, having managed to reinforce the stick up her ass enough that she was back on her ‘wise student of perfection’ bullshit. “Masking imperfections creates an obstacle to removing them. We have no use for such spells”)

So you’re just going to have to hope that you either miraculously avoid any paladins, or you’re able to bluff your way through. The thing with bluffing? You’re awful at it. Thay used to say you’re genuinely the worst liar he’s ever met, and coming from a guy who plays with five year olds all day, that’s saying something. You’ve never let that stop you–if a person is desperate enough, they’ll believe anyone who says they have an answer, and if a person is racist enough, they’ll just assume you’re too stupid to lie. You’re just not sure that you’ll find a paladin racist or desperate enough to fall for your bullshit.

“Halt! State your business!” calls out the leader of a patrol. A leader you can tell, from the holy symbol on his shield, is a paladin of Iomedae.

“I’m Gil! I’m a tinker, peddler, cobbler, and whatever else you need, bringing my goods from the city, sir,” you say with a forced cheerful grin. “Can’t be fighting the forces of hell on an empty stomach, or with ‘holey’ shoes–ha! Get it? ‘hole-y?’”

“Papers?” the paladin asks, apparently unamused by the pun (which honestly wins him some respect in your eyes–it’s such a stupid pun). You don’t hide your worry at this.

“Papers? Nobody said anything about papers, sir! I was just sitting in the city with my cart of goods and sweet little Vrakky here, and I was thinking to myself ‘you know who probably needs their pots mended and their shoes cobbled and a sweet pastry? The poor knights that’ve been stationed within spitting distance of the city but have been too busy out here, making those Thrune bastards shake in their boots!’ So I came out here!”

It’s not working. You see the paladin study you, and his hand slips to rest near the hilt of his blade. Shit.

"The goddess grants her faithful the ability to sense the wicked. I can sense the darkness in you, evildoer."

You drop the cheerful act. "Oh, well, good for you. The mighty and wise paladin of Iomedae has determined the ex-whipping boy is a little bitter about his past! Someone spends their childhood being told they exist to be tortured for someone else's satisfaction, and they’re the evil one for wanting to crucify them in the town square?"

The paladin glares at you. "Public humiliation and torture are generally considered–"

"Oh, but the slavers are fine! Sure, you freed the slaves now, but where were you for the last 900 fuckin years? You know we were slaves before Thrune showed up, right? You had 900 fucking years, and you did jackshit. You let those dogs split up families in front of your temples because they paid their tithes when they showed up to worship–but, sure, I'm the evil one for wanting every fucking thing they ever done to us to be done to them. For wanting you assholes to pay back to us every cent they paid you to decide they were the good ones."

"Now, hold on–"

"No, you hold on!" You exclaim, on a roll. "I hate you, I hate your church, and I hate your fuckin self-righteous bitch goddess and you assholes who started a fucking war that kills people over a rusty-ass fucking sword, but you know what? I still gotta eat. So do ya want your shoes mended or not?"