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fatfables · 4 months ago

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New short fat fable!

Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat.

A hypnotic manual for gaining weight.

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Gaining is a highly pleasurable and enjoyable sensual experience. It increases body positivity, which in turn can reduce anxiety and depression, as you grow into the person that you always wanted to be. When you become a more positive person with a huge swollen gut you become free to feel the pleasure of consuming as much as you want all of the time!

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A thick fat pad.

An enormous belly. (Available in many different shapes).

Enlarged breasts.

Softer shoulders.

Thick squishy fat-laden arms.

Puffed-out hands and fingers.

Less neck.

Double or even triple chins.

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Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat. works by painting mental images in your mind of a bigger, fatter, happier you. It encourages the release of ghrelin in your stomach. Ghrelin is the chemical that your stomach produces when it is empty. It is this chemical that causes you to feel hunger. Our aim (and your aim) is to encourage the stomach to produce more ghrelin even when it is full, encouraging and allowing you to keep consuming. Our research shows that a person whose stomach creates just one third more ghrelin than average can more than double their daily caloric intake! In a study of more than 100 Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat. customers we discovered that ghrelin production increased by over 62% in over 75% of regular users! No wonder our customers are so very fat and satisfied!

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Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeats’ aim is to take you from three to six to nine round meals a day. It will also help you to increase portion sizes, eat quicker, add extra toppings, and snack more in between feasts. Afterall a day spent eating is a day worth living.

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Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat. works equally well whether you are sleeping, resting, relaxing, being a couch potato, working from home, sunbathing, or of course eating! In fact we encourage you to always listen to the plan everytime you eat in order to get the best results. Your waistline will only thank you as you add inches and inches of sexy fat layers to your ever expanding gut!

We know that you already have the need to greed so why are you still reading this? Go grab as much food as possible, plug in, and indulge in the best, most gratifying, and most fattening time of your life. Do it now! You want to be a human balloon don’t you?

Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat.

Nothing else matters.

Legal notes:

Eat. Eat. Eat. Repeat. works best in combination with an unhealthy diet. Swallowing as many processed, high calorie, high sugar, highly saturated foods consumed as possible in the shortest amount of time is highly recommended. Increasing your daily caloric intake before starting the treatment increases outcomes. If you have any questions about following such an unhealthy diet please don’t hesitate to fail to contact your doctor or to not speak with a medical professional. You can always call our contact centre on 0800 EAT EAT EAT REPEAT. The first 500 people to call will receive a free food hamper stuffed with chocolate, chips, and candy, worth $180.

Potential side effects of gaining vast amounts of weight are an increased risk of heart disease, kidney failure, liver damage, diabetes, multiple cancers, depression, anxiety, loneliness, debilitation, loss of independence, loss of mobility, disability, and premature death.

www.fatfables.com

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hell-drabbles · 1 year ago

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Satan 1

Summary: Despite being in a contract with him, you have less than positive feelings towards Satan. As such, Ppyong was really a breath of fresh air to you. You couldn't help but slam your elbow into the red lump demon when he offered to be your stress toy. It's fun, spoiling Ppyong while angering the childish Satan.

They're idiots.

Solomon should've told you something you don't know. Unfortunately, this idiocy spreads over to strange and rather extreme social customs. Sometimes it's interesting to watch, but they made the rather dangerous assumption that somehow you will easily follow along with their line of thinking.

This kind of idiocy was made most apparent to you with your first meeting with Satan, when your shirt was ripped open and you were reeling at the sight of Minhyeok's death and the demon suddenly decided that touching you was the perfect time. Never have you punched a person so hard you busted your knuckles open. And that open reaction of pure unadulterated lust at your hit?

It disgusted you.

Satan saved Minhyeok, you won't deny him that, but by no means is he suddenly your friend or anyone that you remotely liked. That goes to Minhyeok and, recently, Ppyong.

A seemingly harmless little red lump demon with a bazooka almost too big for body. He's an idiot like the rest of the demons you've met, but he had enough sense in that brain of his to not suddenly touch you when you don't want to. He gives you space, which the rest of the demons seem to forget you value highly.

You get it, it's a high sex society with absolutely no reasons for them to hold back in any manner, and despite your status as a child of Solomon, your human origins makes them all infuriatingly arrogant towards you. Like they think they know your kinks inside and out, and move forward with that horrifically wrong knowledge. Nobody gets to just touch you. They have to earn that right.

Don't be too hard on them. They'll see things your way eventually.

Will they now, Solomon?

... Well, if nothing else, at least they'll keep you entertained.

You thought Satan was going just be the outlier in his kingdom, but no. He's essentially everything irritating condensed in this small body of his.

Its why when Satan sat next to you at the bar, arm ready to sling over your shoulders that you clicked your tongue and choose to stand up.

"Ah, that's weird," and as always, there is not an intelligent thought behind those weird eyes of his as he took a sniff of his sleeve, "I'm pretty sure I scrubbed myself from head to toe. Are you sure you're not shy?"

And you didn't say shit. You didn't want to speak because you knew your anger would spill into your words. Already just by grinding your jaw, there's a rush of blood flowing into his cheeks. He wants to make you angry and you really don't want to engage with him.

"Aye! It seems the Child of Solomon is building up so much anger," Ppyong flew over and plopped his butt on the seat you were just in, clearly enjoying the warmth left behind, little rascal, "But, I heard humans can get sick if they bottle all that up. Why not use this body of mine as a punching back?"

If it weren't for the expression of open bliss on Ppyong's face, you probably would've said no. You knew what he clearly wanted and, quite frankly, you really wanted to hit something that wouldn't possibly crack your bones. And you liked Ppyong so you may as well spoil him a little.

"You sure?" You asked with a tilt to your head. You heard an audible crack of teeth being ground and you almost let a smile peek through.

"Aye! I can take anything!" He puffed up his belly, proud of his shape.

You slammed your elbow right down where his ribs should be. The seat creaked and the floor board below it even cracked. Ppyong spat and gagged but the tears spilling from his beady eyes told you of the paradise you just helped him reach. You couldn't help but laugh.

"You enjoyed that a lot, huh little buddy?"

"A little too much if you asked me." And Satan, without much prompt from anyone, grabbed Ppyong by the tail before whipping right to the farthest wall. "Well? Aren't you gonna do me next?"

You left him hanging by going right back to Ppyong. He shuddered up.

"Thank you for releasing your anger on me," he said.

"You're welcome." And thank you for keeping me sane in this place, you funky red lump.

#whb #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad #hell-drabbles #hell-drabbles exclusive #drabble #gehenna #satan #reader insert

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cellu-lightreading · 1 month ago

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Day 12- Candy Crush

This fall, I am on a campaign to fix a major injustice- Halloween not being a major gainer holiday. Just one month before Thanksgiving, America has a whole dedicated to candy. It’s the only acceptable reason for someone to crash from a sugar rush after hours of candy. Not to mention, offices will put out candy dishes weeks in advance and every store will sell their largest bags for half price the week after. Halloween is the day fat kids dream about all year, and it’s time this community start acting like it. That’s why I started working on this project 10 months ago.

I present to you Transformers Candies. (I know, not the most original name.) They're personally crafted by men and made in my backyard factory. Each flavor was concocted by me to have their own effect on the customer’s body. The flavor names are all puns so you know exactly

Rather than test them myself, I brough them to gainer night at the local bear club. I don't have much in the way of friends, but these greedy guys were not going to turn down free candy. It was harder to get them to eat the first one by itself. They popped them in their mouth and immediately the taste was a success. “These are so good!” “It tastes amazing.”

Now time for the moment of truth. I waited patiently to see whose would kick in first, if at all. I asked them what flavor they had. The first guy flipped the wax paper and read it aloud:

“Bear’s Honey” A mild flavor drawn by the smallest of the bunch. His lithe body puffed up bit by bit from its his skeletal frame. A bit of pudge appeared on his waistline and fat seemed to trickle in, filling him out from the bottom. Thick thighs appeared to give his new stockier frame a wider base. His middle ballooned into a round firm gut with love handles. Pillowy pecs came next, first as muscle and then as flabby moobs. His arms begin to bloat from his fingers to biceps, first growing muscle then being buried in fat until the strength is only suggested. The last step was his face- chubby cheeks and a jawline converted into a double chin with a beard that stepped up his masculine look. The transformation was gradual; until it was too much to ignore. “Holy shit, these really work!”

The rest of them flipped their wax paper and the chemicals started to do their part. “Bubble Butt Bubblegum” As a six-foot-tall super chub, people have never called him small. Despite being the owner of a belly the size of couch cushion, beyond his waistline, he was flat as a board. At least he was. When the group looked at his backside, his pants weren’t baggy. Two massive shapely globes had become a fixture just below his waistline. They were so big the seam along the back of his pants were fraying trying to hold on.

“Double Chunky Chocolate” A shiver practically ran down my spine hearing that one; things were about to get interesting. The guy reading it was the biggest of his friends. He looked like he hadn’t trusted a public chair in years. He had a giant soft gut that went most of the way to his knees, thighs wider than most people’s waists, and no neck to be found under his chubby jowls. Doubling that produced a spectacular show. Expansion at that size meant popping off the buttons to make more room and the shirt still ripping at the seams. Expansion at that size means hearing his breathing get harder with the extra stress on his lungs. Expansion at that size meant hearing the screech when the bariatric stool he travels found out that there were limits to its impressive stress.

Another group of guys walked up to us. “Hey, we’ve been watching you guys blow up, and we want in. Do you have any more of that candy?”

“Sure, there’s a bunch of other flavors like Thick Thighs Lemon-Lime, Root Beer Beer Gut, Caramel Cellulite, Plain Vanilla Dadbod-”

“Wait a second, how come you didn’t change?” One of the new guys pointed at the only one of the original group with no signs of a change.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, maybe they don’t work on me. I did get snacky and start munching on a handful of candies. Maybe it was the flavor. He flipped over the first candy wrapper and read it out loud, “Gluttonous Grape. Oh. Oh no. I’ve had like 7 other candies…”

#weight gain tf #bearification #gay gainer #gainer story #wg story #glorifying obesity #encourager #bhm #bhm weight gain #fat bhm #gainer fiction #feedist kinktober #male weight gain #feedist kinktober 2024

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tf2-oneshots · 1 year ago

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quick fix, medics doves have a bird bath with those really small rubber ducks that are like 1 inch tall. it’s a variety of different little ducks from germany tho, like souvenirs.

scout and medic watch the doves splash in the water occasionally while medic tells scout about how he got each duck.

That’s adorable 🥺

Warnings: none!

Rating: General

A bucket of warm water is poured into a custom birdbath made of stone. Said water is the filtered kind from the fridge. Tap is too harsh on the feathers, as Medic would say. Several rubber duckies, half the size of Scout’s thumb, are placed into the water. Each one unique with either a cute design or an outfit. Scout then removes his bandages, tucking the rolled fabric into his pockets.

“Here come the birdies! Archimedes, no slapping.” Medic warns his eldest bird as a small flock arrive to the bath. Thankfully, the dove keeps his wings to himself as they dip their feet into the water. Scout chuckles, carefully making a pool of water with his hands and going under Socrates’ wings. Lord knows he needs an extra hand in that spot.

Medic joins in, carefully working the dried blood out of their white feathers. The doves not being cradled take a moment to play with the ducks. Tiny beaks push and toss the rubber playmates while feathers ruffle in the water. Scout laughs, watching a tiger patterned duck be thrown out of the bath entirely.

“Cleopatra! We do not throw our toys.” A chide from her father that she doesn’t like. Cleo ruffles, turning away from the man when he puts it back into the bath.

“Where’d you even get that?” Scout picks up the tiger duck to admire it. Black stripes contrast the orange body and white stomach. For a tiny toy, it was definitely detailed. Now, Scout takes the time to look over all of the ducks. A puppy, a witch, and a doctor float alongside the doves. Scout looks to his boyfriend and asks how he came to have such an arrangement.

“I’m glad you asked! I got Dr. Quack when I graduated medical school. It was my nickname actually, teehee!” Medic giggles at the fond memory of his college days. They were so long ago, yet he clearly recalls the strange looks his colleagues gave when he squealed at the reproductive section of the lecture. Always a go-to subject for him.

“The witch was when I got chased out of my hometown for trying to reanimate my favorite singer. Its tradition to leave one at the doorstep as warning.” The poor thing just kept screaming until he whacked it over the head with a piece of wood. In hindsight, she was known for her vocal range. Medic just thought she would be happy to have come back! Instead, he got terrified screeches that alerted the Bürgermeister, who proceeded to arrange a pitchfork wielding mob.

“The puppy I’ve had since I was boy. I won him in a raffle at a dog show.” Money well spent in his opinion. Little Ludwig proudly marched to claim his prize, winning ticket in hand. The duck came with paw shaped chocolate as well, which he promptly ate as they announced the best in show. Such a fun day with his parents.

“Awesome stories, babe.” Scout places his hands on Medic’s shoulders so they can kiss. Just as their lips are about to meet, a loud splash and coo sounds. Lo and behold, Archimedes was wing slapping his siblings! He deeply coos, feathers puffed with his wing landing on an angry Cleopatra.

“Archimedes! Time out!” Medic takes his naughty birdie out of the bath while Scout comforts Cleo. She curls up in his hands, fighting to recover from her brother’s violence. In reality, she’s completely fine. Her feathers are straight and wings unscathed. Ever the dramatic dove.

When Medic returns, he resumes their interrupted kiss. The rest of the doves are left to air dry along the rafters while Archimedes sits in the time out cage. He puffs himself, cooing with anger every time Medic walks by.

I love mediscout sm -H

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 requests #tf2 medic #tf2 scout #mediscout #quick fix #archimedes #tf2 archimedes

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haste-waste · 5 months ago

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Zelink Week 2024: The Baker and the Seamstress (Series)

Happy Zelink Week 2024! This year I'm doing a multi-chapter, fairy tale AU fic that meets all of the prompts. You can read it at AO3 or below the cut. Here's chapter one: Under the Stars. Enjoy! @zelinkcommunity

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Chapter 1: Under the Stars

Free from her chains, free from that awful cell, she ran into the wild of the night. Under the stars, she did not stop, even as the sounds of barking dogs and soldiers followed on her heels.

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Once upon a time, in a small farming village called Hateno, there lived a baker. The baker was known in the community for the quality of his goods. He was a quiet young man who had lost much in his life, and took to baking upon his master's death. While well regarded, people in the village distanced themselves because of the burns, cuts, and scars he bore from his profession. He lived his life comfortably, but felt distanced and lonely all the same.

"Do you think he will ever marry, now that he's old enough?" He overheard two women one winter morning while he stocked his shelves with bread.

"Heh! I pity his future bride with a face like that. At least he is good at his craft." The two women continued to gossip as they left.

His scars were unwanted. He received them as a child on a cold evening that haunted him.

His mother panted in exhaustion, her sword shaking in her grasp as his father leaned heavily into her side. She single-handedly cut through an entire army to protect them, but his father was hurt by something acrid, unexpected, and cursed, a foul form of magic.

They ran into the woods. They were always running, running from something nameless but overwhelmingly powerful, and only had the stars and each other as a guide.

The baker always made hard breads on the days he remembered, careless enough to overwork the dough while lost in his thoughts. As long as the village was safe and fed, he was satisfied. What his customers spoke never mattered to him. It was just idle words. Some days, he had to convince himself of that.

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One day, the village was a flitter with gossip. A ghost had appeared near the outskirts of town; a shocking apparition, covered in scars, and no one had any idea why it appeared. Were they cursed? Haunted? Summoned by the winter winds? Would their town be smited and decay? The baker, being wiser than many realized, did not gossip. A person's scars were their own business, and he minded his own. He had work to do and a village to feed, conjecture or otherwise.

He had forgotten the chatter, and went to gather his grain needed for a day's work under the stars that preceded the frigid dawn. Upon opening the door to his small, cobblestone grain store behind his bakery, he found something shifting within the stacks of grain.

Uneasy, he gripped his lantern in his hand and approached. Was it a mound of rats? A more fearsome pest? The lantern light stretched the shadows into eerie shapes. And there, he spotted something: within the farthest corner, shrunk into the brick walls, was a flash of gold and dirty fabric curled into a shivering ball.

Chilled haze puffed around the figure. Tiptoeing closer, he shined the light on the form, and he sucked in a breath. It was a person, a young woman, fitfully asleep on top of a haphazard bed of grain sacks.

"Good maiden," the baker said in shock, "Why do you sleep amidst my sacks of grain?"

The maiden shot upward at the noise, apprehended, and scrambled to escape like a frightened barn cat. But the only way out was through him. He held up his hands in surrender at her panicked movements.

The maiden stopped in her tracks, her distraught turned into confusion, and then…she stood upright, blushed, and curtsied stiffly, much to his surprise. "I beg your sincerest pardon, young master. I have nowhere else to lay my head."

She had exhausted, hollow, and downcast eyes as she spoke. "I have yet to earn a home with my keep. I have nothing to mend, but even a seamstress needs a place to rest," she explained politely. The baker noticed her scars lining her arms, collar, and jawline; the pinpricks dotting her fingers gave evidence to her profession. "The good people here in this village seem…afraid. I chose to rest here away from them for a single evening to prevent their distress. Was that wrong of me?"

The baker had no idea how to respond. As the silence stretched thin, so did the seamstress's composure. She began to shake, biting her lip, and gripped the sleeves of her dirty but well-constructed dress. "Forgive me for my imposition. But pray, master, do not imprison me. I had no intention to steal your goods." She turned out her pockets. They were empty beside a pincushion, a spool of thread, and a thimble. "I will go, and no one will ever know of this occurrence." She went onto her knees and looked up at him dolefully.

The baker, still somewhat drowsy and unaccustomed to formality, investigated her thoroughly. Her long tresses fell to her waist, tangled with mats near the ends. She was worrisomely thin, her collar bone prominent above her neckline. Her hands were fragile, bony, and bore deep purple and green splotches around her wrists. How did that even occur in such a shape, especially on top of obvious burn marks? Some of the marks visible to him were red and fresh.

He remembered the pain of fresh scars, of hunger, and desperation. He moved toward her, she flinched—it pained him to witness—and he knelt next to her slowly, echoing an act of compassion afforded to him a decade prior, like his master before him. "You must be hungry from your travels," he said amiably, internally surprised at the smoothness of his words. "Come with me."

He knew her position intimately. He slowly left the shed. He held open the back door to the bakery expectantly. After staring at him, she hesitantly followed him down the short path through the snow to the bakery.

Tentatively, she walked in, but kept close to the back door. He sat her down on a worn wooden stool nearest to the door. She sat at the edge of the seat and made a visible effort not to disturb her surroundings, jolting and shrinking at any new source of sound and movement, akin to a skittish cat; beaten and wary…but still, a beauty. What had happened to her? And what of her scars? They looked so similar to his, all jagged and raised.

The baker offered her a loaf of bread. "It's a day old, but plenty good still," he noted warmly, taking care to keep his movements slow and predictable.

She didn't accept it at first. The disbelief and wariness on her face at seeing his bread broke his heart. What had caused her to see basic kindness as unnerving? At least she lacked suspicion, something the villagers were happy to provide.

He turned and walked to his ingredients stores. "Butter?" he offered, talking over his shoulder as he carved some butter out of a crock and placed it within a beeswax wrapper.

"...Butter?" she repeated faintly. He returned with a wooden knife, the butter, and a small plate.

"Here." Her eyes widened as though he offered her a platter of golden rupees.

Again, heartbreaking hesitance appeared on her face. "But I—" Whatever she'd try to say, he wouldn't hear it. He gave her a stern look, placed it on her lap, and returned to his worktable, leaning back against it to watch her.

She avoided his eyes. "I cannot repay you."

"Frankly? You need it more than I," he noted, and she flushed. The relief at seeing some color appearing in her cheeks was not lost on him: such intense emotions toward a stranger!

"...Thank you," she said sincerely. She rounded her shoulders as she sat, but made eye contact this time. "You are very kind."

The baker found it refreshing to have anyone talk to him besides polite greetings. The novelty of a civil conversation where he was helpful to someone brought a fleeting sense of boldness: "All I ask is to know your story."

She stiffened, and her hands dented the crust of the bread. "It's not one worth telling."

"Perhaps," he supposed. "But I would like to hear it." He turned his back to grab a dishtowel, and when he went to speak, she was gone. He glanced around the kitchen. Empty. At a loss, the baker went to work. Maybe she was a ghost or a figment of his imagination. As time passed, he wondered if she had visited him at all.

Once he closed the shop for the day, he turned to the back door and saw the seamstress standing near the window, scaring the daylights out of him. He walked over and opened the door to let her in.

She bowed within the doorway and took a few steps into the bakery. "Thank you, young master, for feeding me. I wish to mend your garments as payment for your generosity." As exhausted and frail as she was, she stood with some amount of confidence in her proposal. Even in her fear, there was drive within her, hidden somewhere he couldn't detect with certainty. He wondered how to see more of that elusive emotion from her. Something about her made the baker curious for the first time in years.

The baker smiled and shook his head. "If that's the price to hear your story, then absolutely."

She froze, and didn't reply, looking lost and wary.

"Do you accept?" he asked, again, far too bold for his liking.

She walked toward the door briskly.

Panicked at her flight, the baker attempted to persuade her. Where was she going on such a cold night with no place to lay her head? "Not right away! Or at all! I just…" he fumbled, and sighed dejectedly. His eloquence fizzled out like water poured on hot coals.

Her hand that reached for the door handle paused and lowered.

"You have scars like I do," he said mutedly. "It's…" He ran a hand through his hair in discomfort. "There's someone else out there who does. I wondered—" The seamstress stared at him, and his train of thought faltered. "—No matter. Please travel safely."

Seeing his hurt, she lingered in the doorway. He felt her gaze on his face, his scarred, exposed arms, and then the floor. She sighed, set back her shoulders, and her hand returned to the doorknob. "I will be here at dawn," she declared, and disappeared into the dusk.

#fanfic #zelda #zelink #fairy tale AU #zelink week 2024

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sailtomarina · 1 year ago

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The Well-Traveled Sage

Hermione x Draco | @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 19: “Oh. Hey. What are you doing here?” | WC 2523 | Rating: M

Hermione pivoted in a slow spiral, beaming at her holiday decorations and patting herself on the back. They’d been up for a couple of weeks now, but she’d gone for a little more effort the day before Christmas for last-minute shoppers that were bound to come scrambling in the door as they usually did.

It wasn’t much, but it was hers: a new and used bookshop she’d dubbed The Well-Traveled Sage. While Hermione did adore new books, there wasn’t quite anything like cracking open an aged tome and inhaling its memories and experiences.

She’d even snagged a delightful older witch by the name of Marina Birchen to spot the kiosk Hermione had built into the front corner of the store overlooking Diagon Alley. Offering coffee, tea, and simple sandwiches, Sage enticed readers and peckish passers-by alike.

Her Christmas decorations had done the same; the numbers from the past month were a testament to that. She’d charmed her wrought-iron sign with multi-coloured lights that caught the eye all the way from the Leaky’s brick entrance. As they drew closer, people were treated to more lights bordering a window display that not only featured those within reading their books and drinking their tea, but added a filter that cast them in a different festive setting each day. Today, it would be one of her childhood favorites, the Isle of Misfit Toys. Those looking in would see patrons dressed up like nutcrackers, plush toys, and elves. Yesterday, it had been an Ice Kingdom with frozen flooring and furniture, each patron seemingly adorned in layers of frost, their hair and eyelashes sparkling white.

Subtle festive instrumentals played in the background upon entering. While Hermione loved carols, it would not do for overly loud music to distract customers from what mattered most. She wanted them to browse uninterrupted, to come up to her with questions that she could easily discuss without having to project her voice over another one of Celestina Warbeck’s hits.

Her extra touch today would be Patronus-like apparitions shaped like her otter playfully rolling and jumping over one another just outside her storefront before tucking tail and running for the door, only to vanish and repeat their performance. So focused was she on admiring her charmwork that she didn’t notice she now had an audience.

“Fancy.”

“Oh!” Hermione spun so quickly at the familiar voice that she found herself slipping on the patch of ice she hadn’t yet gotten to removing.

She braced herself for impact, eyes squeezing shut.

Warm arms wrapped around her and hoisted her back onto her feet. She opened her eyes to stare straight up into the bemused face of Draco Malfoy.

He didn’t let go of her straight away, as she would have expected. They stood there puffing out clouds and noses pink in the chill morning air. Without even thinking, her fingers curled where the rested against his chest in search for heat in the thick wool.

“You alright there, Granger?” he asked, his voice low and lilting in amusement.

It was one thing for her childhood nemesis to save her from falling flat on her arse, but quite another for him to hold onto her and check on her wellbeing. She was tempted to scoff and shove him away for the sheer cheek of hugging her so closely.

Except he smelled really, really good.

She couldn’t stop her eyes from fluttering shut once more and taking a deep inhale.

Pine needles. Cedarwood. Some kind of combination of vanilla and cinnamon.

“How dare you smell so good, Malfoy.” She said it without opening her eyes, still luxuriating in the olfactory embrace.

It was his huff that coaxed them open. One white blond eyebrow arched along with the slanted smile on his lips. “I apologize for offending you so.”

Still the absence of any sort of malice or distaste. If anything, he looked amused.

How odd.

“Right then.” She finally stepped back and he slowly let go, almost as if he were worried she would slip yet again. “Thank you for catching me.”

He eyeballed the ground at their feet. “We should probably get rid of this, don’t you think?”

Without even being asked to, he pulled out his wand and began swirling it around in the familiar strokes of vanishing the instrument of her near-demise. She joined in and, together, they cleared the entire section of cobblestone mere minutes.

“Don’t worry about the rest; cleaners will come by and take care of it before most of the shoppers arrive. I just like to get a head start,” Hermione instructed. She turned to look at him now that their work was complete.

The wizard just had to go and look just as fine as he smelled.

The wool cloak to which she’d clung barely even scratched the surface of his devastating masculinity. Draco Malfoy had grown up.

Gone was the youth of her more recent memories. While he’d never suffered the half-starved look she and the boys had gotten over the year on the run, she distinctly remembered Malfoy’s slender frame and how he looked like he could have been blown over by a gust of wind. He’d looked even worse when she testified for him before the Wizengamot, chained as he was to the chair in the center of the room. She’d been pleasantly surprised at the thank you letter she’d received from him not a month later when he’d been released to one year of house arrest followed by three in service to the Ministry.

Now he towered above her with broad shoulders and a distinctly solid look to him.

“My, you are tall.”

The sound that spilled from his lips was so thoroughly unexpected that it took a moment for Hermione to realize that he was chuckling. It wasn’t that she hadn’t ever heard him laugh in all their years as students, but the delightful sound had certainly never been directed at her in such a warm tone that made her feel a part of the experience rather than its victim.

“It helps that I don’t have a reason to slouch anymore. Also, you are short.”

She must have made some expression of indignation because that chuckle was back in more force and if they hadn’t just cleared all the ice she might have been concerned he’d lose his balance.

“I’ll have you know that I am of average height for the average British woman. You are far above the average for the average British man. What are you even doing here this early in the morning, anyway?”

He raised a brow, whether that was at her vehement defense of her (average) height, or due to her swift transition, she couldn’t say. Perhaps, it was both.

“Well,” he said in a measured pace, “I suppose I’m here aiming to do exactly what a business owner like yourself would hope for on Christmas Eve.”

Before he could continue, she grinned. “Who’d you forget to get a gift for, Malfoy?”

This time, it was his turn to look chagrined. It brought her a strange modicum of comfort in its familiarity to that tone he’d get as a kid when someone didn’t acknowledge his family name. He was still Malfoy, no matter how attractive she now found him.

“I did not forget so much as I was forcefully put into a position of obligatory exchange.”

He almost growled at the explanation, teeth snapping shut and withholding the name of his ire.

“Well, in that case, follow me. You look like you could use a cuppa.”

She spun on her heel, smugly noting that this time there was no chance of her falling, and walked through her door without looking back.

He followed her, of course.

Once he’d been served a cup of Earl Grey, he stared at her rather than sip from the perfectly-brewed beverage. “Hm. Theo was right.”

“What about Theo?” She looked back at him curiously.

Unlike with Malfoy, Hermione had remained in touch with Theo Nott, or, more accurately, she had finally gotten to know him. Because, unlike when they were students and had ignored one another for still unknown reasons, they finally had occasion to speak. Gone were the House divides and meddling peers. There was simply her shop, the books, and a shared passion for literature.

Theo, it turned out, was a man of impeccable and varied tastes.

The first time he’d come around, Hermione had been justifiably suspicious. He’d never given her undue grief, that was for certain, but he certainly had never bothered to stop Malfoy and his cronies from bullying her. On occasion, he’d even joined in on the laughter.

Perhaps the changes in his attitude were signs of her current predicament with Draco Malfoy. Then, like now, she’d been completely thrown off course when the curly-haired swot (because yes, as a swot, herself, she was allowed to call out one of her own) marched up to the check-out desk to demand audience with the “owner of this establishment.”

Once he realized that he was already speaking with her, he tore into Hermione with a ferocity that would have had Madam Pince glowing with pride.

The grievance?

She’d slotted Widdle’s Modern Applications of Ancient Arithmancy next to Wideman’s Ancient Applications of Misunderstood Arithmancy.

Alphabetical organization aside, her error had been in assuming that the two belonged in the same section of Arithmancy—according to Theo, the latter was obviously a Divination text.

Upon further inspection, she’d been forced to agree with him.

Thus began a mutually beneficial friendship based on a shared fascination in far more fields of interest than Hermione would have ever expected from the former Slytherin. She’d always known Theo was intelligent, but he must’ve gone to some lengths to hide the full extent of their commonalities for unknown reasons.

Might Malfoy intrigue her in a different way?

“He told me I’d find what I needed here. With you.”

He stared unblinking at her, grey eyes bright in curiosity. Hermione willed herself not to look away.

What did that even mean, that he’d find whatever he needed from her? What was Theo up to?

Drawing herself up as tall as her stature would allow, Hermione endeavored to discover just that.

“What is it that you’re looking for?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Surely you have some idea already? This is a bookstore, with books.” Circe, did she sound as annoying as she felt? Damn, Theo, and his mysterious intentions.

“Well, I already have a lot of books, an entire library of them, in fact.”

Ah, yes, she knew of the Malfoy Library. It was legendary among booksellers and readers alike. Untold numbers of priceless volumes supposedly filled its shelves and most would give an organ, or perhaps their first-born child, to spend even fifteen minutes in the esteemed collection.

“But you’re not shopping for yourself, are you? Isn’t this a last-minute gift? What if they want books?”

He nodded slowly, still staring down at her, his expression unreadable. “That’s true,” he mused, “though I would think they’d be more delighted in a first edition.”

Now she was annoyed.

“Alright, Malfoy, spill. Who is it? Maybe if I know them I can help pinpoint where we can start looking.”

He hesitated for a moment, which only served to burn her curiosity even brighter.

“It’s for Millicent Bulstrode.”

Hermione’s first instinct was disappointment. His gifttee was a witch. Then, she was forced to confront that feeling. Why was she disappointed? Surely she hadn’t hoped his reasoning some ploy to capture her attentions…had she?

Her second instinct was a direct result of the witch’s name. Millicent. Bulstrode. Another former bully, but, thanks to Theo, another connection that was quickly becoming frightening in its fast familiarity. The signs had been there all along with Hermione’s unfortunate introduction sans Millicent’s knowledge to their love for cats. Not only did they hold fast to their feline companions, but they were coincidentally both active writers in the Gilderoy Lockhart Fanfic Forums.

Oh, how they’d squealed in filthy glee once they learned each others’ handles and gushed on about how much they loved the others’ works. Sure, the genuine article of man was a hankerchief stain on humanity and currently waxing poetic to anyone who would listen to him in St. Mungo’s. But! His works, lies, yes, thoroughly exaggerated, yes, but ripe with opportunity for elaboration and extrapolation and whatever other ‘e’ word (dare she say it?) they could concoct together.

“I’m afraid to ask now.”

Malfoy looked at her warily, almost leaning backwards from the look on her face. She didn’t have a mirror anywhere nearby, but she suspected she looked some combination of gleeful and debauched.

“Mills, huh? I know just what she’ll like.”

They had, in fact, talked about inspirational material earlier that week.

The sound that emerged from Malfoy’s throat when she turned down the Poetry aisle and stopped in front of one specific shelf defied description.

Sod it.

It came somewhat close to the pathetic noise he’d made when he’d been righteously scratched by Buckbeak all those years ago. She peeked furtively through the corner of her eye, but didn’t see any blood. So, emotional distress, it was.

“I, uh, still don’t see why Theo sent me here. We do have poetry in our library…” his voice trailed off as he brought his face close to one particular shelf, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “This cover shouldn’t be displayed openly.”

He gestured towards a copy of Kim Adinnizio’s “What Is This Thing Called Love?” Hermione thought the teal sepia photo cover tasteful.

“What? Do you have something against women in knickers?” Face hidden, the woman lingered in a bedroom next to a reclining man, the implications clear. It really was modest considering the contents.

“No, but,” his face bloomed as he continued to look on, “I don’t think I can look Millie in the face and give this to her.”

“Oh, now you have to buy this, along with this one, and this one, ooh! This, as well.”

He looked comical holding a tower of books. She didn’t bother telling him she normally made sure patrons had baskets with feather-light charms; she found she liked seeing the way his arms naturally bulged beneath his sleeves.

“Well, if you’re certain…” Malfoy craned his neck to peek at the spines.

“There’s a healthy mixture of poets there that will have Mills crowing with pleasure for the veritable future. Trust me, she’ll love it.”

His attention back on her, she warmed at the way his hooded gaze dropped to her lips, then scanned boldly down her figure before flicking back up to her eyes.

“I take it that if you know her preferences, that you share some of them?”

Oh, Theo. You damnable, lovable darling.

“Witches never tell.”

He cocked his head and stepped closer. “What if I ask very nicely? Perhaps, over a bottle of my finest in the company of an exceedingly rare book collection?”

Well, there went her knickers.

“Let me ring you up. I get off at 6.”

And maybe, just maybe, she’d get off again Christmas morning.

Cross-posted on Tumblr and AO3.

I wrote this on the plane between WA and NY in a fit of inspiration and ended up finishing it up while we waited in Newark Airport waiting for our ride that was stuck in the Holland Tunnel for about 2 hours due to an earlier collision. Who knew I had it in me to write with so many distractions! There was a woman yelling into her phone about her dastardly family staying at the Waldorf and where the hell was her private jet, and then there as an elderly lady who had mistakenly called two different car services and trying to figure out how to cancel the second after the first found her wearing a sign with her name. Chaos!

I’ll be on vacation for the next week so my updates will likely be spotty, but DO enjoy yourself this holiday :) I’ll still try to update whenever I can!

#harry potter fanfiction #dramione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hermione granger #draco malfoy #dhr fanfiction #hp yuletide bliss #christmas hp fest

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vital-spirit · 7 months ago

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OFFSCREEN POST

Schoolmates

The schoolhouse was abuzz with activity. Childrens’ chatter filled the room in a cacophony of noise, eager to get their jitters out before class began. And with the news of a new student joining the fray, the energy was electric with excitement.

Bingo hated it.

She sat towards the front of her class, her senses being assaulted by the sheer amount of noises and smells bouncing throughout the room. The Lillipup rhythmically shifted her front paws back and forth, uncomfortably aware of everything all at once.

Including the two pairs of eyes digging into the back of her head from across the room.

Well. One and a half.

“Ya see da new kid ova’ dere?” one tiny voice squeaked.

“Ah see ‘em all right,” an near identical voice responded. “Saw ‘er walkin’ ‘round town wit’ a bowie strapped to ‘er shoulder.”

“A nice one?”

“Reaaaal nice.”

Two chairs simultaneously scraped against the wooden floor as they were pushed out, sending an immediate wave of pure, utter silence throughout the room. In fact, it was now so quiet that the sound of two pairs of tiny paws pitter-pattering against the floor could be heard from the entire room. The footsteps drew closer and closer towards the front of the class until they stopped right in front of Bingo’s desk.

Two Tandemaus stood before her with an eerie, unblinking gaze. Both mice had a heavy gold earring on one ear and a bite taken out of the other. They had heart-shaped tattoos on opposite shoulders: one with “Ma” and one with “Pa”. Spiked brass knuckles gripped in their hands. The two mice looked near identical.

That is, if you ignored the eyepatch covering the scar that traveled down one of their faces.

The one on the right, with two eyes, pointed a finger at Bingo. “You think yer hot shit?”

The Lillipup tilted her head with a puzzled look, “Pardon?”

“Saw that knife ya had on ya earlier,” the other puffed out his chest. “Custom-made n’ everythin’. Must’a cost a pretty penny, didn’t it?”

“Not really…?” Bingo shrugged. Mister Cornelius had given Mister Lucario a pretty hefty discount for it.

The two Tandemaus looked at one another, then back at Bingo. The rightmost mouse spoke up, “Gotdamn, you shit gold or somethin’?”

“Must be one them fancy-pants kids from the coast,” the leftmost sniffed. “Ain’t no one out west got pockets that deep.”

The two leapt up onto Bingo’s desk, suddenly eye level with her. “Let’s see how deep them pockets run.”

“No.” Bingo deadpanned.

Two small hands suddenly grabbed Bingo by her bandana, yanking her forwards and slamming her chin on the table. The Tandemaus with two eyes placed her hands on the top of Bingo’s snout and leaned forwards, trapping her mouth shut. “Right, I fergot yer new ‘round these parts, huh?” she sneered down at the Lillipup. “Mah name is Terri wit’ an I, and this here’s mah brother, Terrii wit’ two I’s.”

“Yessir,” said Terrii the one-eyed mouse. “Our ma n’ pa are the scariest criminals in Little Town.”

“So you best empty them pockets real quick,” Terri jabbed Bingo on her forehead.

Terrii grabbed at the fur on Bingo’s face, “Unless ya wanna find out what a Lillipup looks like without its face fuzz.”

“I don’t got pockets.” She grumbled.

“Oh, yer a real smartass, huh?” Terri straightened her back and stepped onto Bingo’s snout. “Then maybe I oughta knock some sense into ya!” She winds up her fist as she steps closer to Bingo’s face, looking her in the eye.

But one of the other kids, a baby Kangaskhan with a lisp, pipes up.

“Ya thouldn’t threaten her! I thaw her comin’ into town yethterday with Lucario!” They cry, “And! And! And he didn’t drop her off with Mightyena!” The Cubone next to her nods in agreement.

“Yea! Her daddy’s Lucario!”

The Lillipup blinked. That wasn’t true. Lucario ain’t her daddy.

She opened her mouth to speak, “Wha–”

“Nuh uh!” Terrii said, squinting his eye at Kangaskhan. “Says who?”

“Yeah, dipshit!” Terri scowled with her brother, using Bingo’s forehead as an armrest. “Says who?”

Kangaskhan huffs and stomps their foot, “Thays me! And Cubone! I ain’t no liar! Lucario’th her daddy, I thwear it!”

“Fer real?” someone else pipes up, slightly fearful.

Bingo attempted to speak up, “He ain’t–”

A Scraggy on the opposite side of Bingo pipes up, practically leaping in his seat. “Yea yea! My big brother— he! He! He’s friends wit’ Mister ‘Cario! And— and guess what? He says that Mister ‘Cario’s back in town n’ he brought a lil’ Lillipup wit’ him and he ain’t droppin’ her off!”

Beside him, another Scraggy, this one much yellower than the first, leaned over in his seat with a smug grin. “Yeah, and we all know who Mista Lucario is. So if I was you, I wouldn’t mess wit’ her unless youse guys wanna get yer shit rocked!”

The Tandemaus twins exchanged a glance with one another, then looked nervously at Bingo.

Bingo stared unblinkingly back at them.

Slowly and silently, Terri and Terrii let go of Bingo and hopped off the desk, walking back to their seat as the whole class watched. Terri turned back and jutted a finger at Bingo. “You lucky Lucario’s yer daddy, Lillipoop,” and then continued walking.

The Lillipup mumbled to herself, “But he ain’t…”

A yellow blur suddenly popped into her vision— the Scraggy from earlier— taking her paw into his hand and shaking it vigorously in greeting. “HeynicetomeetchuI’mTysonandthisismybrotherRyanwowitmustbesocooltohaveMistaLucarioasyerdaddywhat’sitlike?”

Huhwha– Bingo shook her head softly, an awkward smile on her face, “‘m sorry, pardon?”

The other Scraggy, presumably Tyson’s brother Ryan, stepped in and whispered not-so-subtly, “I don’t think English is her first language.”

“Ohhhhh,” Tyson nodded. He turned back to Bingo and shouted, “HEY. NICE. TO. MEET. YOU. MY. NAME. IS. TYSON!” Tyson gestured to himself for emphasis. “TY-SON!”

Bingo recoiled, clasping her paws over her ears, “Loud…”

The Scraggy shook his head, “Not Loud, Tyson!”

“Ty I think she wants you to use yer inside voice.”

“Oh.”

Her paws slowly fell from her ears with a relieved sigh, “Sorry… don’t really do well with loud. But it is nice to meet you, Tyson.” A lot of these kids just give out their names, huh?

“An’ I’m Ryan!” his brother beamed beside him. “What’s it like having Mister ‘Cario as yer daddy?” he asked with sparkling eyes. “Does he ever take ya to fight bad guys wit’ him?”

“Don’t think we really fight bad guys,” she tilted her head in thought, “But I‘ve been into a few dungeons and he’s been teachin’ me how to fight.” The Lillipup then shook her head, “But he ain’t my–”

“WOAH!!!” both Scraggies said in unison.

Ryan hopped up and down on his heels, “Ya gotta show us what kinda moves he’s taught ya!”

“Yeah!” Tyson said. “Our brother Scrafty’s taught us some of his best moves—” He got into a fighting stance and started punching at the air to show her, “—but he don’t hold a candle to Mista Lucario!”

“Oh, I dunno… Maybe?” She looked off to the side, “I dunno how to really show what he’s been teachin’.. Dunno if he’ll allow me to have my Blast Seeds and use them willy-nilly.”

Ryan gasped and shouted, “YOU GOT BLA—” before Tyson slapped a hand over his brother’s mouth and exclaimed (slightly more quietly) “You get to use Blast Seeds?!”

Bingo startled for a moment, “Uh– Yeah? My moveset isn’t the most diverse yet.. So havin’ something to act as another move is useful.”

Tyson nodded sagely in contemplation. “Das smart…” He then suddenly recoiled his hand off of Ryan’s mouth with a disgusted face. “Ewwww!!! Did you just lick my hand??”

“Serves you right for shuttin’ me up!” Ryan stuck his tongue out.

“Oh, I’ll shut you up all right!” Tyson wound a fist at his brother, but then stopped mid-wind to look at Bingo. “By the way do you wanna hang out after school?”

“Uh.. sure? I don’t see why not as long Mister Lucario don’t need me for anything..” She responded.

“Yippee!” both brothers said in unison.

And then Tyson punched his brother in the face.

Scene End.

#pkmn irl #pokeblog rp #rotomblr #the story thus far #pmd irl #desert whispers #offscreen post #the middle of nowhere

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alaskapuf · 2 months ago

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voidsdamned · 23 days ago

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Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Twenty

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: more violence! more death! Chem use, too.

Enjoy <3

Chapter Twenty: Unto Others

Eggshells finds Rue maybe an hour after she’s left the skybridge behind, her feet once more on solid earth. Their yowl-meowing is a bit more ornery than normal, and Rue attempts to correct that with two of the eggs she bought with her darling, little bobcat in mind. The crotchety noises fast become violent purring, and then insistent rubbing at her skirt until she scoops them up. They wiggle their way under her blouse, and she sets off again, particularly pleased with a kitty purring against her heart.

Rue walks until coming across a big billboard along the road, the shadow it casts long and inviting. She curls into the smallest, most unnoticeable of balls at its base, dozing lightly. Waking and drifting over and over again until Eggshells’ throat growling and worming their way out of her shirt pulls her fully awake. She sits upright to find a lone wanderer picking her way close with a double-barrel shotgun in hand and Eggshells puffed up to thrice their size in a defensive stance in front of her.

“I got this, sweetcakes,” she murmurs softly to the kitty, clearing her throat before she opens her mouth wide and lets her head drop back.

Rue screams her head off, going for the most unhinged, bone-chilling of screeches she can get her vocal cords to produce. Not just one or two. Every time she runs out of breath, she pulls in deep to let loose in the same, jarring manner until her pipes are raw. When she finally decides to shut up, when her eyes find the stock-still woman with an expression of dread on her patchy face, Rue grins her most deranged of grins, something all teeth and wild eyes.

The shotgun-toting wanderer turns right around, booking it and not even once looking over her shoulder. Rue watches her until she’s a speck before plopping back over to snooze again. When she wakes next, night is creeping on. She eats a little, drinks a little, and gets back after it.

The next two days are more of the same. Rue walks the night away, eyes always picking around. Ears always straining. Her rifle becomes a permanent fixture in her hand, and she learns to keep an eye on Eggshells. When they puff up for no discernable reason, Rue takes that as a cue to duck low and keep quiet. Especially when her furball nips at her ankle before scrambling into the wrecked hull of an old pickup truck. She follows their lead, tucking herself away and remaining quiet as death. In the truck’s side mirror, she watches a large, dark shape slink across the highway. A shadow with claws almost to the ground, horns upon its head, and spikes tracing all the way down its spine to the tip of its tail.

Even valiant, violent Eggshells knows to bow to the deathclaw.

The rest of the night is quiet, but morning reveals figures in the distance, and Rue doesn’t risk it. She goes off trail, into the hills, and finds herself a good perch. She waits and waits to see if they follow, knowing the only reason they’d have to leave the highway is if they were stalking her.

Someone all in fur sneaks through slots and snaky trails. Rue picks them off. Fifteen minutes later, a scream from behind alerts Rue to a new presence, and she whips around –looking for a target– only for screamer to come thumping to her rocky shelf with a bobcat deeply imbedded in his chest. Rue doesn’t waste a bullet on him. He gets her boot knife in his throat, and Eggshells has their breakfast.

As is customary, the dead man is picked over for useful items: caps, water, and food. Ooh, and he has a few Jet inhalers. Those will sell for a few caps, or they’ll make for a fun night. And Rue really is tempted to huff one down. She knows Jet is meant for wiring people and could honestly due with a bit of chem-fiend energy to keep her going, but…. She has no idea how her body will actually react, and maybe it isn’t the best idea to find out while people are chasing her.

Rue saves them for safety or desperation and naps on and off for the remainder of the day in her little perch, waking twice more to a growling Eggshells alerting her to hunters that she takes down from afar. Once it’s dusky out, they return to the highway where it’s nice and quiet for a little while.

Someone’s built a low campfire under the leaning, scrappy structure of some kind of roadside stand. Eggshells doesn’t like the looks of it and briskly sprints from the highway. Rue tries to follow their lead, but unfortunately, a group of five, completely blitzed raiders come melting out of the night. They want her caps until one of them notices the guitar case on her back, and then all they want is entertainment.

Rue, always looking for an excuse to show off, doesn’t mind being led back to their camp where she takes requests. El Paso. Midnight, the Stars and You. Rum and Coca-Cola and more. She puts on a show, smiling away and spinning 'round the campfire to cheers and whistles. Genuinely, she enjoys herself, not minding how unkempt the company might be. They're happy and well-behaved enough as she plays, and three-quarters of the way through I’ll Never Smile Again, all five raiders are dead asleep. Rue just walks away, and Eggshells comes padding up to her when the firelight is well behind.

Night goldens to day. A new group appears behind her, and with nothing other than a flat, sandy expanse on all sides, Rue sticks to the road and the fastest of paces. But she never seems fast enough. They get closer and shapelier, and needing some kind of edge, she makes the decision to take a hit of Jet.

The chem hits like a lightning bolt, a cattle prod to the chest, sending Rue’s heart into overdrive and her head into dizzy spins. Little giggles slip from between her lips as the world around her drips like syrup and every step forward feels dragging, heavy-weight slow. But the distance between her and the tailing group grows and grows, and the Jet inhaler empties over the course of the day until it hisses nothing but air and night has come back. A jumpy, jerky Rue huffs down an entire, new inhaler in one breath so she doesn’t crash, and she doesn’t know what happens next. Except that maybe she time travels, and sunlight streams in slashes through rust holes in the ceiling of a partially-collapsed building that she’s lying on the floor of.

And honestly, Rue would rather be dead. Someone tap-danced up and down her body and filled her mouth with sand. Her head with mud. It’s awful, and all Rue can do is lie there with it and swear to herself she’ll never take Jet again. She announces that aloud to Eggshells when the bobcat pokes their head in through one of the rust holes, and Rue doesn’t realize they have the largest, blood-dripping rat in their mouth until they slip to the floor and drop it right on her chest.

The entire world stops. Rue’s stomach flip-flops, and she rolls onto her side to hurl. Twice. Then she dry heaves as she scoots her miserable body into a corner away from the mess she made and the rat Eggshells starts munching on since she’s clearly not going to. She pretends it didn’t happen and spends what’s left of the day nibbling rock-hard bread and sipping water ‘til sunlight trickles out again. Then it’s time to drag herself up and out and through the rest of the night.

Mercifully, it is peaceful, and when morning comes, Rue tangles herself up in the scaffolded innards of a billboard to rest precariously. The peace –the rest– doesn’t last. She wakes abruptly, to a round of laughter, and peers through a torn portion of billboard to see a group of six in the meager shade the roadside advert provides.

Her hands curl around her rifle, and her eyes tick to a severely pissed-off-looking Eggshells who sits with their ears back, making their crabby throat noises. The group is being too loud to hear them. They’re being too loud in general, giving themselves right away as the people who have been following her. They talk about ransoming her for triple the amount that’s been posted, saying, “That fakey, lil’ sheriff can afford it.”

“Ain’t gettin’ shit if she makes it to the Hub,” one man reminds the lot of them, pushing to his feet. He takes a gulp from a flask before tucking it away in an inner pocket of his duster. “NCR don’t play by our rules, so get off your asses and let’s get on.”

The group packs up and rolls out, and Rue maneuvers her way up higher until her upper body is out of the confines of the sign. She lets the troupe of six asshats get a bit further away before she starts taking headshots.

One. Two. The third figures out where she’s firing from and fires back, grazing her right arm before their head puffs into cloudy, red mist. Rue ducks back into relative safety, swearing filthily, violently, as she rips off one of her blouse sleeves to tie around her upper arm. She’s barely finished knotting the makeshift bandage when one hunter comes through the side of the billboard, but he gets a hiss-spitting bobcat to the face, sending him wheeling backwards with pained, surprised screeches. Rue swings out after, wielding her rifle like a bat at a woman who starts to level her six-shooter on Eggshells.

The blow takes the woman’s legs out from under her, nose erupting with blood when the stock of the rifle hits home. Rue doesn’t waste time. She doesn’t let the woman get up or reach for her nose before she’s atop the hunter, using her own six-shooter against her by firing all the rounds she can into an already bloodied face until the gun goes clicking. And then she’s turning and throwing it straight at the groin of the other hunter who can’t get a grip on the wiggly, wormy, angry bobcat that’s left his upper body carved red. He goes to his knees as Rue draws herself upright, and she doesn’t hold back. She marches straight up to him, grabs him by the back of the head, and drives his face down to meet the sharp rise of her kneecap.

There’s a crunch, a spasming of the man’s body, and he stays completely still when he slumps forward to the ground.

Rue whirls around to face the sixth only to find a wide-eyed woman a few feet away with a double-barrel shotgun at her feet and her hands held above her head in surrender.

She stops short, the violence she was about to inflict halted halfway through. Rue stares and stares, breathing hard and not trusting what she sees at all. She shouldn’t have stopped. She should swing her rifle like she was going to and force it down the woman’s throat to fire into her belly.

But the woman’s patchy face is pitiful and scared, and there’s this tiny voice at the back of Rue’s head that whispers, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

She was gonna get me. It’s only fair I get her.

But her morality is being rubbed in all the ways, leaving her unpleasantly heavy in the chest. Guts twisting.

Rue blows a raspberry at herself and feels so incredibly stupid when, “Ya promise you’ll leave me be?” comes out of her mouth.

The surrendered stranger gives a stuttering, “Y-Yeah,” after a bit too much time has passed.

Rue eyes her narrowly, drawing her rifle up to fire. “That wasn’t very convincin’.”

The woman seizes up, body shaking as pure dread washes down her face, and Rue finds herself pausing again. Finger stilling on the trigger. She recognizes that dread and laughs at it. The woman before her is the same one she screamed her head off at days ago.

Still laughing, Rue says, “I thought I scared ya away.”

The stranger bobs her head furiously, brown eyes refusing to meet Rue’s. “Y-Ya did. For a minute. Then I ran into these folks that were after ya, too, and more than just me felt safer, but… uh…. I’m sorry?”

“Ya sure are,” Rue agrees, finger back to teasing the trigger. “I already gave ya one out, and ya didn’t take it. I’m not dumb enough to give ya another.”

The woman shakes her head. Pleads. “No, no! Please! I swear I won’t mess with ya again! On my life! On my pa’s life! Just lemme go!”

The gut twisting begins anew. How dare a pa be invoked? That’s not fair. Rue can’t go making pa’s sad and daughterless knowingly. She clicks her tongue at the woman, at herself. “What’s your name?”

Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, the lady says, “Octavia.”

Rue doesn’t tell Octavia how pretty she thinks the name is. She keeps trying to be hard-assy and threatening. “Well, Octavia, I’ll consider lettin’ ya go, but ya gotta take these.” And Rue fishes a bottle of pills from her pocket and throws them at the woman’s feet. “Two of ‘em.”

Octavia’s face pulls tight, frown something severe. “What are they?”

Rue shrugs, giving a dismissive, “Euphorics.”

“What’s a euphoric?”

“Don’t ask me. Just take ‘em or you’re gettin’ a hole between your eyes a buzzard can pick brains through.”

Octavia stoops, picks up the bottle, opens, and shakes two into her hand. With a solid minute of hesitance, she holds them in her palm before sighing the biggest sigh Rue has ever heard and dry swallowing them. Or appears to. Rue makes her open her mouth and move her tongue all around to prove it, and once she’s satisfied that the woman has, she orders Octavia to, “Sit down and sit on your hands.”

Her orders are followed, and she pockets her pills, watching the woman without another word. Waiting and waiting for some kind of change to take place, and she sees it when it hits. Octavia sways, head nodding. Her eyes get this glossiness to them, and the pupils take up all that brown.

When Rue asks Octavia how she’s feeling, the woman slurs and mumbles out a, “Pretty… pr-pretty damnnnn goooood. I… I think I l-like eu-euph…euphorins.”

“Eurphorics,” Rue corrects, watching with a smile as Octavia falls onto her back with an, “Oof!”

She observes the patchy-faced lady a moment longer before deciding she’s well and good out of her gourd with the way her eyes spin and her mouth pulls into the most blissed-out of smiles. Shit. Rue kind of wants some of that. She could… no, no. That would be dumb of her. Really dumb. She can wait until she gets to the Hub to test out the euphorics for herself. Maybe Lara will want to?

The rifle falls to her side, and Rue does what she does to all the bodies she makes. Caps are hers. Food and water are hers. But she’s nice enough to leave Octavia and her belongings alone.

“I’m leavin’ ya,” Rue tells the lady firmly, crouching beside her only to be looked straight through. “And I hope when ya come down, ya wise up and keep your promise. I hope ya go back to your pa and give him the biggest squeeze.”

“He’s… he’s back in Red…ding,” Octavia sighs, pulling an unhappy face that makes her mouth tight and eyes squinty. “I didn’t w-wanna be a… a miner. That’s all there is there…. But I s…suck at bounty huntin’.” Those eyes that stare straight through Rue suddenly focus. “It’s gonna be… be embarrassin’ as hell goin’ back. Back with n-nothin to show for it.”

“Ya can still make some caps off sellin’ information on me,” Rue suggests. “In fact, if ya can remember, ya can pass on a message that might getcha a lil’ extra.”

Octavia’s sour expression melts away into something curious and warm. “What’s that?”

“Tell Deck Craven if he wants me so bad, I’m waitin’ on him. He’s the only one I wanna see. The only one I’m gonna let close.” Rue rises and kisses to Eggshells to come on. They immediately pad over and demand to be carried with insistent pawing at her skirt. She plucks them up and kisses their precious head. “If I see ya again, Octavia, I ain’t hesitatin’. You’re dead. I mean it.”

The doped-up woman bobs her head too much and slurs out a, “Happy trails.”

“Happy trails,” Rue echoes, heading out to find a new place to nap.

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

The road signs let Rue know how close she’s getting to the Hub, the distance left to travel shrinking from one hundred miles to fifty. Then to thirty. Fifteen. She feels so close, anticipation crawling up and down her spine. Exciting her steps, keeping her going despite a dragging exhaustion nipping at her heels.

One of those heels gets caught as Rue slides her way down a rocky incline, twisting in an odd, painful way that has her swearing up a storm and hobbling the last few feet to level ground where every bit of pressure she tries to put on her left foot makes her eyes swim and her cursing increase ten-fold. She shrugs off Baby Destiny and her rifle and lets herself fall to the ground in the softest way possible, but the earth greets her ass solidly and mercilessly, giving her something new to cuss about.

Eggshells immediately trots up to sit in her lap, unnoticing or perhaps uncaring of the moderate pain she’s in. Still, it’s sweet. Rue feels comforted as she delicately pulls her left boot off.

The injury just happened, so it’s not yet swollen, and with light fading out, she can’t really tell if the skin is reddening or bruising. But it’s sore as all fuck, tender and sharp when she prods at it. Rue sacrifices the last good sleeve of her blouse to shredding and tying into a good as she can manage wrap to loop around her damn ankle. Her binding isn’t gentle or careful even if it sparks pain. She’s mad at it, mad at herself. Before she started down the incline, she’d thought, “I might fuck myself up,” but she went and did it anyway. It was the quickest way back to the highway after she’d gone into the hills to pick off a few more of her tails.

With a final pull and tuck at the binding, air huffing and puffing tightly from her chest, Rue forces herself upright. Eggshells issues an annoyed throat sound at being moved, swatting at her before hopping from her lap. She gives an apologetic, “Baby, we can’t sit still,” as she tries to find some way to stand comfortably, but there just isn’t. Any amount of weight she puts on the left foot is too much, and it feels as if her heart pounds away in her ankle.

Unsteadily, she shifts all her weight to the right and the ball of the left to give an uncertain lurch forward. Which works. She can move. It feels terrible, but she can move.

Eggshells paws at her skirt for uppies, and Rue’s lips wobble. “I can’t carry ya either.”

Getting her gear back into place is another great effort, but she does manage. And though her pace is slowed and hobbled, she progresses along, singing quietly to herself or babbling away at Eggshells to distract from twinges and shocks. She feels thinner and thinner with each passing step. Body heavier. Baby Destiny becomes cumbersome in a way she never has been. There’s a solid hour of limping back to the highway where Rue contemplates stowing the guitar someplace safe and coming back for her when she’s able, but she could never. Baby Destiny is sacred, a gift, and so Rue carries her along despite how unsteady and increasingly weighed down she is.

Rue makes it back to the highway and maybe two more miles before an old gas station and garage come into view. All the signage is too weathered and warped, whatever colours it might have held bleached out by the sun and eaten up by rust. It’s just an old-world ghost on the side of the road, and Rue limps her way into it as mindfully as she can, borrowed flashlight in her mouth and her rifle in hand.

The building is scraped clean, not a lick of anything on the shelves or counters. A thick coating of sand has replaced the floors, and a gecko that Eggshells rips to shit is the only occupant up front. Rue drags it along by the tail, Eggshells yowling at her all the while.

Through a back door, Rue steps into a wide garage as picked clean as the front where an old car hangs suspended. She’d like to be up there, perched above everything, and she looks for a way to make that happen, but the one button she finds to press doesn’t do anything.

There is, however, an elevated platform along the far wall where a small, windowed, tin shed rests. Rue hauls herself up those steps, ignoring every creak, groan, and rattle. She makes it to the shed, wipes the front of her already ruined blouse across the streaked, dusty glass, and shines her light in. It’s an office, holding not much more than a desk, swivel chair, filing cabinets, and a term-something. No movement. No skeleton with a gun on the floor by it (which, in her travels, she’s noticed is a common, unfortunate occurrence).

The door is locked. Rue huffs and swears, fishing out her scrap of plastic to give the latch and lock the business. It doesn’t want to work, and Rue, frustrated, ends up taking off her blouse, wrapping it around her fist, and punching in one of the glass panels on the door. Minding the shards left behind, she slips a hand in and unlocks the door.

It comes open with a creaky groan, and Rue tosses the gecko she lugs into a corner, waiting for Eggshells to dash in before she shuts and locks the door behind her.

The swivel chair is the most beautiful thing in the world to her, a cloud to melt into despite how flaky and stiff the upholstery. And melt into it she does, giving a sigh of a groan and whimpering soft when she hefts up her hurt foot to prop on the desk. Rue doesn’t bother to mess with it, check on it. She doesn’t need to. It throbs. It’s visibly swollen. There’s nothing else to do but let it rest and keep it elevated.

Rue cuddles her rifle. She listens to Eggshells devour their late-night snack and has one of her own in the form of a golden apple she wishes was green. At one point, she leans forward in her seat to switch on the term-something, but it’s as dead as that button downstairs had been. So, she leans back in her chair, finding a small hole in the ceiling where a splotch of the Milky Way peeks through.

The exhaustion that’s been riding her sorry hide settles in full. It takes her under, and she dreams about sitting in the chair and staring out the dirty front window. The suspended car keeps falling. Shadows keep moving. Hands keep slipping through the shattered window to unlatch the door.

Rue comes back awake with a start, hearing the door unlatch softly behind the deep, throat growling of the bobcat on her lap. There’s a shadow on the other side; Rue scrambles for her rifle, firing blindly at it.

The crack of the rifle is too loud in the small office and is followed by a scream as the shadow falls back and goes over the railing. A heartbeat passes before a thud stills the air.

But only for a second. There come shouts of alarm, and Rue’s heart beats faster than it had on Jet. She hurries to reload, hurries to push the desk and everything else she can in front of the door. Her ankle barks and sears with pain, but it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter right now. Footsteps thud rapidly up the rickety staircase, along the walkway, and more shadows amass on the other side of the window and door. Rue shoots twice more, earning a yelp and sharp swears before those shadows go backpeddling the way they came.

Rue slots the filing cabinets into place, finishing her barricade, and puts her back into a corner. She grabs a fistful of bullets and the cyanide pill she’s kept on her all this time. Just in case.

“Rue? Is that you?”

A complete stillness overtakes Rue, inside and out. Her heart stops racing, breath steadying. The world stops moving so fast. That’s Lucky’s voice, echoing from down the walkway. Calm and collected. Waiting patiently for an answer.

Rue reloads, wondering if this is it. If she’s about to get her wish or die trying to make it come true. She hopes so, even with the odds stacked against her.

The question she calls out in turn is simple, “Deck with ya?”

“He ain’t,” Lucky answers, still so calm and put together. “But I can take ya to him.”

“No,” Rue says, her disappointment a sigh that slips out of her. “He’s comin’ to me. That’s how this is goin’.”

Silence. It stretches on and on, broken when the walkway creaks. She thinks Lucky tries to disguise the sound by asking, “What’s all this ‘bout, Rue?”

She doesn’t answer; the walkway definitely creaks. She can even feel it vibrating.

“We’re all worried ‘bout ya, Rue,” Lucky goes on. “Deck’s got everybody he has out combin’ the Wastes for ya, tryin’ to getcha home safe. He’s out here lookin’ himself. We can be where he’s at in three days, and ya can talk to him. We can getcha whatever help you’re needin’. I dunno if this is one of your… your fits or what, but I know you ain’t felt right since Geraldine. I could tell that last time I saw ya back at Doc Nguyen’s.”

A shadow, so low to the ground Rue knows whoever is coming is in a crouch, passes by the wide window. Just the top of the head. She holds her breath and shoots through the tin wall, a surge of victory going through her when a hissy, wet sort of gasp is her reward. Whoever’s on the other side of the wall retreats.

Their voice is something wheezy and failing, forced. “Bitch… bitch fuckin’ got my… my….” There’s a thud. An audible gurgling that trails into silence.

“He dead?” Rue asks, once more reloading before her hand reaches out to pet at the puffed-up ball of fur that has settled close by.

No one answers her question, which is answer enough in its own way.

“There’s probably two of ya left out there, huh?”

Again, no answer.

“I have a cyanide pill,” Rue lets it be known, loud and clear. “I’m not afraid to die. My plan is to swallow it the second I think I’ve lost. I’ll have the time to do it, too. Ya shatter this big window and both try to come through, I’m done for. You’ll get to cart my dead body back to Deck and see how that goes over.”

Lucky’s voice doesn’t sound like it usually does when he asks, “What do you want, Rue?” No longer pleasant or patient, his words have dipped low and dark. Heavy.

She wonders if that’s the real him as she states, matter-of-factly, “I already told ya.”

“I’ll take ya to him.”

“Tied up or doped up! And I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ that!” Rue turns her rifle towards where she thinks his voice comes from and fires through the wall. She reloads and lets him have a taste of the real her, too. All the fury she’s kept buried deep. “He’s fuckin’ comin’ to me. On my goddamn terms, Lucky. Ya understand? I ain’t playin’.”

“I ain’t either!” A fist bangs violently against the wall she just shot through. “I’m tired of this, Rue! I’m tired of cleanin’ up the messes ya make by just fuckin’ existin��! Fuck, I wish ya would kill yourself! Swallow that fuckin’ pill! I’d rather take your dead body back to Dust than bring your crazy ass back there alive and have to wait around to see what bullshit happens next.” Another bang. Another and another, each one drawing a flinch from Eggshells. Stoking rage in Rue’s chest. “Ya ain’t worth all the things he’s had me do on account of ya. You’re some stupid, burnt-brained girl who ain’t worth all the death. I hate it’s you he saw when we first came to town. I hate- I hate...." Another shift in tone. Rage to something brittle. Tired. "…Why’d it fuckin’ have to be you? Why’d it fuckin’ have to happen? He was half-sane before he met you.”

There’s a solid thunk, and Rue thinks maybe Lucky’s head hits the wall this time. She thinks she can hear him breathing, too -ragged and heavy. The sound of it fills what would otherwise be a quiet, tension-filled break where Rue ponders all the nasty things she could say to him in turn. Because it hurts to hear aloud that everything that happened was her fault. It’s one thing for her brain to whisper it in low, heart-twisting moments, but to hear someone else say it. Knowing someone else thinks it, too.

Rue swallows thick, heart leaden. Throat tight and burning. She didn’t want any of this. She didn’t ask for it.

“Fuck you, Lucky,” she forces out, voice tight and threatening to break away into tears. "I never.... I didn't...."

“Just come out, Rue," his voice is soft and careful, more like what she knows. "Lemme take ya home, and everything’ll go back to normal. We’ll pretend none of this happened, alright?”

Rue doesn’t even entertain the idea. There’s no going back. He can’t take back the truth he spilled or the venom he just spat at her. She can’t pretend anymore.

“Nothin's normal, Lucky.” Rue draws herself up carefully and quietly, ignoring the throbbing pain of her ankle. She sniffs, dragging her forearm across her face. “It ain't been normal for... fuck. Eight years? Nine?" Another sniff and drag of her arm across her face. "Lucky, ya ever dream of fire? Or heads floatin’ in jars? Ya ever lie in bed at night, eaten up by what ya did to me?”

“I ain’t ever done a thing to ya but look out for ya,” Lucky states, that sharp, angry edge to his voice returning.

“Oh, Lucky,” she gives a desperate, disbelieving laugh, “we both know that ain’t true. I know whatcha did. I know what both of ya did. You fuckin’ told me whatcha did. You were drunk as a fuckin' skunk and told me everything.”

Silence. Something slides down the wall. “No,” Lucky insists, a note of dread making his voice soft. “No, I didn’t. Ya don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. It’s somethin’ ya made up in your mind.”

Rue aims her rifle where she knows the voice comes from, exhaling slow. “I’m crazy,” she says, “but not that crazy.” She fires once more, the bullet punching a hole through tin and hopefully through Lucky.

Thump.

She reloads, and a bullet through the wide window shatters it. Another bullet slots into the chamber as Rue steps through, disregarding the pain. The garage is brighter now with the retracting door wide open. A figure tries to flee through it, but Rue doesn’t hesitate to put a bullet in the back of its head.

Gingerly, she steps over the broken glass, hopping one footed around the side of the shed where she finds Lucky flat on his back with a hole in his neck.

He's still alive, gurgling and watching her with the widest, glossiest, most fearful eyes. And it... it doesn't feel as good as she thought it would. No, it's chest-stabby. Lucky looking like that just makes her sad.

Rue goes to her knees beside him, taking his face into her hands and smoothing his cheeks over with the pads of her thumbs. “Out of Deck and all his boys, ya were the only one I didn’t hate –even though I really shoulda. And I know it woulda been stupid, but I was gonna let ya live. After all this, I was gonna let ya live and hope ya would take care of Dust 'cause while I hate most everybody there, there’s a handful of folks I want safe and sound and happy.” She runs her thumb along his cheekbone again, brushing away a tear that slips out of those wide, panicky eyes. Guilty eyes. “Don’t cry, Lucky. It’s alright.”

He can’t say anything. One of her hands pulls away from his face to take his, and his grip is so soft and shaky, it breaks her heart a bit. Her thumb smooths over the back of his hand the same way the other smooths over his cheek.

“You don’t need to be scared. Even after all you’ve done and said to me, I’ll sit with ya ‘til it’s all over.”

His hand twitches in her grip, mouth moving. A whisper creaks out, “I…I-I’m s…sorry, R-Rue.” And he really sounds it. Sorry and broken and genuine.

“Shush,” Rue whispers so softly, not good enough of a person to forgive him.

“When I hear the rain a’comin’ down, it makes me sad and blue

Was on a rainy night like this, that Flo said we were through

I told her how I loved her, and I begged her not to go

But another man had changed her mind, so I said goodbye to Flo

Alone within my cell tonight, my heart is filled with fear

The only sound within the room, is the falling of each tear

I think about the thing I’ve done, I know it wasn’t right

They’ll bury Flo tomorrow, but they’re hanging me tonight

They’re hanging me tonight.”

Another wheeze of a breath. A dimming in his eyes. Rue hums the melody softly, feeling his hand go limp in her own. His chest stills, and she drags her fingers over his eyes to close them, hating the way they stare up at her.

It takes a while for her to get back the strength in her legs to stand and a while longer for her to heft her body back through the window she shattered. Eggshells waits on the other side, and they yowl-meow at her until she scoops them up and places them outside on the walkway. She follows after once she has all her things gathered.

They keep on her heels as she hops along the walkway, and they only climb down a step when Rue does. And as they set off into the night together –not even bothering with the bodies she made– Eggshells limps along the same as Rue. Maybe in support? Or maybe they’re making fun of her?

It hardly matters. They have Rue laughing, and goddamn does she need a good laugh.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout the series #fallout 2024 #fallout tv series

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paintedscales · 9 months ago

Text

010. Malqir

Stopped on their way back to the Sagahl Iloh thanks to the enthusiasm of Bayarmaa and Barghujin both, Nomin is introduced to the tribe and customs of the Malqir. During her time there, she gets to see a lot of what the Malqir practice with great importance to their tribe. The game is fascinating, sure! But then there are some other aspects that arise that give Nomin pause. From there, a needed pep talk is given.

Word Count: 4,496

Steppe by Steppe Chapter List

It was only a day’s travel from the Sagahl Iloh when the van made its next stop due to making good time in their travel. The idea was less of Esenaij’s, and more of both Bayarmaa and Barghujin’s -- both who seemed excitable enough. What inspired the idea of stopping was the fact that there was a new site that had been erected in the time that they had been away till now. The colors that the ger and members bore made Nomin think of the Oronir momentarily before she realized the shade of yellow seemed darker -- leaning more toward an earthy orange.

More striking about the site, however, were the array of decorations that made up the site of the iloh they took a pause at. Khiimori flags were strung up -- something that Nomin thought were only reserved for things like burials or proving grounds like Bardam's Mettle.

“What tribe is that one?” Nomin asked, leaning over the railing of the wain, arms draped over the side as she looked over. The smells as they neared the iloh were delicious, and Nomin’s mouth watered almost painfully as she took in the scents. Whatever tribe it was, they must have been cooking up a veritable storm if the smells were so apparent even a good several yalms away still.

“That’s the Malqir,” Keuken replied. He pointed out the bonfire and the members who danced around it. “It’s not really our place, though if this is the place the Malqir have chosen for their new site, then they should be preparing for their annual kharaqiq tournaments. Certainly smells like it.”

Nomin’s face scrunched in confusion, and she straightened up. She looked over in Keuken’s direction. “What’s ‘kharaqiq’?”

“It’s kind of like shatar. Have you ever played that one?” Bayarmaa asked, hopping off the wain.

“Only the adults in the Tumet really ever played,” Nomin replied, thinking back on what she remembered of shatar. The rules were a bit too complex for her at the time, but she remembered liking the pieces and how they were carved in the shapes of khans or animals, painted in glossy black or white.

“Well, it’s kind of like that, except that the board is separated into three rings, biggest to smallest moving inward. The goal of the game is to capture all three territories -- the rings -- or if you can’t do that before the time is up, capture at least two,” Bayarmaa explained. “The game is a little above my level of understanding, but it's definitely the festival that we should at least see if we can partake in!”

“You know we have nothing to offer, right?” Esenaij asked, a sense of exasperation strained within his voice. “You certainly can't expect us to be able to walk right in with nothing we can give.”

“I bet life would be a lot easier for you if you weren't always stifled by your trader's brain!” Bayarmaa huffed, balling her hands into fists and placing them on her hips as she looked up at Esenaij. She puffed out her cheeks, and Esenaij only looked down at Bayarmaa with a look of mild annoyance as her tail flicked with irritation behind her.

“It would do you good to learn to have something to exchange just in case you can’t always rely on the good will of others,” Esenaij shot back.

Barghujin leaned on the outside of the wain next to Nomin, a small smirk tugging at their lips. They whispered to Nomin, “we should get started on our way over. The Malqir are usually pretty amicable toward spectators of their tournaments. Helps shake their nerves out, especially if they aspire to be chosen as khan or khatun. Besides, I bet Esenaij and Bayarmaa will keep up their squabbling until they see us leaving without them.”

The clear jest made Nomin giggle, and Barghujin grinned as they stood back up and held their hands out. Instead of hopping out of the back of the wain like usual, Nomin crawled over the side of the wain and leaped into Barghujin’s arms. With a swift and powerful swing, Barghujin brought Nomin to ride upon their shoulders as they started on their way toward the Malqir Iloh.

Briefly, Nomin and Barghujin were halted by some of the Malqir guardsmen. Much like their time with the Dotharl, they, as Sagahl, were permitted entry into the iloh grounds. Not long after them, Keuken and Daritai came along, and then both Bayarmaa and Esenaij. It was as Barghujin said when it came to the two of them: once they saw everyone else leaving without them, they were quick to wrap up their minor argument.

Looking at everything from her perch atop Barghujin’s shoulders made a smile spread wide across Nomin’s face as she gazed around at everything, and took in all the different things. The dancers around the bonfire, the musicians playing the morin khuur or engaging in khoomei to vocalize alongside the strings, the various smells of frying meats and bread, and most notably, the tables that were set up with neat rows of a checkerboard game divided into those aforementioned three rings, and even other tribe members that were enjoying visiting. Everything there was relatively new and exciting for Nomin.

“Do you have friends in the Malqir?” Nomin asked Barghujin, leaning forward and looking down at them. “It feels like the Sagahl have so many friends!”

Barghujin’s shoulders rumbled with gentle laughter, and they reaffirmed their hold on Nomin’s legs so she did not fall from them. “I have a couple. I don't know if they'll be participating in this year's kharaqiq tournament, though. None of them felt too particularly interested in claiming the title of leadership.”

“But they play?”

“Everyone in the Malqir is taught to play,” Barghujin started. “It's their way of life as a more pacifist tribe like us. They're great at things that involve planning ahead and strategic measures.”

“What we learn is also good for keeping track of our supplies and resources so that we know when to prepare or trade for more. When to hunt and gather to restock for the seasons as they come and go. Not to mention planning for proper migratory routes and avoiding unwanted trouble,” came a new voice. Barghujin turned with a grin while Nomin looked inquisitively in the new person's direction. She was just a little shorter than Barghujin, and her horns curved forward. Her deel draped loosely around her, and her hair was pulled back into braids.

“Sanchir!” Barghujin greeted her happily as they approached the Malqir tribesperson. “Long time no see! Missed you at the Naadam.”

“The current khan decided it best to keep moving through the time of the Naadam until we ended up here,” Sanchir said in response, a small shrug accompanying their words. Sanchir’s attention then went up to Nomin, who stared back at her inquisitively. “Though it seems to me you’ve been busy playing caretaker, Barghujin. Who is this little one? I daresay I don’t recognize this one from the Sagahl, though she bears your colors.”

Barghujin pat Nomin’s leg twice lightly and introduced her: “this is Nomin! She’s new to our tribe.”

Sanchir took a moment to consider this, a hand going to her chin. After a few seconds, her brow went up with the realization. She then looked up at Nomin with a small smile. “Ah…the timing seems right. A former child of the Tumet, then?”

Nomin nodded with a small ‘mhm…’ and her expression fell only slightly. She then re-composed herself and pointed in both Esenaij and Bayarmaa’s direction; “Esenaij and Bayarmaa are my new family! Esenaij brought me back from Reunion.”

“... Interesting…” Sanchir commented, her eyes flicking back and settling on the Sagahli siblings. She gave her attention back to Nomin. “Is this your first time getting to attend the Malqir's kharaqiq tournament? Outsiders aren't allowed to compete, of course, but you are allowed to at least watch and join in the festivities.”

Nodding, Nomin gave another ‘mhm’ in response to Sanchir. Barghujin then reached up and leaned down, getting Nomin settled back onto the ground. With her little tail wiggling inquisitively behind her, Nomin stayed close and looked around once more. She then looked at Sanchir and asked, “do you fry up boortsog for the festival?”

Daritai walked forward, placing his hand on Nomin’s head and ruffling her hair. He and Nomin had forged more of a friendship since he started teaching her how to hold and maintain a bow during their downtime. Since, he had become much more of an elder-sibling figure like Esenaij and Bayarmaa.

“Has food been the only thing on your mind since we’ve been here?” Daritai asked. It was not often that Nomin got to see him express amusement, but the smile that tugged at his lips was unmistakable. “Although, I guess we could use something to eat. Can't really sustain ourselves off of the desert's blessings and our dwindling rations alone.”

Approaching Nomin, Sanchir leaned down so that they were both at eye level. She smiled gently and then motioned toward the rest of the Iloh.

“I have a little brother that should be closer to the kharaqiq tables beyond the bonfire. He’s about your age, you might be able to find him and have him show you around if you’re interested,” Sanchir suggested. She then lowered her tone in a friendly manner, “he could also show you where the buffet is so you can sate your hunger.”

At that, Nomin’s tail flicked up.

The involuntary action did not go missed by Sanchir, either. She rose to her full height and drew her hands together as she gave a soft, amused chuckle.

“My little brother’s name is Arasen. He’s a good couple of ilms taller than you, and his eyes are striking. I don’t think you’ll be able to miss him. If you’re uncertain, his limbal rings glow brightly with a near-white color from yellow,” Sanchir explained. “Think you'd be up for finding him? Just tell him I asked you to find him.”

“Okay!” Nomin affirmed with a grin. She turned to start on her way as it seemed the Sagahl were wanting to catch up with Sanchir in some capacity. It was clear that they were well acquainted with one another, and as the Sagahl informed Sanchir of their travel out to the Dotharl Khaa to gift a boon for their win in the Naadam, Nomin found herself paying more attention to everything else.

Wandering further away from the older Sagahl and Sanchir, Nomin ventured into where more of the festivities were taking place. Her inquisitive expression gave way into bright excitement as she explored. When she neared the dancers around the bonfire, Nomin noted the woven structures that surrounded it in multitudes. Sticks and dried reeds were woven together to create shapes akin to creatures of the Steppe; tigers, horses, camels…

It then struck Nomin that each of the structures were reminiscent of the shatar pieces she had seen prior during her time with the Tumet. The realization made Nomin consider briefly just how important this game was to their way of life.

… If only she had been born to a tribe that valued games and gameplay. Perhaps that would have been fun!

A dancer maneuvered around Nomin, a giggle heard as they passed. Nomin looked after them, brought back to the fact that there were people celebrating and having fun. She started walking again, her gait quick as she looked for this Arasen boy, or the mentioned buffet. Whichever came first.

Nomin was certainly more keen on following her nose rather than going toward the rows of tables set up with the circular game boards. She noted the people that sat at the tables, their knees or rears nestled upon the cushions. Everyone looked a mix of either focused, self-assured, or gleeful. The sight was almost akin to what Nomin recalled of the warriors in the Tumet before they prepared for battle…

The growl in her stomach reminded Nomin to return to following her nose. Picking up the pace, she eventually saw some groups of people shuffling around a canopy that covered members of the Malqir that stewed, grilled, steamed, and fried foods. That was the place Nomin soon found herself jogging toward. It seemed she had no need to seek out Arasen after all!

Meandering and weaving through people, Nomin eventually met her goal: the Malqir cooks who were frying things like khuushur and boortsog. Her tail wiggled excitedly and impatiently behind her as she ran forward to eagerly ask for some. In addition to her little plate of boortsog, Nomin was given a small bowl of urum, and a small bowl of jam. Happily, she thanked the Malqir who fried the treats up for her, and she returned to wandering until she could sit close to those who were entrenched in playing kharaqiq between one another at the boards that were set out.

Idly, Nomin munched on the fried bread bits, crumbs falling on her deel and into her plate. She watched how others were playing kharaqiq, hoping to glean some kind of understanding of the game from those closest to her. As time went on, and both her boortsog and pairings eventually disappeared, Nomin was no closer to understanding the game than when she was first told how the game kind of worked.

“Obsidian is set to capture ivory's territories in just two more moves there. So long as obsidian doesn't get blocked into the silver ring to standstill,” a boy spoke. His voice startled Nomin into flipping her empty plate and bowls onto the ground with a small clatter. She left her seat, gathering up the mess of dishes before she furrowed her brow at this boy.

He looked a little sheepish before he took in Nomin's appearance fully. He kind of gave a ‘hmph’ at her, his eyes flicking between her face and her horns. It seemed he took better notice of the discoloration on her scales.

Crinkling her nose with some annoyance, Nomin was about to take a seat back where she was before she noted his eyes. She had almost forgotten what Sanchir said, and this boy seemed to fit the description she was given earlier.

“Are you Arasen?” Nomin asked.

“Huh?” The boy was taken aback by the question as he looked at Nomin with surprise. His near-white limbal rings were that much more prominent as a result. “Yeah, that's me. But who in the hells are you? No one from the Sagahl I know, that's for sure.”

Nomin rolled her eyes at Arasen's tone. She knew it well enough from her time with the Tumet. The tone of someone who thought of themselves too good to have been in the presence of someone not as blessed by Nhaama. However, she introduced herself and explained that she and the Sagahl were passing through, saving the fact that Sanchir told her to seek him out later for last.

“... Well, it seems evident that you didn't really do that last part…” Arasen replied. He still had a bit of a tone to his voice that indicated displeasure, but it was less obvious.

“Sanchir said you could show me where the buffet was, but since I already found where all the food was being prepared, yeah… I guess I didn't really want to burden you with the responsibility of having to hang out with me if I found everything I wanted,” Nomin replied. She used words she was used to hearing from the Tumet when it came to her. Especially since the disposition felt similar.

Arasen bit his tongue, his lips twitching back in a deepened frown. “My sister will be upset if she doesn't find us together, I imagine. Clearly she trusts me to watch over you.”

Nomin pursed her lips out in an exaggerated pout.

“I'm not a little child,” Nomin protested.

“Little enough! Your horns and tail haven't even fully developed yet!” Arasen steeled his stance on the matter. It seemed to Nomin that he must have valued his sister’s trust enough to tolerate this interaction that clearly was not to his taste.

Nomin sighed, turning her attention back toward the closest kharaqiq players. She then pointed at them -- rather, their board. She hesitated, but then finally asked, “can you tell me about kharaqiq at least? Bayarmaa told me it was like shatar, but…where I'm from, only those with a name play such games.”

For a moment, Arasen's face twisted into confusion over the tail end of Nomin's words.

“... I'm not even going to ask what that means…” Arasen muttered before shifting his attention toward the kharaqiq board. He stifled a sigh and then explained the rings and what they represented. Gold, silver, copper -- sometimes they would instead be represented by polished stone, ivory, or wood of differing colors. “Each of the rings is a territory. You and your opponent start with your territories, and the pieces do kind of move just like shatar pieces with some minor differences. The point is to capture as many of your opponent’s pieces while also working to capture the open territory -- ring, in this case.”

Pointing at the sand timer next to the players, Arasen directed Nomin’s attention toward it.

“Players have a quarter of a bell to finish the game. At least in tournaments like these ones,” Arasen continued. “If you're aware of the pieces and how they move, then it's a battle of wit and endurance with opponents that are just as familiar. But, if you're inexperienced -- like you are -- you'd probably lose in five moves or less.”

Nomin huffed, not exactly appreciating the insinuation. Even if Arasen was most likely correct in his statement.

The more that Arasen explained the game, however, the more that his words fell on deaf horns. He seemed to grow evermore elated as he talked about movement of pieces and the importance of them. For Nomin, however, the longer he spoke, the more all that information muddied together. It was becoming too much to really remember, thus she started to tune him out.

Watching the players, however, Nomin got a little bit of the gist. Ultimately, she became simply taken with just watching them and seeing the game progress.

Black won by the time the timer ran out, their pieces occupying two of the rings. The player controlling the obsidian pieces smiled to themselves before offering a polite bow to their opponent. Surprisingly to Nomin, both players were incredibly amicable toward one another. She would not have been too happy in defeat, at least that was what she thought to herself.

“What an exciting game that was!”

Oh. Right. Arasen was still there.

Looking over, Nomin pursed her lips slightly.

“How long is this tournament going on today?” Nomin asked.

“The first half has already ended,” Arasen replied. “We're in the second half. What you saw there should have been the third or fourth game since. Over the next couple of bells, there's probably going to be another dozen or so games. Since this is day one, everyone interested gets to play, and moving on to tomorrow's games comes down to how many matches you win.”

“Hm…” Nomin took a moment to think. She then looked at the now empty seats at the kharaqiq board they had been watching. “So then the person who lost during the match we just watched still has an opportunity to advance to the next round?”

“That's correct,” Arasen confirmed. He then shifted into a standing position, placing his hands on his hips. “Tomorrow's rules also change, but only slightly. Instead of having a bunch of matches throughout the day, tomorrow, everyone is only going to have three matches that more quickly narrows down the numbers. Today is more about fun and seeing if you qualify.”

“That's…pretty neat, actually,” Nomin admitted. She thought more about the culture that centered around playing a particular type of game. She supposed it made sense that there would be opportunities to face everyone and even learn something new from the other members of the tribe. The knowledge also made the amicable exchange at the end of the game much more respectable.

“Do you want to try playing a game?”

The question caught Nomin off guard. Looking in Arasen's direction, Nomin’s face scrunched up with contemplation to the idea. Would it have even been fair to have played a game she clearly had no experience in against someone who already had the clear upper hand?

“I don't know…” Nomin finally said after a moment. “I feel like…I'd lose right away.”

“I can go easy on you.”

Nomin's frown creased. She then shook her head in response. “I think I'm fine watching other people play for now. Thanks, though.”

“Alright,” Arasen did not sound too dejected by the rejection. “It's not good of us to force a game if the prospective opponent doesn't want to play. So…if you don't want to play, there's nothing I can do about that.”

It was a surprisingly mature response from someone whose first impression of Nomin was that of disdain. At least as far as Nomin knew and recognized.

In short time, however, Arasen offered to lead Nomin back to the food canopies -- if only to return the dishes she was granted use of. When they got back, Nomin was more than willing to go ahead and try more foods before she and Arasen eventually met back up with the other members of the Sagahl, and Arasen's elder sister, Sanchir. Nomin’s mouth had run with a sheen from the meats she had been eating alongside some mantuu, and she quickly ran the back of her sleeve along the bottom of her face to remove any of it.

“Have fun?” Bayarmaa asked, as the two approached. She offered a small smile, assuming that Nomin had been able to make yet another friend.

“I think the game is neat to watch. Arasen explained the game to me,” Nomin replied as she jogged up to meet with Bayarmaa and the others proper. She noticed that they were largely eating bread with jam, and stewed vegetables.

“Oh? How did that go?” Bayarmaa sipped some of the broth in her bowl after she asked her question.

Nomin shrugged in response; she had no strong feelings one way or another. Plus…she did not actually catch everything Arasen actually said. So, with that in mind, she replied, “I think I kind of get how the pieces move and how you're supposed to get the pieces in the rings. But I don't think I could play kharaqiq and have fun…”

Sanchir lifted a hand to her mouth, a rather amused laugh falling from her lips as her tail flicked upward a couple times. Nomin felt her cheeks prickle and warm, a slightly fluster arising in her.

“My apologies… That just seems to be a common sentiment shared among others outside our tribe. At least…I've heard it more times than not,” Sanchir said, explaining herself. “Of course, to us the game doesn't seem so difficult. I also believe anyone could still learn it. That said, would you mind a kharaqiq board of your own to bring back with you? I can get you some instructions written so you can read how to play back with your tribe.”

Nomin hummed in thought, eyes flicking in both Bayarmaa and then Esenaij’s directions before her attention went back toward Sanchir. It was as if she were asking permission to accept such a gift.

“It would do us well to have something that could help teach Nomin some more logical thinking and planning,” Esenaij spoke up, taking a hearty bite of the gambir he had topped with stewed popotoes. Bayarmaa seemed to share this sentiment as she nodded in agreement.

“We would be awful teachers when it comes to your game, but if you're providing instructors, we'll be glad to go over them and learn together!” Bayarmaa seemed more elated by the idea of getting to learn kharaqiq for herself. Her tail swayed to and fro as she rocked from side to side.

Nomin glanced between Esenaij and Bayarmaa, a smile spreading over her face as her eyes sparkled with the thought of being able to play more games with them outside of uichuur or khorol. She then looked up at Sanchir, who seemed to have grown a sheepish expression at both Bayarmaa and Esenaij's responses. When Sanchir finally looked back toward Nomin, she smiled with a soft sigh.

“Well then…I invite you to enjoy the festivities for the rest of your duration,” Sanchir started in response. “I'll spend the eve getting you your own kharaqiq set and instructions to go with it.”

With a polite bow, Sanchir left for presumably her family’s ger, Arasen giving a quick bow and a small word of ‘goodbye’ before swiftly following along after her. When they were out of hearing distance, Bayarmaa then giggled and looked at Nomin.

“You've been making so many friends since we've been on our journey!” Bayarmaa pointed out. “What's this young boy like? I didn't get to meet him too well like getting to talk with Arik or Holuikhan.”

Nomin briefly looked in the direction that Sanchir and Arasen disappeared off in, and then looked back at Bayarmaa. Her expression faltered and went back to a more neutral, straight-faced look as she shrugged.

“I don't really know if I'd call Arasen a friend like I would the other two…” Nomin replied truthfully. This caused Bayarmaa’s own expression to fall slightly.

“Well…I suppose we can't be friends with everyone. He didn't say anything mean to you, did he?” Bayarmaa inquired.

Nomin shook her head. Then she shrugged as she considered their interactions in the brief time they spent with one another.

“... I didn't like the way he spoke to me.” Nomin stated her overall thought plainly and flatly. She then looked back at Bayarmaa and walked over to sit next on a bench close to her. “…I guess… Don't you ever notice when people talk to you like they don't actually like you?”

Bayarmaa sat down next to Nomin.

“I notice…” Bayarmaa’s expression turned a bit sad. Though, she sighed and brought a pleasant look back to her face. “But…a lot of the time, I remembered the friends that do like me, and I found comfort in that. Because not everyone is going to like you. I don't think we'd have as many fights on the Steppe, or rivalries if we all got along…”

Bayarmaa reached over and pet Nomin’s head affectionately.

“But…it's okay to feel hurt by this fact, too…” Bayarmaa went on to say. “Just do your best to pick yourself back up and move forward. I'll help you where I can if you want me to.”

A smile slowly appeared on Nomin’s lips and she leaned against Bayarmaa’s arm.

“... Thanks, Bayarmaa,” Nomin replied. “That makes me feel better already.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #my writing #ffxiv au ra #au ra #xaela headcanons #xaela malqir #xaela #ffxiv oc #oc: nomin tal kheeriin #oc: esenaij sagahl #oc: bayarmaa sagahl #oc: barghujin sagahl #oc: daritai sagahl #oc: keuken sagahl #oc: sanchir malqir #oc: arasen malqir #NTK:Chronicles

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