Sonic Underground Drabble

September 16, 2022

Aw, shit! I almost forgot about this! So this is a short drabble I started writing but got side-tracked on. The premise was that this was a Sonic Underground fic where the royal family wore snakebite piercings with long flowing scarves or ribbons or some sort of other flowy long thing weaving off of them--the crown princes and princess just off one piercing, but the ruling litter off both piercings--to symbolize their role as servants to their people, and under the custom that any citizen could clasp the trail in their hands and the ruler must grant any boon they ask. The idea would have been that the custom was to keep the ruling family beholden to their people, though naturally they'd be expected to be experts at weaseling out of letting any "common folk" touch the scarves, cuz hey, you can't actually grant your people power. That's not fair. To the rich people.

Yes, this is an entirely unveiled kink concept, and no I will not be taking questions at this time.

So the concept would have been that Sonic was acting in his princely capacities at a State dinner, saw a street kid sneak in, and "accidentally" let them grab his scarf so that he could give them a home. Buuut I never got that far. *shrugs*

Just...be at the party and don't embarrass me, brother.

Sonya's words had rankled, so I put extra energy into drifting around the party, smiling and chatting with the random muckety-mucks and acting charming and relaxed, playing the perfect prince. It was nice to know I could be vindictively nice. Shmoozing conceited assholes was about as far from natural as I got, so watching her flick between her fake, public persona and her seething over how effortless I was trying to act was the most satisfying thing to happen tonight. Across the room, Manic was entertaining a group of Ambassadors with an appraisal of some of the art on display, wowing them with his "sophisticated knowledge of the arts" hard won from the need to keep his fences honest.

I was more than willing to allow that our being the "rough brothers", and our having come back to the royal family after living in the "savagery" of what we'd consider the real world (which, to be fair, my living feral and Manic's scraping by in the thieves' guild were a bit more extreme than the regular) gave us a bit more leeway for unexpected behavior than Sonya, who'd been in this world the whole time and was firmly One Of Them. But Sonya didn't give us any leeway, and what's more, she didn't actually do anything to help. It was up to us to figure out what was expected and help each other, in an ironic echo of the class stratification involved.

I'd finally learned that if I kept moving, and just asked how people were doing, keeping the exchanges short and shallow, I was considered to be "Working the party," and "A good host." Manic had even more trouble keeping things light and fake than I did, but his art knowledge made him "enchanting," and "lovely entertainment," as long as he kept his practical observations and tips about how to sell such pieces and insights into their target audience to himself. He'd told me how much more of that knowledge he'd added to by working these parties, and was looking into getting into the art auction business from the "money and power" side. As well as helping launch an art school, to work in the "actually helping people" side.

I shook off my musings, trying to keep my thoughts light. I focused on flowing gracefully through the room, enjoying the flitting drape of scarves that billowed off of me in my traditional princely garb. I saw a small, brown figure darting furtively into the room, and edged in its direction. A low shout rang out as a burly guard burst into the party. I tracked closer to the little street kid.

"Look out!" someone called, as I traipsed closer, head turned from the kid, playing the role of the distracted, foppish prince to the hilt. I stopped short, letting the kid lightly bump into me, my paws falling to their shoulders as I turned to them.

She was small, maybe six years old, her brown fur dusty and unhealthy-looking. All eyes were on us, and she needed help. I could help her. So easily. She needed a home. She needed a safe place to sleep, and safe food to eat. Most of the people in this room had five homes, and refused perfectly reasonable food as "beneath them." There was no excuse for this kid to need anything.

The delicate scarf that draped from my right lip piercing, the scarf marking me as one of the crown triplets fluttered gently down from where I had undraped it from its trail over my left shoulder. Perfectly in reach of the street kid.