#Mine Shaft Tavern

[cruelfeline]

So, for all of y'all who aren't familiar with Dwarf Fortress, I'm going to explain why it's such a phenomenal game.

Dwarf Fortress is a colony simulator that's been developed by two brothers since 2003. A few weeks ago, it finally released on Steam with a UI that even i can understand. It is the grandfather of things like Rimworld and Minecraft.

So what makes it different from all of the other games in the genre? What makes it different is that it simulates a world beyond your colony. A world with gods, monsters, civilizations... a whole history outside of your colony. A real, living world for you to play in.

I can better explain this by showing y'all what happened to my latest fortress. The one that experienced Wereanteater Armageddon.

My dwarves were having a nice time. I'd just figured out how to build instruments and was outfitting the new tavern properly when-

Surprise! Wereanteater.

Said wereanteater eventually turned back into a goblin and ran off-map, but not before infecting some of my dwarves. Which led to... well...

Absolute massacres every month. With more wereanteaters each time. Which eventually led to...

One lone dwarf, haunted by the ghost of one of the many slain, sitting next to the werecorpse of his last companion. They'd fought to the death the moment they'd last transformed, and he was the survivor. But, of course, he couldn't move.

So! That was that. Fortress destroyed, time to move on. I abandoned the fortress and decided to start anew.

But! Where did our wereanteater come from? What was his story?

In Dwarf Fortress, everything has a story.

So before starting a new fortress, I went ahead and checked the Legends mode: the mode that has the whole history of everyone and everything written out for the player to read.

First, I found my fortress' record, and I scanned down to where the deaths began.

There we go... the attack started with a goblin named Azstrog Terrorhymed. Who is that? Why does he turn into a monstrous anteater?

Here he is, in his entry, biting my dwarf. And... actually beating her to death with Sensedterror Explained, which another entry says is a book he wrote. About some sort of horror-pit he had a nightmare about. Huh.

And looking further back, we can see that, about twenty five years before he came to my fortress, he profaned the Abbey of Shafts in a settlement called Gearedopened. Possibly due to having some bad experiences with gambling and false friendships. This resulted in someone called Ngalak cursing him to become a wereanteater every full moon. And who is Ngalak?

Ngalak is apparently a dwarven god associated with caverns and mountains. And also:

Azstrog wasn't the only creature he's cursed with wereform for profanity! There are at least two others potentially running around. So that's... comforting.

And as for Azstrog? His entry says that he settled in the Fair Mines after dooming my fortress. Checking that entry, we find it to be a lair. A lair that now contains a wereanteater. A wereanteater who was once a goblin who seemed down on his luck and, in a moment of forgetting himself, ended up the object of divine wrath. Which in turn led to the violent deaths of about fifty dwarves in the fortress of Knowring twenty five years later!

This is why Dwarf Fortress is so amazing! There are plenty of games that will introduce an obstacle for your characters to face, but how many will ensure that that obstacle had a whole life of his own prior to ever meeting you?

On second thought, I think I'll reclaim Knowring, rather than starting a new fortress. And I'll bury its many dead, take over its workshops, and see if I can find the Fair Mines.

See if I can find Azstrog Terrorhymed again. See if he's still alive, or if he's met his end one way or another.

But first: time to build dozens of tombs!

#dwarf fortress #cf plays df

[rachaelmayworth]

Bloody Mines: a palia short story (1,7k words)

Rune walked down the front yard of her home, tired and confused. The chill evening air tousling her hair, before she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Warmth embraced her immediately, banishing the cold from her body, but not from her mind.

She put down the axe she'd been using all afternoon, coming down with a metallic clang as it fell against her partner's axe. The mines were always dark and eerie, but today was different. Today the eerie feeling had become all too real when she spotted that shirt. That damned shirt with the dark stains that had decorated it as it lay discarded on some wooden planks.

Her mind had immediately gone to blood, as the fabric looked perfectly crimson in the candlelight. Though it must have been dirt, she'd reasoned, there was definitely a lot of it in the mines.

But there was more in that mine shaft that had made her feel so uneasy. A perfectly fine satchel, carelessly discarded. A knife? Latched into one of the beams. And the ring-

"Welcome home!" River sang from the kitchen, pulling Rune from her cloud of thought. And just like that, the scent of dinner floated around her, beckoning her warmly. Rune felt a smile creep onto her face as she made her way over, finding River stirring food on the stove, her figure alight with the fire from the oven.

"That smells good," Rune said, wrapping her arms around River's waist, snuggling close to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"I've been practicing," River smiled, leaning into Rune's touch. It was nice coming home to her after such a long day. Rune's whirling mind somehow seemed to be quieter with River around.

But then, when dinner was long gone and the garden was looked after, when the fireplace had turned to embers and they were both deep under the covers of their ravenwood bed, Rune's mind was in full steam again.

The stained shirt haunted her, the reddish hue mocking her subconscious. It was sinking its teeth in her, mercilessly tugging at her, screaming to have all her attention. The ring grinned at her in her memory, shimmering grimly in the torchlight.

“Are you okay?" River asked. Her golden eyes gazed into Rune's, worry lapping over her face like a wave.

Rune sighed. Her stomach twisted a little, like it did every time she didn't really want to say something. Because if she did, it would somehow make it more real. “It's silly, nothing really.”

“Are you sure?”

Rune shrugged. River cradled Rune’s hand reassuringly.

“It's something I saw in the mines… it's probably nothing. I mean, it was probably just dirt…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I found a discarded shirt in the mines. Some other stuff too, but- yeah. The shirt.”

"The shirt," River parotted, a little smile forming on her lips. "Okay."

"Well, it's more what was on the shirt," Rune sighed deeply, "I think it may have been blood? But I don't know. It's dark in there. Could have been anything.”

“But you think it's blood.”

“Y-yeah. I think so?”

River smiled in the dark, the yellow of her eyes almost glowing. “Cool.”

Rune snorted. She couldn't help it. “Of course you think it's cool! You didn't see it in real life.”

“I'd still think it's cool if I did see it, though.”

“Yeah, true.”

Rune laughed poking River in the ribs playfully. River just batted her away.

“Careful! Or you can get more acquainted with the couch.”

“Not the couch!” Rune said, mock scared. River just laughed and snuggled closer.

Sleep didn't wait long to claim Rune after that. Sleep that was filled with crimson and unending passageways.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“So, suppose it really is blood,” River said, scooping some soup onto her spoon, “do you think someone got murdered there?”

River's eyes shined too much at the word murder. Rune tried not to think about it too hard, ignoring the curious pull in her core. Instead, she focused on the tavern, where they sat at their regular table, eating their regular soup. She stared down at the green tabletop, the curves and worn grooves as familiar as their own dining table at home.

“Are you guys talking about the Bahari Bay Ripper?”

Rune jumped, utensils clattering as her knees bumped hard against the wood. Some soup slipped into her windpipe and a coughing fit ensued.

Reth stood next to their table, plates in hand, concern on his face as Rune kept coughing. He was the tavern’s cook, although sometimes it felt like he was the cook for the entirety of Kilima. The guy was weirdly intense about it.

“Who's the Bahari Bay Ripper?” River asked, leaning in closer. Rune instead sat back, her appetite having left her. Even though her stomach growled hungrily.

“Well that's- uhm. You guys are talking about the mines right?”

Rune nodded. River cocked her head questioningly.

“Wait, you know about that?” River asked at the same time as Rune said, “you've seen the shirt too?”

“Oh,” Reth flicked his hand nonchalantly, “everyone knows about that. But maybe you should talk to your boyfriend, Rune. He's definitely the one to talk to about this macabre stuff.”

Rune's attention snapped up at the mention of Jel. Reth raised his eyebrows at her. Then he looked around and leaned in conspirally. “I always figured the cartel had something to do with it,” he said thoughtfully, “but then Jel said something peculiar last night in b- I mean, as we passed each other on the street. He said something about losing a ring? Could be unrelated though.” he scratched his head. His cheeks looked a bit red.

Rune's brows furrowed. Her boyfriend was a peculiar person, so it wasn't all that strange if he had said something peculiar as well.

“Jel says weird stuff all the time,” River said, waving her hand dismissively, “that says nothing.”

“Did he say anything else while you guys were…” Rune gestured vaguely.

“When we passed each other on the street,” Reth offered helpfully and untruthfully.

“Right,” Rune said, eyes narrowed.

“Nope. Nothing else. I always try to end the conversations before they're started, anyway. Can't stand the guy.”

Now Rune was the one raising her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? You sure meet up a lot for foes. You're gonna have to try harder if you want your dalliances to go unnoticed.”

Reth's blush deepened several shades. Then his eyes darkened and fixed on Rune's mug. “You done with that?” he asked, then he quickly walked off with it before Rune could give an answer.

“He’s so easily taken off guard,” River smirked. Rune smiled back.

“He makes such a show of hating Jel, it's endearing.”

“So he doesn't hate him?”

“Oh he definitely does, it's just not the only feeling he harbours for him.”

River hummed at that, gazing at Reth’s retreating back. “Can't say I'm surprised.”

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Rune was so deep in thought as she strolled down the pond with Jel that night, that she didn't notice Jel trying to get her attention until he practically stopped her. She froze mid-stride to meet his gaze, his figure bathing in the waning moonlight. The pond behind him shimmered brightly, its surface silent and smooth like a mirror.

“Where are you in that pretty head of yours? I hate to see you troubled, my muse.” he reached out and squeezed her bicep lightly.

Rune looked down in surprise. His touch was warm and reassuring. And foreign. Jel often avoided touch, even this far into their relationship. So to feel his body so close to hers was something to savour.

She met his gaze, only broken by the pink of his glasses. They glinted in the moonlight, reflecting her bewildered state.

“I'm fine,” Rune said. But even to her ears it sounded unconvincing.

But then peripheral caught another shimmer. She looked down, her subconscious forever drawn by shiny stuff.

And there it was.

On his finger sat the very ring she'd seen in the mines.

That same damned ring that haunted her dreams. That was now forever fused with blood because she didn't know any logical reason why it would be at the scene of a potential crime without it having something to do with it. Anything to do with it.

“What- that's… I…”

“What's wrong?” Jel asked, “you look like you've seen a ghost.”

Rune's mind whirled. “You… you're…”

Jel creeped closer. So close. “Say it.”

“You're t- the Bahari Bay Ripper.”

Jel clasped his hands, looking incredibly pleased. The moon shone from above, casting deep shadows on his face. Rune never realised how sinister his face could look. “I'm so glad you figured it out. I don't know how much longer I could have kept this from you, my muse. Oh, this is simply delightful! Secrets are never good for any relationship, you know.”

Rune could only nod. Her throat felt too constricted to utter any words.

“What do you think, love? Would you consider joining me? I really need four hands for my next project. It's a rather sizable one.”

And just like that, something twisted and clicked inside Rune. Those words weaved through her like a spell, silver ribbons wrapping her up into Jel's sick world. The roaring in her stomach was back, and she realised now it was no hunger, but the rising of a monster.

Jel was looking at her expectantly, no amount of ferocity in his face. Rune wondered how he would react if she said no. But as soon as she thought it, she knew she couldn't.

“So, what do you say?” Jel asked, his eyes sparkling darkly. And somewhere deep down, the monstrous thing that was awakening as if from a deep slumber, clawed up her throat, demanding to be let out. The ringing in her ears grew into a roar, lighting every fiber of her being.

She locked eyes with Jel, knowing he would see that same dark spark reflected in her gaze. She smiled at him. And he smiled right back. Their monsters danced, and they both knew this wouldn't be the end. It was only the beginning.

#palia #palia open beta #palia jel #short story #writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr

[howieabel]

“Consequently, labour-power is a commodity which its possessor, the wage-worker, sells to the capitalist. Why does he sell it? It is in order to live. But the putting of labour-power into action – i.e., the work – is the active expression of the labourer's own life. And this life activity he sells to another person in order to secure the necessary means of life. His life-activity, therefore, is but a means of securing his own existence. He works that he may keep alive. He does not count the labour itself as a part of his life; it is rather a sacrifice of his life. It is a commodity that he has auctioned off to another. The product of his activity, therefore, is not the aim of his activity. What he produces for himself is not the silk that he weaves, not the gold that he draws up the mining shaft, not the palace that he builds. What he produces for himself is wages; and the silk, the gold, and the palace are resolved for him into a certain quantity of necessaries of life, perhaps into a cotton jacket, into copper coins, and into a basement dwelling. And the labourer who for 12 hours long, weaves, spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on – is this 12 hours' weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shovelling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern, in bed. The 12 hours' work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed.” ― Karl Marx, Wage Labour and Capital

[kobblefort]

Rushsly: The Early Days 1

So as you can see from the hatch covers I've established a glass-making economy!!! I also catastrophically fucked up trying to dig a moat and make a bridge over it. I think those merchants are just stuck. Well I got them out by designating the bridge+paved road to be deconstructed. Now I have to just make a big-ass bridge which is going to take forever and I don't know if it actually makes a difference but it feels like bigger bridges are slower/less reliable to me. I quite honestly find making defenses very annoying but if all my kobbles died I would be sad so oh well.

I appointed this zesty girl to the position of "Caravan Tactician" (militia commander for you dwarf purists out there) literally just to make her move out of the construction area, but she has "Unmet need: Fight" so I think this could be good for her. She disdains romance AND friendship, I really like her vibe. Well let's hope that fucking bridge gets done soon and for real this time.

Here is my tavern/dining hall overlap (I Don't Give A Fuck) which the kobolds decided to call "The Permanent Snack." The kobbles drink Dwarven wine and rice beer out of green glass goblets. I'll admit I went a little crazy with the jet blocks but when you find jet you make jet blocks and when you make jet blocks you use them, it's really just that simple. Ok? Don't freak out. It doesn't have to be a problem. You can just let things happen. Struggling for control will only tear it away from you sooner. I should know. Dwarf Fortress is a game about how you can do everything right but then your little guys all decide to just jump over a wall and get killed by zombies. You have to just "let the world be" as Big Boss says at the end of Metal Gear Solid 4, which is a game I fucking hate but we don't need to get into that now.

Speaking of rocks and also things I hate, mining has been making me miserable because of this fucking kaolinite shit. This and the plaster-making rock which is named unfortunately close to an anti-Romani slur are the bane of my fucking existence because it means I have to set my auto-mining designations really carefully and specifically instead of just dragging out a big box over the entire floor once I've dug out the shafts.

Here is a good example of what I was just talking about with the whole not having control over things. You might notice how the planned bridge is one pixel taller now! Well you see the kobolds decided they were simply not going to build it. They just automatically suspended construction every time it was ready because of "item blocking site." Can you see the item that blocked the site? I sure can't!!

It's not on this Z-level either!!! But you have to just be thankful for what you have sometimes and you can't forget about that. Green glass isn't the most wildly profitable crafting material or anything but it's functionally infinite. So even if the canceled work orders notification window keeps filling up because your little guys keep forgetting they have entire hordes of charcoal and coke and bags of black sand it's okay, because eventually they will make coffins and statues and altars and serrated discs. Have you ever had the guy at a head shop try to prove how good American-blown glass is by just straight up dropping a bong on the floor and being like "that cheap Chinese shit would have just Shattered bro!" because I have, and I'll give you a word of advice, don't buy that fucking bong, the damage is already done, the only question now is whether it shatters right there in the shop or when you're home and it spews putrid bong water everywhere because you're a disgusting 19 year old bachelor who hasn't learned to actually take care of himself or his things and maybe never truly will. But maybe that's the specialty of American glass. You can pretend it's not broken, and it can pretend it's not broken, and for a while even though it is functionally broken and going to explode at just the clinking of a little ice cube a little too hard, you can tell everyone it isn't technically broken despite the structural damage being certain and irreversible since three weeks ago. I have this weird feeling that we pretend all sorts of things aren't broken in America

Why the fuck is my main production floor like this, what the fuck is wrong with me lol.

The glassblowing floor is quite nice though. I still need to make offices for my little buddies I'm not sure whether I should do it on a stone floor or just carve out into the one loamy sand floor I haven't touched yet.

THEY'RE HAVING A PARTY!!! I love the song that plays when they do this. The way they "dance" by just shuffling positions around the room is also very cute and funny to me. I should probably tell them to pick up those dead critters though I don't know if they'll do it themselves. Probably not, right? What's a dead lizard on the floor at a party, right? A skink is a pretty big lizard to be quite honest. I dated a girl who had a pet skink and I remember being so surprised when I touched it. Their scales are very smooth and supple but completely firm. I mean they've got no give at all. Something about the skink was just like, this guy is harder than he ought to be. I forgot his name. I wish I was not such a shitty partner who took everything personal and broke up over fucking Facebook messenger but you can't turn back time. Besides she isn't even the one I became pitifully, embarrassingly obsessed with for the rest of my life. Parties are a time for socialization so let's learn about some more kobolds! It is almost the end of our first year and we received eight migrants.

Man the cards sure are stacked against her!!! This is Osgi Ritelurk. She is a "competent weaver" but I feel like her miserable hater energies would be pretty well suited to the military if I end up taking that whole angle seriously instead of just focusing on moat + traps. I haven't built a good trap corridor in a while though so that might be what I end up doing instead. Do people still say "trapping out the bando" do people still say "bando." Part of me never left 2014. Why would I? Things still seem like they're going to turn out alright there

On Speechlessmonstrous wants to help, but she also wants to fight. Been there

oh my fucking GOD WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS AGAIN WHERE IS THE ITEM??? SHOW ME TE ITEM YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKERS

Kikli is a complicated woman. She's like "I don't like to be tied down" but then she owns a pet cat. I guess that's not that weird. Cats will kinda figure their own shit out, they don't need all that much attention. Dogs you have to walk several times a day every day or they're going to go insane and apparently the only way you can deal with that is to just leave them in your apartment building hallway to bark it out for a few hours! It's not like that's a nightmare for the neighbors when it happens at 5 in the fucking morning several times a week or anything. Like sorry guys but you know how dogs are! Just put them in the fucking hallway and make them everyone else's problem like the fucking dad of the serial killer from Heavy Rain. Sorry. I swore I wasn't going to talk about David Cage. I'm not going to talk about David Cage.

Her name is Ty Lovelyseduce

Vala Knitpolish is 9 years old but has two lovers that's kind of fucking weird what kind of mod is this????? I guess it's not that weird if they're her age. I don't know. I don't think children should ever do anything. I think they should be basically hermetically sealed so that you never embarrass yourself and nothing fucked up ever happens. Well for a kobold 9 years old is not a child. She also already has the right political ideals. Again another good candidate for the military if I do one. Peasants always make me mad, like get out of the way and let someone actually good at things do them.

"I'm killing you. I'm killing you. I'm not thinking about anything else. My programming is just, get that fucking guy" - Germ 98

Some rabbits came to trade! I have to resist the urge to kill them. It's not their fault my stupid fucking piece of shit kobolds won't just build a fucking bridge and have to just manufacture imaginary reasons that they can't no matter how I set it up or what materials I use or fucking anything. They have nothing to do with it! But anger like electricity seeks the path of least resistance and I am angry enough to rob these fucking bastards for all of their shit and then put them in cages and throw the cages down a hole. But why would I do that

Yeah come on in guys welcome to Rushsly I'm just trying to figure out why the kobolds have marked some of these tiles of the world just completely fucking forbidden and never to be touched!!!

These tiles!!! These fucking tiles!!!

Trying to get them to remove them led to this fucking disaster

Col Lashshimmers: she was "often lustful" and "found the whole idea of introspection offensive." That's all we ever really learned about her I guess. She gets a green glass coffin in the floor I was thinking about putting offices on. I like to use the same layout for tombs as I do for bedrooms. Don't read too much into that please.

I set up a lever to knock out the supports which I don't know why I built instead of sacrificing any more kobolds to these stupid fucking Cursed Tiles That Must Never Be Touched. Well I guess I get why they were superstitious now! Even though it's kind of their own fucking fault! I mean it's my fault I should have designated that more carefully so that they wouldn't just run out and kill themselves. There's always something you could have done. You didn't have to let anything happen, ever. If you had the courage to say "do you know how fucked up this is" instead of just running away and letting him dig his claws in deeper and convince her YOU were the problem. If you took a deep breath and slowed down and thought about what to do instead of just freaking out impulsively you wouldn't be here playing Dwarf Fortress alone until 4 in the morning, you'd be asleep in the arms of the only person you've truly loved for maybe your entire life. Sorry. I said I wasn't going to talk about David Cage.

I don't know, I guess let's just try the bridge from another angle. Oh you guys are still here? Yeah, hold on, sorry for the wait and that you had to see a woman die in a construction accident. We'll sell you a box full of gems in exchange for a bunch of fruit, meat, booze and cheese please.

I know they're rubbing their paws together pleased as fuck that they managed to pass off a barrel of "tomatillo wine" on us, that sounds fucked up. Well I don't know, I guess Bloody Mary's are supposed to be good. I've never had one and I probably never will.

Destroying the fucked-up failbridge was strangely cathartic. Except we kind of might have accidentally hurt the lapine merchants. Well to be fair it said they "embarked on their journey" a while ago then they just sorta didn't. Like guys don't just stand around, it's fucking dangerous, you literally just saw someone die here a couple days ago, leave.

We get a big fucking migrant wave which means I have to update the pasture which is already feeling like I built it too small because of fucking course I did but I don't want to break into cavern layers yet so I don't know, maybe we should actually just butcher some animals and eat meat. I think the horses should die first because they are horrific grotesque creatures from Hell that were spurned by God. (You can look this up, it's in textbooks)

Lots of new faces!

This bitch's job is Gelder. Her entire job, her purpose and passion in life, is chopping off the fucking nuts of animals. That's how she's made it this far. 28 years old. Gelder. Proficient gelder. Society has a place for each and every last one of us. It's just up to the stupid fucking socioeconomic systems we live under whether we actually get to get in or you just carry boxes full of phone cases back and forth until your legs give out and a guy who walks directly into walls because he's too busy staring at The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy on his phone to look where he's going calls you stupid because you can't figure out what the fuck he meant by his genuinely fucking inscrutable barely-English (even though English is his first language) instructions. Maybe your calling really is to chop the fucking balls off bulls but then you just have to tank emotional abuse from wine-drunk boomers at TGI Friday's until you die because you never met anyone who needed to hire a girl to cut their bull's balls off.

"Sloppedshower" is such a funny surname that I'll resist my deep-seated impulse to kick this wet fucking blanket out. One of the things about hunters and rangers is that they clog up your notifications and waste all your ammo with their shitty hunting, and they LOVE to start guilds and demand big fancy guild-halls even though they contribute less than your average peasant because those guys are at least around to move stuff. How dare they unionize, even though it's actually just a minor annoyance to me that can be, 9 times out of 10, solved by allocating some resources I literally wasn't even doing anything with. I wonder if this is how the capitalist feels about my life, too. Does Kroger too function just the same as the petulant manchild playing his numbers-go-up game with the fake/abstract little people? "I love Undertime Sloppedshower," lol.

I've hit the image limit so I'm probably going to stop here for the night. Osgi Ritelurk was taken by a strange mood. This is her chance to make it in the world. Once you create an artifact you've got it made. I've never seen a dwarf or kobold or whatever else recover from failing to make an artifact though, their tantrum usually just leads them down a spiral so bad they eventually just die because they stopped eating or whatever. I don't know if that's realistic or not. Maybe I failed to make my own artifact a while ago and everything since has been one long slow death spiral. But I don't know, life is full of second chances, especially when you don't think you deserve them. Was it actually squandered if it brought you here? You're still alive. You're not a simulation of a kobold or a dwarf, at least I don't think so, so you can tell yourself "oh well, let's try something else" instead of just going out and punching a guy who is carrying a big sword. Maybe you haven't even been taken by the strange mood that leads you to create your artifact in the first place yet. Maybe I haven't either. Maybe this could be my artifact. Oh jesus fucking christ I hope not

#dwarf fortress #kobblefort

[dustedandsocial]

"But the putting of labour-power into action – i.e., the work – is the active expression of the labourer's own life. And this life activity he sells to another person in order to secure the necessary means of life. His life-activity, therefore, is but a means of securing his own existence. He works that he may keep alive. He does not count the labour itself as a part of his life; it is rather a sacrifice of his life. It is a commodity that he has auctioned off to another. The product of his activity, therefore, is not the aim of his activity. What he produces for himself is not the silk that he weaves, not the gold that he draws up the mining shaft, not the palace that he builds. What he produces for himself is wages; and the silk, the gold, and the palace are resolved for him into a certain quantity of necessaries of life, perhaps into a cotton jacket, into copper coins, and into a basement dwelling. And the labourer who for 12 hours long, weaves, spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on – is this 12 hours' weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shovelling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern, in bed. The 12 hours' work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed. If the silk-worm's object in spinning were to prolong its existence as caterpillar, it would be a perfect example of a wage-worker."

Karl Marx, Wage Labour and Capital, 1847

#Karl Marx #Marx #Wage Labour and Capital #Marxism #Alienation #Post-epistemological break Marx quotes about alienation

[paulfanblog]

Paul (2011) Film Locations

Locations:

San Diego Convention Center, West Harbor Drive, San Diego, CA (Comic Con exterior)

Vasquez Rocks, 10700 Escondido Canyon Rd, Agua Dulce, CA (Star Trek - Arena, reenactment)

Welcome to Extraterrestrial Highway sign, NV-375, Tonopah, NV 

Little A’Le’Inn, Old Mill Rd, Alamo, NV

The Black Mailbox, 51 Road, Alamo, NV

Area 51, NV

Camp Verde, AZ

Apache Junction, AZ

Roswell, NM

Big Chief Gas Station, 550 u.s, Zia Pueblo, NM 87053 (Reese’s Pieces!) 

Bridge Street, Las Vegas, NM (Paul in disguise)

Fireworks World Outlet, 1903 U.S. Route 66, Moriarty, NM 

Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, Taos, NM

The Mine Shaft Tavern & Cantina, 2846 NM-14, Madrid, NM 87010

Moorcroft, WY (Tara's house)

Devils Tower National Monument, WY-110, Devils Tower, WY 82714

#will update cause its not in order #Paul (2011) Film Locations #paul #paul alien #paul 2011 #paul movie #new mexico #nevada #california #wyoming #film #filming locations #location #map #film map

[yuthura-banns]

“Consequently, labour-power is a commodity which its possessor, the wage-worker, sells to the capitalist. Why does he sell it? It is in order to live.

But the putting of labour-power into action – i.e., the work – is the active expression of the labourer's own life. And this life activity he sells to another person in order to secure the necessary means of life. His life-activity, therefore, is but a means of securing his own existence. He works that he may keep alive. He does not count the labour itself as a part of his life; it is rather a sacrifice of his life. It is a commodity that he has auctioned off to another. The product of his activity, therefore, is not the aim of his activity. What he produces for himself is not the silk that he weaves, not the gold that he draws up the mining shaft, not the palace that he builds. What he produces for himself is wages; and the silk, the gold, and the palace are resolved for him into a certain quantity of necessaries of life, perhaps into a cotton jacket, into copper coins, and into a basement dwelling. And the labourer who for 12 hours long, weaves, spins, bores, turns, builds, shovels, breaks stone, carries hods, and so on – is this 12 hours' weaving, spinning, boring, turning, building, shovelling, stone-breaking, regarded by him as a manifestation of life, as life? Quite the contrary. Life for him begins where this activity ceases, at the table, at the tavern, in bed. The 12 hours' work, on the other hand, has no meaning for him as weaving, spinning, boring, and so on, but only as earnings, which enable him to sit down at a table, to take his seat in the tavern, and to lie down in a bed. If the silk-worm's object in spinning were to prolong its existence as caterpillar, it would be a perfect example of a wage-worker.”

— Marx, Wage Labour and Capital, ch. 2

#a post #last rb made me think of this again'

[biglisbonnews]

Atlas Obscura's list of haunted restaurants If you're on the hunt for a spooky dining experience, check Atlas Obscura's list of haunted restaurants to see if any of them are located near you. Included on the list are places such as the Mine Shaft Tavern in Madrid, New Mexico where rumored ghosts run amok, and the Five Fishermen Restaurant in Halifax, Nova Scotia where a few of the Titanic's victims were embalmed. — Read the rest https://boingboing.net/2023/01/15/atlas-obscuras-list-of-haunted-restaurants.html

#Post #atlasobscura #dining #haunted #Popkin #Boing Boing

[mrsdenasaan]

The Orc Who Saved Christmas

The Orc Who Saved Christmas

                Orcs did not celebrate Christmas. This was a fact, one that Darryn had heard shouted at him for much of his adult life. He was only half-Orc, however, his mother being the Orc and his father being the human who lost an unfortunate bet. There was much alcohol involved in Darryn’s conception, and even more of it when they were trying to work out which one of them was going to raise him. He looked more like his father than his mother, which was offensive to half the Orc population at least, and so Darryn was classed as an abomination and handed over to his father to keep. He spent a few years with his father, who spent more time in the mines and the taverns than he did at home, but Darryn learned quickly how to mind himself.

                He also grew quickly, which made his father uncomfortable; a ten year old child as tall and hardy as a forty year old man required explaining, and to keep suspicion off and ridicule away, Darryn’s father taught him to chop wood and sent him to the woods every day. One day, when Darryn returned home from the woods, his father was gone. This would not have been especially remarkable, as his father was seldom around, but this time, his father never came back. Word was that he had got lost in a mining shaft and the knockers carried him off. Others claimed they saw him at the local tavern, telling people to tell others that he had carried off by the knockers and that absolutely no one was to look for him. In either case, Darryn was alone from that day onward. He tried fitting in with other families, but when he grew too large to fit through most front doors, he gave up the hope of having a family and went to make a new life for himself.

                He settled on a small village at the base of a mountain range. There was nothing particularly special about this village or the mountain behind it; he just liked living beside something larger than himself. The village was little more than a market stop, the glen it was nestled in cut off by the mountainside at one end and a slightly overgrown road on the other, the perfect place to be quiet and out of the way. The only difficulty was that all the villagers wanted Darryn out of the way too. When he first came to the village, he realized how much larger he was than everybody else when he saw more eaves than he did faces. He had never seen so many foreheads and wide eyes in his life, everyone craning to stare at him as he went by. He had learned to walk on silent steps due to his father’s constant headache, and tried to make himself smaller everywhere he went, to fit into shops and stoop under stalls, but the villagers either gawked at him or tried to run him out of town, thinking he was an orc from one of the raiding tribes. His skin was the same colour as theirs, his hair was short and black, but his height was concerning, and his muscles looked like they were sitting on other even larger muscles, his life of manual labour doing more for him than he realized. He did what he could to appease their fears by gently introducing himself and offering them presents of kindling and firewood, but his immense stature and small tusks did him no favours. He was run out of the village countless times; it wasn’t the rocks they threw that deterred him—he didn’t feel those, because his muscles received the bounce and just returned it in a threatening ripple—but it was what they said that made him go away.

                “Beast! Animal! Orc filth!”

                He took exception to the last one, because he was careful to bathe every night after a long day of woodcutting. The villagers threw more aspersions than stones, mostly because the insults involved no effort and they were afraid he would sharpen the rocks on his pecs and throw them back. Darryn had his axe, but they didn’t seem to much mind that; they feared only the idea of him being a bestial and vulgar Orc and didn’t want him around long enough to satisfy their hopes. Darryn accepted their judgement of him, decided they were mean people who didn’t know how to pleasant, and went to live on a nearby hillock. He made his house facing the mountain and overlooking the village square, so he could always see what the villagers were up to and feel as though he were a part of whatever they were celebrating. He still went down to the village once in a while, to hear a bit of news and make presents of game and firewood to an old blind widow who worked as a grocer at the end of the long market row. He wore a disguise when he visited, so no one would suspect him of being a filthy Orc and instead just think of him as a rather colourful woodcutter with a woolly beard, his costume made out of old wool and fleece scraps, which the old blind widow thought were ‘very nice indeed’. He hunched himself and hid his tusks, which qualified him as a ‘very nice boy’ or a talking wall, she could not tell which, but he never stayed long, though the old blind widow always liked to have him around because he listened to her and somehow could reach all the high bits of her house without using a ladder. Darryn made sure she never wanted for firewood and that she had a fire on when she needed it, and looked after her as he did look after the rest of the village, from his house perched on the high hill nearby.

                The desperation of wanting to belong and not being able to mend it is a sin, one that haunted Darryn for many a year. The thrum and bustle of the village going on without him plagued his conscience, the seasons passing in a blur of blended time, Darryn celebrating the holidays in his own way by himself, pretending he was celebrating along with them, watching the Christmas tree being erected and then taken down every winter, the many harvests bringing in and being venerated. He could only hope that one day, when the villagers' needed him to take something down from a shelf or fix their thatch or mend a gable, they would come running up to him and invite him to live among them at last. He didn’t intend this as a curse; it was only the wish of a lovelorn heart working on a lifetime of loneliness.

                It took a while, but eventually ill-luck did find its way to the mountain village: a poor crop made food scarce, and an early frost made the villagers want for fires. It was bitterly cold by November, and they had gone through the chief of their firewood before the month was out. Men went off to cut more firewood, but all the best wood was in the woodland behind Darryn’s house, and while they liked slinging axes over their shoulders, they didn’t like trudging up hills much. They didn’t ask how the old blind widow had come by a constant supply of green wood, but they were grateful for her willingness to share, in that they told her they were going to borrow some firewood, and she replied with ‘Oh, isn’t that nice’. Some people thought it was rude to take from a woman who already had so little, but as much of the villagers were frightened by scarcity and less so by a harmless old crone, they saw no problem with taking what wasn’t theirs. Darryn watched them deplete the old lady’s stores and felt sorry for them. He would always bring the old woman more firewood, but he found it amusing that the villagers thought it was better to steal from the blind than it was to accept help from an Orc.

The young girls of the village had better morals, and one of them, who had decided it was wrong to take anything from anybody in a time of need, went out to gather kindling for the village by herself. This was lucky, because she went to gather kindling at the woodland behind Darryn’s house. She had never formally met him, but always heard the villagers talk of him as an enormous snarling beast, one with great horns and claws, whose long reach and underhung jaw meant he could catch you and eat you in one go. She had seen him from afar, walking the brow of the hill and marching into the woods very often. She did see someone coming to visit the old blind widow from time to time, a large someone who paid her for her undesirable potatoes and carrots and fixed the hazel pins in her roof, but she never suspected that a person who could show such selflessness was an ‘enormous snarling beast’. She also had better sense and more curiosity than most people. As a basketweaver, she was expected to be dim-witted and dull, but she was resourceful, so all her natural genius was forgiven.

She took her willow basket and went to collect pine needles and twigs. The woodland behind Darryn’s house was filled with birch and fir trees, and on Christmas Eve, when the villagers were getting ready to settle down to their meager feasts in frigid homes, she marched up the slope of the hill, her knees digging through deep snow, and looked up to see if there was anyone about. The large log cabin nestled in the hilltop was aglow with life, the amber glow from the small fire within, the blue curtains hung in crescents round the window, the eaves wearing their ivy skirts, the lintel decorated with sloe and juniper. The top of the chimney ribboned with smoke, telling her someone was home, but when she looked in the window, she saw no one there. She would have knocked, to ask whether she might intrude upon the woodland, but there was an abundance of pine needles and pine cones strewn about just beyond the house, and as long as she wasn’t cutting any trees or taking any large branches, she didn’t think she would be bothering anyone.

She gathered as much as the snow would allow, though there seemed to be less of it here than in the village below, the canopy of birch and fir in all their crown-shyness having caught much of the fall, their boughs wilting under the weight, the limbs holding up much of what should have been on the ground. She foraged for a few hours, enjoying the fine pinery, but she sometimes thought she saw people standing amongst the trees. She wondered if it was the Orc, but it was just the penitentes, the stiff blades of hardened snow, straight and upright with their faces to the sun. She remained there until the light began to fail. Her basket was about halfway full, the pinecones resting on needles and curled scrolls of birch bark, when she decided to make her way back to the village, to make kindling bundles to give out for Christmas. She was passing the house and thinking about sliding down the hill when she heard a heavy THUNK! behind her. She turned and waded back toward the house. On the far side of the hill, she saw an enormous man mantling over a well-worn stump. He was standing with his back toward her, his muscles shifting like gears, and steam vapouring from his skin. He lifted an axe over his head and sunk it into a thick log.

THUNK!

Darryn removed his axe and let the two pieces of wood split and faint, one to each side. He prepared another log when he heard the tender footfalls of someone small approaching. He turned and saw a young girl standing at his feet, her legs wrapped in wool, her willow basket slung across her back, her eyes wide and sparkling. He put down his axe immediately and stared at her.

Read the rest of the story on PATREON

#writing #i love orcs #half orc #christmas #merry christmas #newyear2023 #happy new year #books #high fantasy

[angwishusa]

Back in Madrid, New Mexico! I’m at the Mine Shaft Tavern today, 4pm to 6pm! We’re gonna rock! (at The Mine Shaft Tavern) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChA5cJCpsCj/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[wonderlesch]

B Stands for Best Food and Best Drinks - New Mexico

B Stands for Best Food and Best Drinks – New Mexico

Discovering so many new and delicious tastes in New Mexico! B Stands for Best Food and Best Drinks – New Mexico did not disappoint! Travel with me and discover some amazing meals and cocktails with a New Mexico theme. You’ll be glad you did! Best Food First Foodie Stop for Best Food New Mexico is Old Mesilla Pastry Cafe – AKA The Shed located at 810 S Valley Dr in Las Cruces, New Mexico. For…

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#Best Drinks #Best Food #Cocktail lover #Cocktail recipes #Cowboy Cafe #Foodie Lover #Las Cruces #Madrid New Mexico #Mine Shaft Tavern #New Blog Post #New Mexico #New Mexico Foodie #No Scum Allowed Saloon #Old Mesilla Pastry Cafe #Roswell #Santa Fe Cocktail #The Chimayo Cocktail #The Shed #White Oaks New Mexico

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#259

“Seth? Right? C’mon in. Your brother told you who I am? Good. Want a beer?... Here you go. Let’s go out to the back deck. The sun went down, and the cool evening air is starting to kick in. Have a seat…. Ok. Seth, do you know why you are here? Let me be blunt. Your brother David owes me a lot of money. A lot. He’s been doing jobs for me that I need someone I can trust to do. But that’s barely covering the interest. I told him he needs to start working down the principal. So, he offered me… you….

“That’s right he sold you to me. You are going to whore off his debt…. Shut the fuck up. The deal is set. Have some more beer; it will help you to deal with what I need to go over with you….

“Your brother probably told you that I am a powerful man. Hopefully he didn’t tell you what I did. I will share with you one part of my business that you will be a part of. I have several whore agencies across several states. They ain’t like the whorehouses in the movies. The girls never see money; they show up at a set time and do whatever the man wants. They do not say no. They get to live in city, and they show their clients the best the city has to offer. They have everything paid for and get a nice credit card too.

“A few years ago—hell it’s more like ten or so, —I was convinced to do the same but on the fag side. Now, I knew nothing about fag sex, and it disgusted me. Once I got over the visuals, the business was just like the girls. The difference I found out was that I had to have two sets of whores—fag boys like yourself, and men old enough to be your father.

“It was Frankie, one of my goons, who told me that there is a lot money to be made by men taking the dominant role. I didn’t believe it. So, he arranged for me to watch him from a distance him work over this faggot. He didn’t tell me how much he was earning. When I saw this fag hand over three hundred bucks, I knew I needed to get into this. I mean my guy did barely anything other than smack the fag around, call him names, and sit on the faggot’s face at the end. That fag ate that fat ass while pounding its pud. Frankie even went over to the fag’s wallet and took an additional hundred out of it. And wouldn’t you know, that fag boy was loving life.

“Needless to say, that was how I got into the fag whoring business. I had Frankie lead it; he even got somewhat in shape, and now he’s my most popular whore men. Wait a minute, you know him. He fucked you behind a dumpster in the alley behind that fag bar a couple weeks ago. When I saw you at David’s birthday partner at my tavern and he told me that you were his sperm burping brother, I sent Frankie to find out more about you. I know that you can take a good pounding, face slaps, rough housing. Frankie also told me that you cleaned off his cock after we was done and that you drank his piss. You even begged him for more as he walked away from you, naked covered in piss behind the dumpster. That’s all I needed to hear.

“After meeting with your brother, all I had to do was press the massive debt. I knew how self-serving he was. He sold you out so fucking fast. And now I own you. Now strip faggot….

“You do realize who I am? No one ever disobeys one of my direct commands. Now think about your next move real carefully. STRIP YOU FUCKING FAGGOT. Take your time standing up. That drug I put in your beer will make you kinda dizzy if you stand too fast. Yeah, I didn’t want you to run back to your car. Kid, when you came in that door, you were mine. That’s it. Accept your fate. Good boy.

“Yeah, after Frankie roughed up that fag, I was curious. He arranged for me to use one of his regulars who was blindfolded. It was so much fun to kick and punch that faggot only to have him crawl to me, begging for more. With each time, I got more wicked, and they wanted more. I had a few fags over the years locked up and had the best of all worlds. My wife provides me with companionship. My girlfriend offers sensual making love and snuggling. And my faggot takes all my rage filled abuse.

“Underwear needs to go too. Let’s see what you have. Not bad. Looks like you are excited about being naked in front of me. That’s a lot of pre-cum. Decent sized balls. I’d say you are about six inches long. The shaft is a bit thin, but the head is good size. Your foreskin is not too long. That’s good. If there’s going to be one sweaty stinky dick around here, it will be mine. If yours becomes a problem, we’ll get you circumcised.

“What? Faggot, you are nothing more to me than my pickup. If I want to modify you out, I sure as hell am going to. I modify all my property. Tattoos, piercing, permanent hair removal, castration, branding, and so on. But actually, I am a bit cautious. I made the mistake of castrating a fag and regretted it afterwards. He just didn’t seem right to me. The cutter I went to tried to put in fake balls, but it still didn’t seem right. I ended up replacing that fag with another.

“I am looking for my perfect fag. I’m planning on letting my girlfriend go, but sometimes I need that close touch. Not going to do that with my wife. Every day now I realize that I want to be with faggots over women. Faggots are so much easier to mold into what I want. And every now and then I might snuggle with one.

“I like what I see. I want to see your cumload. Jerk off for me. I’ll give you a few minutes to do so. When you do, shoot in your spare hand. I want to see the quantity. I’m going to get your collar; it’s probably done charging. I’m also going to take your car keys. You ain’t going anywhere. Continue jacking….

“….Did you cum? You did! Good fag. When was the last time you came? Yesterday morning? Well that’s a good load. Here, lock this collar around your neck. Ok, so here’s the deal. You can jack off as often as you like, whenever you like as long as I am not using you. If I catch you jacking off, don’t stop. If you are watching porn, continue. But know this, no matter if you haven’t cum in days or you just had a massive orgasm, should I require your use, I fully expect 100% horniness and enthusiasm.

“This remote is hooked up to your collar. With this button… you fall to the floor just like that. Hurt’s like a mother fucker hunh? That’s on low. Remember that. It is also set up to shock you should you cross a 20-foot perimeter of the house. I am notified by an app on my phone when you do something that stupid. Also, the garage and my office on the third floor are completely off limits. You will not fare well should you cross that threshold without me.

“Bring your cock over here. Is your dick head sensitive. It is! Fuck yes! As you get soft, it’s driving you crazy. Good. Good. I see a problem here. Your pubic hair is all over the place. You shouldn’t have hair down here. Look how long this hair is. There’s enough so that I can twirl a bunch around my finger. With a firm yank,… it comes out in one clump. Aww shut the fuck up. Most of the time your screams of pain will turn me on, but now it’s just annoying. Another clump on the other side, and it doesn’t even look like you lost any.

“Look at me faggot. Say ‘Thank you.’ Good fag. Open your mouth. Here eat your pubic hair. Go on chew it. Nasty? I know, now swallow. And here’s… another bunch. Swallow these…. And these… And these… You’ll be permanently shaved in the near future so you won’t have to do much pubic hair eating.

“While you finish your snack, let me take you around the place and show you your duties. This is the kitchen. David told me that you went to culinary school but then dropped out. Well, you will be doing all the cooking here. Cleaning too.

“Let’s go downstairs…. This is your room, although you really don’t have privacy. Over there is your cot. Next to it is the plug you will put into your collar every night. I am notified on my app should the power level drop below 75%. That’s equivalent for not charging for a full week. Unless I just slam you with shocks, I should never get one of those notifications.

“You have a wash basin there, and your toilet is there. There’s your douche hose over there in the shower. No, I haven’t gotten around to buying it a toilet seat; the cold porcelain is fine. And I haven’t hooked up the hot water down here.

“Let’s go up to the Master bedroom…. You never climb into my bed unless I invite you in. In fact no non-sexual furniture for you either without permission. Through that door is the master bath. You will keep this place spotless. That includes licking clean my toilet. The rimseat next to it is when I want to make you toilet paper or a full toilet.

“And here’s the playroom. It’s totally soundproofed. You are going to suffer a lot in here. Screaming is encouraged. In fact, what time is it? Seven. Well we might as well start now. Get on all fours—knees and elbows. Spread those knees wide. Every night you will present yourself in this position, as you will every morning.

“Don’t get too excited. I am going to fuck you good, long, and deep. But that won’t until the end. We got a long way to go. You see, the only people who knows my affinity for preferring the boys to the girls are Frankie, me, and now you. Your brother thinks I’m adding you to my harem of fags. This is something that cannot get out. And if it does, I will know it came from you, and I want you to know the perpetual hell that will come your way.

“Tonight is a test of what you can expect, but keep in mind, tonight’s suffering will be only five hours long, much shorter than what will be if my preference is ever widely known.

“And after the paddling your ass to a welted mess, whipping your back until it turns to bloody hamburger, kicking your balls until they are swollen to twice their size, bruising up your face, and fucking you with very little lube, I may feel the need to snuggle up with you afterwards.

“But first, there’s a lot to do before we do that. Oh look your balls are just ripe for a good old fashioned full-force kick. Every night and every morning you will get one to always remind you what you are.

“Faggot right now with this kick your hell begins.”

[laurfilijames]

Jealous Heart

———

Requested by my naughty anon “E”, who wanted a needy/jealous smutty Kili. Thank you so much for coming to me for this! It’s been such a pleasure to write and I hope it meets your expectations. I’m honoured to have received this request- my first one ever! Enjoy your possessive and jealous Kili!

Pairing: Kili x female reader

Words: 3,222

Warnings: rated E. Vaginal fingering. M/F intercourse, unprotected. Kili is quite possessive in this.

Kili sat with his back rigid against the cold stone wall, arms folded across his chest, watching Y/N with fire in his eyes.

The tavern was bustling tonight. There was barely enough room to pass through the crowd to get to the bar for another ale, but still all Kili could focus on was you as if you were the only other person in the room.

He wanted you. Bad. But there you were for another night, laughing and being wooed by other patrons in the tavern. Other patrons who were far more suited to you than he could ever be.

The man who was currently stealing your attention, or caught completely under your spell was more like it, was a tall dark-haired man with a full, thick beard. His size towered over your frame, his rugged charm working to bring out your gorgeous smile, and the scene filled Kili with rage and jealousy.

He was a dwarf for pity’s sake, yet here this human sported facial hair that could challenge even Thorin’s kingly beard in all its glory! There was no way he could compete with that.

Kili felt like a disgrace, his mood continuing to fall as he began to pick at the bindings on his boot that was resting up on his knee.

How many times had he imagined you pressing your lips along his stubble-coated jawline, praising him for the intense pleasure he provided, begging him for more? Each time he touched himself it was to thoughts of you, pretending it was your gentle hands tugging on his hardened shaft. Since reclaiming Erebor he’d been with a few women, most of them eager to show their gratitude to one of their heroes, but the only one he really wanted, the only one he longed for, was you.

It seemed as though every other man in town- dwarf, elf or human- was captivated by you and tried for your affection. Who could blame them? You were perfect.

But watching them all set out after you night after night started to take its toll on Kili, the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head in the depths of his heart.

“You need to make a move, Kili, or Y/N will be long gone before you even have a chance to call for another ale,” his brother said pointedly with a nudge to his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts.

He shook his head in defeat, glancing up to watch you throw your head back in laughter. Gods, you were a sight.

“There’s no use, Fili. I mean look at her!” he waved in your direction, your charisma infectious to everyone around you. But his doubt left him as soon as he looked your way again, feeling a rush of urgency to have you, to push away any man who threatened to seize you from his own reach, to claim you as his.

He sighed and looked at his brother beside him who took a long drag from his pipe, regarding you from across the room with an odd expression on his face. It almost looked as though Fili himself was considering making a move on you and the thought made even more anger rise up in Kili.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, having seen that same look on Fili’s face before when he was interested in a woman. He wouldn’t think twice about dumping his ale over his brother's head if it came down to it.

“No, no, I wouldn’t,” he assured him, “It just doesn’t seem like she’s actually enjoying herself,” he tipped his head in your direction, his moustache braids wagging with his movements. “You should go and rescue her.”

“You think?”

“Yes! Just go!” Fili gave him a hard push on his back, causing him to almost trip over his own feet as he stood from their table.

Kili took a deep breath before he made his way over, and when he was close enough he noticed a faint tinge of falseness in your eyes, an annoyed expression crossing your face. A feeling of possessiveness came over him now that he knew you weren’t interested in this man’s company, and he found it hard to control his anger.

“Kili! I was wondering when you were going to make your way over to see me!” you exclaimed with enthusiasm the second he joined your side, hoping he would catch the thanks that laced your tone for interrupting your conversation with the man who tried his best to persuade you into his bed each night.

“Y/N,” Kili greeted you shortly, staring up at the man across from you with a venomous look. “Is this man bothering you?”

You couldn’t help but notice how dark his eyes were and you wondered if the young Prince was jealous.

So you decided to have some fun, thinking maybe this was the way to get him to finally admit those feelings for you you always suspected he had.

“Not in the slightest,” you cooed, biting your lip to hold back your smile as his head whipped to look at you, his brows knitted tightly together.

When you saw his reaction, you couldn’t keep your face from splitting at his sheer disbelief that you could have been enjoying yourself. The other man sulked away and you sighed with relief, “I’m kidding! Thank you for coming over, I could only be nice for so long!”

Your hand automatically rested on his forearm, feeling the muscles shift underneath his skin when he clenched his fist, the movement sending a sensation through you that made your breath hitch.

Kili didn’t return your smile though. He looked at your hand that remained on his arm and shook his head slightly as he turned away from you.

“It’s nothing,” he said in a low voice, but you could see through his words. He leaned forward against the bar, forcing you to drop your hand from him, refusing to meet your gaze when you shifted your body to try and face him again.

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine.”

Another lie. You wanted to tell Kili just how badly you wanted him, that there was no way any other man could compare to him. You could sense his unease and longed to erase it with your lips, desperate to admit that anytime you were intimate with anyone it was him who you imagined being with.

Kili glanced over his shoulder, rolling his eyes when they met Fili’s who nodded at him to continue talking to you. He rubbed a hand over his face, strongly considering getting his next pint and heading back to the table without saying another word. There was no way he could muster the strength to push his jealous feelings aside and just tell you he fancied you.

But he was quickly persuaded, feeling the gentle touch of your hand on his shoulder.

“Kili, what’s wrong? You know you can tell me,” you said faintly. Even through the noise of the crowd your voice sang to him clear as day, and he longed to hear what other soft sounds he could coax from your lips.

“I can’t stand seeing you with other men,” he declared, the words leaving his mouth involuntarily as if staring at your lips had him in some sort of trance.

Your eyebrows flew up in shock as you processed his words, making him panic slightly. He reached for his full tankard and turned to leave, but stopped when you spoke.

“Why is that?”

He sighed again and brought himself to face you, looking at you with an unashamed need.

“I want you to be mine.”

You nodded slowly, hoping you heard him correctly over the commotion around you.

You’d had your eye on Kili ever since you were young, and seeing him now as a grown and proud warrior after reclaiming Erebor had you yearning for him even more. The truth was that you were often jealous of how much attention he received from other dams throughout the kingdom, constantly having to listen to them all gush over him. And now he was telling you he wanted you?

Not daring to miss your opportunity, you leaned your body close to his, pulling him toward you by tugging on his coat with one hand, the other moving to wrap around his muscular torso.

“I want you, too, Kili…”

His gaze made you squirm where you stood, his expression enough to break your boldness and make you want to submit to him right then and there.

Before you had any more time to think up the things you wanted him to do to you, Kili grabbed your hand and gave you the cheeky smile that made your heart do flips, spinning on his heel to drag you through the crowd behind him.

“Where are we going?!” you asked, surprised at his sudden ambition.

“Away from all of these people!” he explained over his shoulder, a mischievous look plastered on his face.

The pace of your steps matched his, equally zealous to get away from the crowd and find a quiet spot to be together, but before you even made it out the back door Kili turned toward you and pressed you against the wall, eagerly taking your lips in his.

His hands groped at you while your tongues collided, the warmth of his mouth and body radiating through whatever part of you he touched.

You moaned into him, his large hands pulling at your dress, trying to expose more of your chest to him. Kili’s lips left yours and flew to your neck, kissing a trail down your ticklish skin which made your moans turn to giggles. Just as he drove his thick thigh between your legs to part them someone walked past, interrupting your activities. You both broke out in laughter, unable to believe you were actually fondling each other in the hallway of the busiest tavern in all of Dale.

He attached his lips to yours again in a hurry, backing up to remove you from the wall and pulling you with him. You were stumbling over each other in your search for the exit, bumping into walls before finally crashing against the door that led outside.

You couldn’t get enough of each other and before you even made it around the corner you had successfully torn open his tunic, revealing dark hairs covering his strong chest. Your hands carded over his bare skin and you pushed your tongue deeper in his mouth, ecstatic to be in this moment with him.

You couldn’t help but squeal when he lifted you up and wrapped your legs around his middle, carrying you the rest of the way over to a more secluded area behind the row of buildings.

“Kili, someone could see us!” you worried, but you didn’t truly care, knowing just how much you wanted the dark-haired archer. He placed you down, but you didn’t trust your shaking legs, your arms remaining around his neck for support.

“I know, but I need you, Y/N,” he looked at you with an ache in his eyes and you knew he meant it. “I need you now.”

You tugged at his hair as he consumed your mouth again, his hard cock pressing against the material of your dress which was straining to get through his trousers.

Your fingers fumbled with the laces on them, desperate to feel him in your hand. Teeth nipped at your neck in response to your endeavour, a deep groan leaving his mouth to air over your flushed skin as you reached in and freed his length. You knew he would be impressive in size, but this was more than you were expecting and your thighs squeezed together at the thought of him stretching you.

Your name came out of him with a hiss as you began stroking him, your thumb running small circles on his leaking tip, your touch turning him feral.

He bucked into your hand and attached his lips to yours once more, one hand clutching your waist to pull you closer while his other tore at your neckline to expose your breasts to him.

He parted from you to take the sight of you in, your bare chest heaving in anticipation, nipples taught in the cold, night air.

Kili’s face plunged to your cleavage, his hand squeezing the soft flesh of your breast as he sucked on your peak while he gathered the material of your dress to ruck it up over your hips.

Although you were almost delirious from his actions, you continued to slowly pump his throbbing shaft, pausing only when he glanced up at you with a possessive look. His fingers grazed up your quivering thigh and now lingered against your wet folds, waiting for your consent. You pushed your hips forward, a signal of your need for him to touch you more. He happily complied, plunging a large finger inside your warmth, his thumb finding your swollen bud to circle and press on it. A moan left you and your body shuddered to his touch as he moved his finger in and out of you, then adding another to stretch you further.

“Kili…” you gasped, gripping onto his broad shoulder as you rode his hand while still jerking your own along his length in a steady rhythm.

He removed his fingers from your fluttering folds and gripped around the back of your thigh, pulling your leg up to wrap around his waist. You felt his spongy head press against your wetness and you gasped at the sensation, more than ready to take him in.

“I will make you forget any other man who has ever touched you,” he vowed in a rough tone, and you knew it would be true.

Kili grabbed onto your bum, pulling you closer to his body as he pushed through your entrance. Your head fell back against the wall as you stretched to fit him, thankful for how wet he had made you. But even with the amount of slick that coated your walls, his girth was enough to make you whimper and cry out.

“Am I too big for you, amrâlimê?” he asked in a low, husky voice, his breath tickling beside your ear, still continuing to push deeper into you regardless of your answer.

“No, Kili,” you managed to say through a moan, “Please don’t stop.”

He moved to rest his forehead against yours, placing a gentle kiss on your lips as he bottomed out in you, his hips pressed firmly against yours.

“Good, because I want you to think of me with every step you take tomorrow.” His eyes were black in the moonlight, his words and his stare making you shiver. Kili moved so he was almost all the way out of you, making you miss the fullness he created, but thrusted back into you in one swift motion and you cried out again.

The sound of hips slapping against each other and your combined panting filled the quiet air as he worked to set a tempo, the tip of him contacting your deepest spot with every plunge that sent fire through your veins.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he declared, increasing his pace, determined to prove it.

You tugged at his hair and nodded in agreement, pulling him closer to you to capture his parted lips once more, eager to have him fulfill his promise.

As much as you didn’t want this to end, you knew neither of you would be able to last long. Feeling every inch of his thick cock slide in and out of you, hitting the perfect spot every time had your head spinning, each pump rubbing his coarse hairs against your swollen clit, getting you closer to your end.

His name fell freely from your raw lips, a mantra to the ecstasy he was giving you, which only brought more inspiration to the Prince.

“Kili…”

“That’s right, say my name,” he begged as he gripped harder on your hip to allow more traction to pound into you with even more force.

In addition to his ferociousness, the things he was saying to you wasn’t helping to prolong your session either. Kili continued spilling possessive proclamations from his mouth any time your lips weren’t locked together, making you feel powerful to have such an effect on him.

“I will be the only man who gets to make you feel this good,” he said hoarsely beside your ear, his intensity somehow increasing.

A cry escaped your lips as you began to climax, your walls clenching tightly around his member, your nails clawing at his back.

“That’s it,” he coaxed you, “let go. Let me have you, ghivashel.”

Allowing your body to give in to what it longed for so desperately, you did just as he told you and let yourself fall, shuddering around him as you came harshly, Kili not holding back as he pounded you over the edge. You felt him pulse inside you, filling you completely with his spend. He growled and with a twitch came down from his own high, your bodies in sync with each other, working as one. His lips met yours again in urgency while he still rocked slightly within you, the thickness and heat of his seed feeling exquisite against your fluttering core.

Kili remained encased by you, enjoying the feeling of you around him as he slowly softened. His forehead pressed against yours as you shared the same breath, and he couldn’t help but relish in the satisfaction of having you. You were his…

“I’ve needed you for so long, Y/N,” he admitted, “I needed to make you mine. I couldn’t bear to watch another man touch you, let alone look at you for another night.” He brushed his nose against yours, his lips moving against yours faintly while he spoke. “I should have done this long ago.”

You gave him an eager nod, “Yes, you should have, Kili. But we can make up for lost time.”

His mouth consumed yours again, a silent agreement that this wouldn’t be the last time he would prove to you that you belonged to him.

After a moment he pulled away from you, breaking the seal on your lips as well as the connection that remained of him inside you. As if feeling the loss immediately, he looked at you with a worried expression and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked you, searching your eyes with a gentleness that contrasted to his earlier passion.

“Of course I will,” you responded with a smile, seeing how your answer instantly brought one to his own face, his brown eyes glowing.

He kissed you sweetly and cupped your cheek with his warm palm, “Thank you. I want to be with you any moment I possibly can.”

Your smile grew at his confession, seeing the love he had for you, your heart swelling at what could come to fruition between you and the Prince.

Now that Kili had you, he knew he could never be without you. He took your hand in his and thanked Mahal as he led you through the night toward Erebor that he was now with his One, the only one he ever needed.

———

Everything: @guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian

Kili: @valquiria3000 @fandomfaery

#kili #kili smut #kili smut request #request by anon #the hobbit #the hobbit kili #smut #smut fic #jealous Kili

[asweetprologue]

what I’m afraid to say

part two of a brand new train fic! we’ve been working on this one for a while, hope you enjoy!

part one | next 

He keeps thinking about it, though. They spend a week in the little town that hired him to kill the cockatrice, half of it crammed into the healer's tiny hut. Jaskier's wound wasn't deep, but humans are so prone to infection and disease. Geralt hovers, until the owner of the hut shoos him away. She's an older woman named Madriga with gray hair pulled back against her head in a neat braid, and she reminds him so much of Nenneke that he goes with fairly little protest. Jaskier is still on bedrest, though he's recovered enough to protest the fact, so he can't follow Geralt out of the little hut like he probably wants to. Geralt lingers outside of the small home for a few minutes, not sure what he should do with himself. He still feels a tight knot of worry in his chest, and he knows it won't dissipate until Jaskier is well again.

He itches to do something, or maybe to say something. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the blood spreading out under Jaskier's fingers, and his teeth clench around the feelings that crawl up his throat. He doesn't think his tongue would be able to shape them all into words even if he tried.

But maybe he can twist some of those feelings into action, and Jaskier will understand them. He's always been good at that, always seems to understand what Geralt means even if he doesn't know himself.

He wanders closer to the center of the town, down the stretch of road that leads to the healer's hut. The day is warm and the late afternoon sun hangs low in a cloudless sky, a soft breeze blowing a burst of yellow flower petals across the dirt path. Geralt is offered a few scattered waves from some of the townsfolk as he approaches, a novel experience in and of itself. He's not sure if it's because they're grateful for his work, or if they just feel bad about Jaskier's injuries. His playing the night before the job had been welcome in the small town, and everyone loved Jaskier. They'd been more than accommodating while the bard healed.

The evening market is just getting set up as he approaches the square, and there's a young girl, maybe just on the cusp of teenhood, sitting with her elbow propped on her table. There are several trays of baked goods set out, and Geralt remembers how Jaskier had complained that morning about the plain porridge that he's been forced to eat alongside thin broth over the last few days. The healer had mentioned something about feeding him something more substantial for dinner, and that's something Geralt can help with. Relieved to find something he can actually do, some way to show Jaskier that he cares, he reaches into his coin pouch.

He makes a few purchases from the girl—a harsh haggler, to his amusement. He can't put the rest of his plan into motion until later, but he has some supplies to stock up on after the hunt anyways. He spends a while talking with the locals until he can barter for what he can. Restocking their road supplies is easy enough, and he even manages to find someone willing to part with a bottle of dwarven spirits. He's low on Cat, now, so he shells out the coin for it and then spends some time in the fields looking for berbercane fruit. It's the right season for them, and it's easy enough to spot the bright red fruits amongst the golden shafts of wheat.

Once the sun is just barely turning the edges of the grains white gold in the evening light, he makes his way to the tavern Jaskier had played at a few nights before. The barkeep recognizes him instantly, of course, and asks him when the young bard will be well enough to play for them again. Geralt shrugs; he doesn't know. Humans heal so slowly.

He's able to purchase a decent haul: a full loaf of rye bread, a clay bowl full of thick pottage, and another with baked parsnips, beats and onions. Along with the honey cakes he'd purchased from the girl, he thinks the spread will please Jaskier after nearly three full days of gruel. After a second thought, he picks up another trencher for their host, and then he bundles the goods in his cloak to carry back to the hut.

By the time he follows the dirt path out to the edge of the town and up to the hut, the shadows are growing long. It's late in the summer season, and the sun sets earlier and earlier nowadays. It's a harsh reminder that soon he will have to return to the mountains and bid Jaskier farewell for the winter. Though at this point the bard might be better off on his own, Geralt thinks darkly. If he's only going to get himself hurt, then maybe Geralt should just… let him go.

He opens the door to the hut perhaps more forcefully than needed, hearing it bump against the chair that sits behind it. The cot Jaskier is set up on is in the main area of the two room hut, and he looks up in surprise when Geralt steps through the door. Madriga is less impressed, only raising an eyebrow.

Geralt stands there for a moment, thrown by the new, exposed bandages on Jaskier's bare chest and Madriga's knowing stare, and then he hefts the bundle of cloth in his arms and says, “I, uh. Brought dinner.”

“Good,” Madriga grunts, getting to her feet. She hobbles over to Geralt—it's a miracle that she doesn't use a cane, he thinks—and takes the packaged food from him. “It's high time for him to get some solids in him.”

“One of the loaves is for you,” Geralt adds, moving automatically to help reposition the pillows behind Jaskier so that he can sit up more easily. The bard's eyes are bright when they find his, and Geralt looks away quickly, overwhelmed. “And there's plenty of stew. If you have need.”

The healer just nods, and shuffles over into the little kitchen area she has set up near the stove, pulling out a set of bowls from a chest in the corner. After a few moments she brings them the food and says, “I'll take mine in my room. Need to rest my feet. Make sure he doesn't spill on those new wrappings.” Geralt nods, holding the two bowls of pottage, and Madriga takes her own bowl and bread and closes the door to her bedroom behind her.

“This was kind of you,” Jaskier says, accepting the bowl that Geralt offers him. A half of the loaf of bread sits in each of their bowls, and Jaskier immediately fishes his out to take a bite of the stew soaked rye. He makes an appreciative sound, his eyes fluttering closed, and Geralt is left staring. Finally he remembers his own bowl and digs in, barely tasting the dish as he sneaks glances at Jaskier. The window across from the bed casts them in a faint orange glow in the dying light, and a highlight across Jaskier's cheekbone casts his face into sharp relief. He's lost weight over the last few days, Geralt realizes. He moves a portion of his stew into Jaskier's bowl.

“You're mother henning,” Jaskier says around a mouthful, laughing a bit even though Geralt knows it makes his side hurt.

“Just want you back on your feet,” Geralt mutters, going back to his own bowl. Once they're both done, he reaches into the bundle of cloth and pulls out another wrapped package, the cheesecloth sticky to the touch. He's probably going to have to wash his cloak, but he can't care at the moment. “Here,” he says, pushing the package into Jaskier's hands.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, letting the cheesecloth fall open to reveal the honey cakes. “I love these. You remembered?”

Half a dozen responses hover on Geralt's lips. Of course, he wants to say, I remember everything, I'm always paying attention to you, there's nothing else. I care, I care, I care. Instead, he just says, “You rave about them every time we're in a town. Hard to miss.”

Jaskier's eyes crinkle up at the edges. He's so beautiful, even ruffled and covered in three days of sweat and old blood. Geralt aches to reach out, but he keeps his hands to himself until Jaskier offers him one of the honey cakes. He doesn't let their fingers brush in the exchange. “Didn't know you were listening,” Jaskier says, with a wry smile.

Geralt just hums around a mouthful of honey, and he burns with all the things he doesn't say.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher #the witcher #fic #fan fiction #writing #my work #train

[tiarnanabhfainni]

alright lads i have written spn fic about the family of deanna campbell, path dependency, kansas coal mining and generational misery. also dean mirrors because that’s what this whole industry runs on. it was heavily inspired by this insane post by tumblr-user @uhuraha. you can also find it under the cut

blood and bone is the price of coal

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out. 

The Winchester and Campbell names have long pedigrees. Two families whose history goes back as long as humans have records. In fact, their traditions are as old as angels can remember. The Winchesters. Men of Letters. Generations upon generations of knowledge of the arcane passed from mouth to pen to typewriter. The Campbells. Hunters. Parents, siblings, and cousins standing shoulder to shoulder in the endless bloody fight against the monsters under the bed.

Deanna Campbell née Foster had no such pedigree.

See, her family had a somewhat different history than that of the Campbells or the Winchesters. Deanna was the first of her family to be drawn into the shadowy world of the supernatural. Her death at the hands of a demon was not the result of centuries of angelic influence on her family line. That cooling body on the kitchen tiles was not preordained by fate. A fluke. A woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and as a result crossed paths with a demon. There really could have been any woman sitting at that kitchen table with Dean Winchester in 1973 and the apocalypse would have gone ahead.

Because the Foster family business was not hunting things or saving people. It was coal mining. Generations of men lining up to take their place in the cavernous tunnels. Hauling their shovels and pickaxes far below the surface to obtain the precious black stone hiding under Kansas soil.

-----------------

Jacob Foster was one such miner who toiled below the packed earth almost a century before an angel placed Dean Winchester in the perfect place to witness the damnation of his family to a life of misery and revenge.

It’s hard to determine the exact relationship between Jacob and Deanna. He was not a cosmically important man. As a result, there aren’t many records of his life that survived.  He could have been her grand-uncle or maybe some distant cousin. It doesn’t really matter in the end because either way he worked in the coal mines like everyone else in the family. Like his father before him.

Jacob’s life was a small one. His family had been poor as long as he’d known them. A family life that might have sounded familiar to hundreds around the country. An exploited, overworked drunk of a father and a mother wasting away at the kitchen counter, bent over with exhaustion.

The wages from his father’s long hours were barely enough to cover the food on the table and yet still most of it found its way into the pockets of the men who owned the local taverns and bars. His mother did her best with what she was given.

She put as much food on the table as she could with the means available to her. Not once did she confront Jacob’s father about the money he spent on drink nor did she ask for a larger cut of his paycheck for use on groceries.

Sometimes Jacob felt that her fear had more of a presence in the house than she did.

--------------------

Dean’s life shrank the night his mother burned alive on the ceiling. His childhood shaped itself to fit inside broken, dirty apartments and cheap motel rooms. The overpowering stench of a man blackout drunk on bourbon and beer became more familiar to him than that of home cooked meals.

He did his best with the scraps of approval he was given and never asked for more.

His father was grieving, overworked, and doing his best and what could Dean do but take what he could get.

--------------------

The lack of records makes it hard to be precise about what age Jacob was when he first went down under the shifting earth to search for precious black fuel in the pits. The family stories are confused on this point. Historians agree that the youngest boys in that particular mine were thirteen years old. But Deanna’s aunt always insisted that Jacob’s mother was fearful for her child’s safety and so she wheedled a year or two of reprieve from his father.

But regardless of his mother’s concern there was no other job open to her son and so - some time before his sixteenth birthday - Jacob’s father put a shovel in his hand and placed a cap on his head and walked him down the dirt tracks to the mine

In another life maybe Jacob could have been something else.

Maybe if his father was a butcher, he could have studied book-keeping and gone to work in an airy office rather than a dark airless hole in the ground. If the miner’s union was stronger in those days, maybe his father could have earned money enough to get his son into trade. But instead, the mine-owners underpaid their workers with little organised protest against them and Jacob worked where he was always destined to. Carefully extracting the bedrock of industrial expansion. Digging up coal that would keep other homes warm.

-------------------------

John Winchester first put a gun in his eldest son’s hand at six years old, brought him down to the woods and had him fire at cans. He looked his little boy in the eyes and handed him the tools to the trade that his mother had sacrificed so much to keep him out of.

Before he turned 16, Dean wasn’t allowed on any other hunts other than salt ‘n burns. But it was fitting in a way. Dean Winchester, grandson to Deanna Campbell née Foster, digging his shovel into hard-packed earth. The bruises on his face warmed up by the crackling flames in the open grave, earned while protecting someone else’s home.

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out.

-------------------

In his early years down in the shafts of a Kansas coal mine, Jacob was careful to save as much from his paychecks as he could. He handed this money over to his mother as she wrung her hands over the kitchen counter.

But every year the hours got longer, the pit got deeper and his paychecks grew slimmer. The siren call of the bourbon behind the barman’s back grew ever stronger.

Can we grow beyond our parents? Every tool that Jacob had was handed to him by his father. His leather workman’s boots, his dusty cap, the shovel he used to break his own back. And his father’s oldest and deepest friend, the whiskey he drank to numb himself to the grinding misery and exploitation that defined his life.

Path dependency means that the past matters. Every option that lies before us was predetermined by choices made long before their consequences would be felt. Once a man enters the mines, can his sons ever dig their way out?

By his twentieth birthday Jacob was leaving all of his paycheck on the barman’s lowest shelf.

-----------------------

The hunting life is founded on revenge.

Supernatural forces cut a life short, and husbands, wives, mothers, brothers, and daughters dive headfirst into miserable, bitter, and transitory lives where their only options are dying young or dying alone.

In 1983, John Winchester’s marriage and home went up in smoke and the ground shifted beneath him. He packed his car with a hunter’s basics, - a shovel, some shotguns, whiskey - and dragged his family down into the mine.

Dean Winchester only ever got out of the life once. After his brother threw himself into the pit.

But it’s hard to live on the surface when you know what lurks underneath and every tool Dean had, he got from his father.

----------------------

The rules of Jacob’s mine stated that no more than five pounds of black powder explosive could be taken into the mines by a miner at one time. But inspections were rare, and miners rarely took time to remember the rules by hour six in the pits.

The explosion that killed Jacob and his father also took out three of his cousins, five 13-year-old runners and a group of newly arrived Italian immigrants to the town who barely spoke a word of English. The local undertaker was put to hard work in the following days. 43 closed pine coffins lowered slowly underground. Maybe in another life Jacob could have been a painter, a baker, a steel mill worker.

Instead, he died as he lived. Smothered by coal dust.

----------------------

Dean Winchester looked heaven, fate and God in the eyes and told them all to go fuck themselves. He taught an angel free will, cancelled the apocalypse and stripped the cosmic author of all of his power.

Dean Winchester died choking on blood in a barn in Kansas hunting a monster that his father failed to kill. He couldn’t dig his way out.

#spn #dean winchester #john winchester #fic tag #so yep #i have notes on research on the ao3 link but i am not bothered to transcribe #basically listen to springhill mining disaster by luke kelly #the reason i left mullingar #and navigator by the pogues to get a feel for the mood i was in while writing this lmao

[trashscenariihxh]

Uvogin x Reader Smut

WARNING: Very, very, extremely dubcon.  Almost noncon.  Please don’t read if that is upsetting to you.  This is kind of an add on to @ramwrites glorious Warlord!Uvo fic, which can be found here.  Go give it a read, it’s amazing!  Anyway, onwards:

The war-tent in which Uvogin had left you was large but sparsely furnished.  There was a table, a chair, and an enormous bed covered in a variety of fur pelts.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Uvogin said as he unceremoniously deposited you on the ground, “and don’t even think about leaving.”

“And what if I do?” You felt defiant then, spurred on by the rage of seeing your village ransacked.  Using all your strength, you stood, glaring up at the giant before you.

Uvogin smiled predatorily down at you and stroked your cheek with a long, bloodstained finger.  “___, I just destroyed an entire village.  Laid waste to the local militia.  Imagine what I could do to you.”

He turned and left, laughing as though the idea of crushing you was the funniest thing he could imagine.  As soon as he was gone your resolve disintegrated; your knees buckled and you fell to the floor, your body wracked with sobs as the reality of the situation slammed into you.  Your village was gone, your family was gone, your friends were gone. Now, there was only Uvogin.

You supposed that you should count yourself as lucky.  After all, you’d been spared… but what kind of life awaited you?  Did Uvogin expect you to be his kept woman?  His plaything? Bile rose in your throat at the thought; you rushed to the side of the tent and vomited into a chamber pot.  You coughed and sputtered, trying to regain some semblance of composure as thoughts rushed through your head.

Where was Uvogin?  Would you be able to sneak away?  Could you make a run for it?

No.  You remembered what he’d said, and you knew it to be true; he could crush you like an insect.

You covered your eyes with your hands, groaning as you wiped your tears away.  Who would have thought that the affable giant you’d met the night before would be the blood-stained, ruthless warlord who had carried you away?  Last night, when Uvogin had laughed at your jokes, drunk your alcohol, and fucked you against the back of the bar, you’d felt so light, so carefree.  Yesterday seemed like an eternity ago.

You looked down at yourself, at your filthy, blood-smeared clothes caked with mud and wondered why Uvogin had even bothered to take you with him.  You’d put up a fight of course, but terror and exhaustion had soon overcome you, and you’d allowed him to carry you away.  To here, wherever here was.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the tent flap opening.  A small woman flashed you a shy smile as she entered the tent, carrying a large bucket full of water.  You studied her briefly; she must be stronger than she looked; the bucket looked extremely heavy/

“You must be ____.” her cheerful voice contrasted sharply with your despair.  “I was told to bring you this.”  She set the bucket on the ground before you, smiling expectantly.  “To wash,” she explained.  When you still didn’t move, she sighed.

“Still in shock, eh?  Poor thing.”  Without asking your permission, she immediately began removing your clothes.  You resisted, but only for a few moments.  You were too exhausted to resist anything anymore.

The water was icy cold.  You winced when the woman dabbed your neck with the wet washcloth.  “I know,” she soothed, dunking the cloth into the water and ringing it out.  “You’ll get used to it.”

You didn’t get used to it, but you endured it.  After what felt like far too long, you were clean and in new clothes.  They were far too big and hung off your frame, but anything was better than what you’d been wearing before.  A large part of you wanted to balk at the idea of wearing anything that Uvogin- for it surely it had been him who had sent the clothes- had given you, but unless you wanted to keep wearing clothes stained with the blood of your family and friends, you had no choice. 

You were so deep in thought that you didn’t notice the friendly woman slipping away.  By the time you realized, she was gone, leaving you alone again without so much as a name.  You looked around the tent and saw that there was nothing you could amuse yourself with, nothing with which to pass the time until Uvogin inevitably returned.  Resigning yourself to your fate, you crawled into the giant bed and fell asleep.

You were awoken by heavy footsteps, and you opened your eyes to see Uvogin towering over you. He was filthy; his wild hair stuck out in all directions, and his face was smeared with ash and blood.  Fresh blood.  You shuddered at the sight.

Seeing the obvious fear on your face, Uvogin let out a bark of laughter.  “What is it, ____?  Aren’t you happy to see me?”

You trembled before him; your hair stood on end, shivers ran down your spine… had it been full, you would have emptied your bladder.  The man in front of you was just so big, so imposing, so… 

Terrifying.

“Please don’t hurt me.”  Your voice was small, weak, barely above a whisper.

More boisterous laughter.  “I’m not going to hurt you, ___.”  He bared his teeth in a feral grin.  “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be dead already.”  With another bark of laughter, he headed over to the bucket of water in the corner of the tent and splashed some onto his face and arms.  It did little in the way of removing the more caked-on grime, but most of the blood washed away.

Uvogin returned to the bed, leering down at you.  When you curled into a ball and scrambled to get away from him, he merely grabbed your leg and tugged you towards him.

You froze, powerless to break his monstrous grip.  Pain shot through your leg; he was holding you too tightly.  For a moment you thought he was going to crush your tibia, but Uvogin let go. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” His lip curled in a snarl.  “Be careful.  You’re starting to try my patience.”

“What.. what are you going to do to me?”  The feral look in his eyes made you wish you hadn’t asked; you knew what he wanted.

A large hand ran down your thigh.  “What a little thing you are,” he murmured, his hoarse voice growing softer.  “So small, so soft… so easy to break.”  The bed dipped as he joined you on it. 

You shivered at his touch.  His enormous hands were warm and rough, and yet, there was something oddly soothing about the way he was stroking you.  You again remembered the night at the tavern when he’d taken you so completely; it had felt so good, so wonderful then.  And now…

“Uvogin,” you mumbled softly, “please don’t…” Please don’t what?  You were in no position to be making demands.  “Please don’t break me.”

“Break you?”  Uvogin sat back on his heels and grinned down at you.  “I have no intention of breaking you, ____.  Although, you are mine to break.” Before you could say anything more, he bore down on you, covering your mouth with his own in an all-consuming kiss.

You squeaked in surprise, as if you didn’t know exactly how the night was going to end.  The kiss seemed to ignite something within Uvogin; he drew back, and within seconds he tore your clothes from your body.  “I’ll have more brought to you,” he promised as he kissed you again, softer this time.

Despite everything, you found yourself relaxing into the kiss.  Something about having him on top of you was strangely comforting.  As comforting as a giant, murderous man could be, that is.  Memories of the previous night, of just how good Uvogin had felt inside you, came flooding back, manifesting as a little twinge between your legs.

With a soft growl, Uvogin turned his attention to your neck, nibbling and sucking on the delicate skin.  For a man of his stature, he was being surprisingly gentle, a fact you appreciated.

“____,” he moaned, stroking your thigh again, “____…” Drawing back, he lied down on the bed, seizing your hips and pulling you on top of him in a quick motion.  He smiled wolfishly up at you.  “Look at what you do to me.”  He thrust his pelvis upwards as his thumbs rubbed warm circles onto your thighs.

You glanced down and immediately noticed his massive erection straining against his pants.  You gulped.  How had you taken that last night?  With shaking hands, you carefully undid his pants, allowing his erection to spring free.  You could feel his gaze, and slowly raised your eyes to meet his.  You wondered if he could see the terror in yours.

“What, don’t you want it?” He thrust his hips again.  “I thought you would, after last night.”

Had you been less wise and more brash, you would have retorted that murdering an entire village is something of a turn-off, but you kept your mouth shut.  It was for the best.

Uvogin looked at you expectantly, clearly wanting you to do something about his achingly-hard cock.  Slowly, tentatively, you wrapped your hand around its base, and lowered yourself down so you could lick along the shaft.  Uvogin’s breath hitched when you swirled your tongue over the head.  “That’s good, love, so good.”

You froze.  Love? How dare he use that word, after what he’d done?  You continued as if he hadn’t said anything, and took his cock into your mouth.  Uvogin groaned as you sucked and began to pump his shaft, his hips bucking slightly.  It was clear that he was doing his best to hold back.

“That’s enough, love,” he rasped, tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling you off of him.

Love.  There was that word again.  You looked into his eyes and saw nothing like love in them.

Thick fingers pressed against your lips; you obediently opened your mouth.  You gagged at the intrusion, and Uvogin merely laughed at your discomfort.  “You’d better get them nice and wet,” he threatened, “or else you’ll regret it.”  Satisfied with how much you’d licked his fingers, he pulled them from your mouth with a slick pop and reached between your legs.

You winced at the prospect of him slipping into your core, but you parted your legs and repositioned yourself to allow him access all the same.  Better to go along with it, you told yourself.  Better to pretend to like it, to want it.  You felt no tenderness towards this man, but you would force yourself if you had to.  You wanted to live. 

Uvogin’s fingers entered you, and you cried out in pain.

“Too much?” he asked, withdrawing a bit.  When you nodded, he sighed and pulled his fingers out, only to slip one inside you again.

You bit your lip; it wasn’t painful anymore, but it was certainly uncomfortable.  Again, you asked yourself how you’d taken him the night before.  After pumping into you a few more times, Uvogin added another finger.  You groaned at the stretch.

“Do you think you’re ready for me?” Uvogin asked.  He’d begun stroking his cock in time with each pump of his fingers.

You nodded shakily.  Better to get it over with.

With a groan, Uvogin drew his fingers out of you and, grabbing your hips, positioned you above his cock.  Slowly, with far more caution than you’d come to expect, he lowered you down onto him.  You hissed as you stretched to accommodate him.

“That’s it,” Uvogin gritted out as he eased you onto his cock, “just like that.”

You whimpered when you took him in as far as you possibly could, and bit your lower lip hard enough to bleed.  Uvogin felt impossibly big inside you; he was in so very, very deep.

With a grunt, Uvogin lifted you up, only to slam you down onto him again.  You cried out at the suddenness of it.  When he did it again, you cursed.  “Shit, Uvogin!”

He grinned up at you.  “Say my name again, ____.”  As he spoke, he began to bounce you up and down on his cock at a much faster pace than before.

You obliged, and cried out his name once more.  Despite it all, despite your fear and hatred of the man below you, wicked little flashes of pleasure were beginning to flit through your core.  You closed your eyes and cast your mind back to the night before, when Uvogin had been so funny, so charming, so caring.  You remembered the ways he had touched you, and the way he’d taken such care not to hurt you when he’d fucked you.  So engrossed were you in the fog of your memories that you didn’t catch a moan of your name.  At least, not at first.

Uvogin was groaning out your name repeatedly as he fucked into you, his hips snapping up to meet you as he slammed you down onto his cock.  You opened your eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, then; his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his hair fanned out on the pillows.  You felt a little tug in your chest; under different circumstances, perhaps, you could have felt some affection towards him.

Another groan from the man below you signaled that he was close; he slammed you down onto  him a few more times before finding his release.  With a deep grunt he came, filling you up with his cum.

His hands fell to his sides as he panted, leaving you to gingerly lift yourself off of his now-softening cock.  You made to get off of the bed, but a large arm wrapped around you and pulled you down to Uvogin’s chest.  You lied there for a moment, feeling suddenly sleepy, finding confusing enjoyment in the warmth of Uvogin’s skin and the rise and fall of his chest.  You were about to fall asleep when Uvogin spoke.

“____, you didn’t cum for me that time, did you?”

“Hm?”

“Be honest.  You didn’t.”

Too afraid to lie, you answered that you hadn’t.  “But it’s okay!” you quickly added.  “I don’t mind, really.”

“We’ll have to fix that next time.”

Next time?

“Oh no, that’s fine, you don’t have to--”

“You’re mine and I can do as I please with you,” Uvogin growled, holding you closer.  “Never forget that you’re mine now, ____.”  He turned to you to press a lazy kiss to your mouth.  “Forever.”

#tw dubcon #tw noncon #uvogin #smuttastic #tw yandere #darkfic #warlord au #seriously I cannot express enough how dubcon this is #tw blood #tw death