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scuttlingcrab · 3 months

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The Stranger

A little piece through the POV of my favourite devil, Raphael.

Bored at a party, Raphael seeks a delicious new soul.

Mortals. So tiresome.

Raphael sighed as he played with the golden chalice between his fingers, twirling the stem before taking a long sip of wine. He sat in the corner of the politician’s great hall, observing the ludicrous banquet before him. He lost count of how many of these wretched dinners he’s had to attend. Keeping up appearances. And for what? Silly little souls that didn’t amount to anything.

His eyes slowly moved across the candle lit scene before him. A gaggle of the city-state’s most famous high ranking officials flooded the room, indulging themselves in the overflowing barrels of wine, rich sweets, and succulent meats stacked to the ceiling. Dukes, Duchesses, City Officers… fools, the lot of them.

The air was buzzing with slimy scheming and whispers of menacing manipulations, the rank smell of lust lingering above the heads of the guests. A gaudy band occupied the other end of the room, a bard sang a flat tune at the top of their lungs that made even Raphael’s skin crawl.

He unfortunately knew everyone, their deepest darkest secrets, what fuelled their nightmares, what got their lips salivating. He couldn’t escape the desperation. There were more important things to attend to. The Crown. His plans. And yet… here he was. Another wasted evening in Baldur’s Gate.

A fat faced Duke approached Raphael, about to burst from the seams as he bowed, muttering some pleasantries.

Ah, Alistair. Signing your eldest away to relieve those crippling debts. How original. Raphael clenched his teeth as he bowed in return.

“How are your accounts as of late, Alistair? Plentiful I hope.” Raphael grinned.

The Duke blushed and quickly nodded, his sagging cheeks swung along with the movement. He whispered a messy thank you before disappearing back into the crowd.

Raphael snickered to himself. Imbecile.

His eyes soon stopped, fixating on a woman he didn’t recognise. Raphael nearly missed her, she seemed to blend into the shadows. Her face was long and pale, her auburn hair loose and flowing to her thin waist. She was dressed eloquently but like her face, the design was plain. Her brows furrowed as those dark eyes darted across the room like search lights, until locking eyes with Raphael.

Raphael’s eyes twinkled, his grasp on the chalice tightening. The woman’s expression didn’t change as they stared at each other. What a curious new creature.

Their moment was interrupted when a large man approached the woman. He swayed, leaning a hand on the wall to balance himself. He took his other hand and grabbed the woman’s cheeks, pushing her head against the wall. The man’s face grew redder as he shouted at her. Whatever he was expressing, it was inaudible over the idle party chatter and the bard’s horrendous music.

The man took the woman by the hair and pulled her out of the room, causing a riptide to tear through the other party guests. None of them seemed to care about the lovers quarrel, as the hole the man created soon filled back up again.

Raphael finished the last of his wine, placing the empty chalice on the table before slithering through the crowd, a slight pep in his step. Alas… some fun.

Raphael’s feet floated over the dark marble tiles, his pulse quickened, excited about what he might find ahead of him. The castle halls grew quieter the further he slinked away from the banquet. Finally free of that Bard’s vile performance. He really did need to take care of that so-called musician.

The quiet didn’t last long however, the angry man’s shouts now reverberated through the passageway.

“Yo-you’re g… go… going to w-w-ish you were ne-never born after th-this…I wi-will kill yo-u AND you-you’re bloody family!” The man bellowed, his slurred speech barely comprehensible.

“Yoland! Stop this madness, pl–” The woman’s pleas were interrupted as she screamed out in pain.

The shouts muffled and Raphael slowed his pace, keeping to the shadows. Ahead he watched as the man called Yoland kicked open the doors to the Duke’s library and threw the woman inside. Yoland stumbled in after her.

Raphael crept, peeking in through the open doorway. Yoland had the woman pinned up against a bookshelf, holding her by the throat. She squirmed in his arms.

“You b…bel-belong to ME!” Yoland hissed.

The woman reached behind her, desperately trying to grab on to a book, to something. She managed to grab a small bust of the Duke, slamming it against Yoland's face. Yoland released her and clutched his head. The woman fell to her knees, gasping for air. She quickly crawled away but Yoland lunged after her. The two wrestled each other on the floor until Yoland was on top, ripping at her dress and pulling at her hair.

“NO!” The woman shouted and lifted a leg into the air, clawing for her right boot. Raphael raised an eyebrow. Clever girl, no need to intervene after all.

She struggled to pull out a small dagger hidden deep in her boot, nearly losing her grip on the hilt as she dug it into the back of Yoland. He screamed in agony and attacked her harder, hitting her head against the floor. She stabbed again and again and again until Yoland's movements slowed and he soon quieted, dying on top of her with a demeaning grunt.

The woman whimpered as she lay under the corpse. It took her a few minutes but she managed to wiggle her way out from under him, still clinging on to the dagger. She rose to her feet, standing over the corpse.

Raphael straightened his posture, running his fingers through his hair to check all was in order. Showtime.

“My, my… what have we here?”

The woman spun around, her hand shook like a twig caught in a tempest as she held the bloody dagger at Raphael.

“Surely you aren’t going to use that on me?”

She backed away but stumbled over the corpse. She fell on her backside and the dagger flew from her hands, sliding near Raphael’s feet.

“Tut tut, I come as a friend, not an enemy.” Raphael took a step forward, he held his right hand to his heart, pledging his allegiance.

“Who are you? One of Yoland's bloody goons?”

Raphael couldn’t help but laugh. Rather loudly.

“Oh, oh my dear, I am sorry. Please excuse the rudeness. This is unbecoming of me. Too heavy on the wine this evening.” Raphael cleared his throat. “No, no, my dear, my name is Raphael. And I am very much at your service.”

Raphael bowed. He paused before taking a step to retrieve the dagger. He heard the woman’s heart stop beating as she held her breath, her eyes growing wider. She grabbed a thick book and held it in front of her like a shield. Raphael knelt down, slowly, as if he was approaching a rabid animal. He turned the blade around in his hands, so that the hilt now faced the woman.

“Please… I insist.”

She remained silent. Despite Raphel’s kind gesture, she moved further away from him until her back hit against the far bookshelf.

“What do you want?” She asked.

Raphael looked down at the large corpse in the room, the pool of blood getting closer to his pointed leather boots.

“This Yoland is going to be missed, surely. His friends, or what did you call them? Goons? Yes, his goons will be coming soon. How will you manage?”

The woman swallowed, staring intensely at Raphael. Her hair was dishevelled now, half of her face covered in blood and her dress nearly ripped in two. How delicious. Like a direwolf backed into a corner. He could smell the rich fear oozing from his new prey. He was so close. Just a little more patience. He could wait, especially after such a drab evening.

“What do you suggest then?”

“I’m only a passerby, my dear, helping a lost soul in need of some help.”

Raphael placed the dagger on the floor and snapped his fingers. A burst of flame revealed a silk handkerchief in his hands. He carefully removed the blood from his fingertips, going over every inch of his palm, careful not to miss a spot. He snapped his fingers again and the handkerchief disappeared.

“A… warlock?”

“No, no my dear, I’m something far better than that.”

Shouts soon came from the hallway, multiple gruff voices calling out for Yoland. Raphael and the woman continued to stare at each other as the echoes got louder, the words becoming more coherent.

“Tick, tock, my dear. The goons fast approach.”

Rapheal extended his hand once more. The woman paused before accepting Raphael’s invitation. Raphael’s lips curled into a cheeky smile as he looked deep into her eyes.

“That will do. Thank you.”

The instant their hands touched, Raphael snapped his fingers and the two were engulfed in a warm, welcoming inferno. It was only for an instant but the flames dropped like a curtain revealing his central chamber. He stepped away from the woman and approached a roaring fireplace, standing beneath a portrait. He turned to face her with a grin, lifting his hand in a sweeping gesture, indicating the walls around him.

“Welcome, my dear, to the House of Hope!”

The empty chamber echoed his welcoming words. The room was spotless, the table neatly filled with a variety of food and drink, to ease the tension of any weary guest. Yes, less opulent than the banquet this evening but far better in quality.

The woman took a moment to balance herself, leaning against the table. Her cheeks were flushed and a gloss of sweat covered her forehead. She surveyed her surroundings and her eyes darted to the painting behind Raphael.

"Ah, the painting. Yes, my dear, I had it commisioned many moons ago. One of my favourite pieces yet." Raphael turned to admire it as well, placing a proud hand on his hip before turning his attention back to the woman.

The woman’s grip on the table tightened. Her eyes darted over the glistening horns, the massive wings, and the sharp claws of the painting’s subject. She looked at Raphael in horror and then back at the painting again, looking at the flames lapping around the Devil depicted in the artwork.

“Yo… you…”

The woman collapsed. Before her body could hit the floor, Raphael snapped his fingers and the woman dangled inches from the ground, her knotted hair softly grazing his polished floors.

Raphael flicked his wrists and the woman flew into his arms.

Must be the heat. Raphael smirked as he delicately carried his new creature across the chamber to a large chaise lounge. He lowered her slowly into a comfortable position, eyeing her hungrily.

"And you didn't even tell me your name. No matter, my sweet, I shall find out soon enough." Indeed, the Devil looked forward to hearing what she had to offer.

#bg3 raphael #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #raphael x reader #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #writing

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dukeoftheblackstar · 7 months

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"Right Here"

Summary: It’s ‘one of those days’ when the things are just too much. Sometimes all you need is an old man and their old man-foolishness. - Depression strikes and you're at the medcenter.

Pairing: Plo Koon x Duchess/Duch (oc/reader), Plo Koon x Reader

Word Count: 4.2 K

Rating/Theme: Angst, comfort, tw-suicide, gaslighting, innuendos, tw-depression, pre-established relations, flirting, slight choking, barely smutty

Notes:

“Right Here”— Second installment of Somewhere Only We Know

The song Plo sings for oc/reader are official lyrics from from @mimimirage / @eloquentmoon's "Planet Pink" [ permission to use granted via discord DM ]

1st pic = art by my very best friend and sister at heart, @amorfista [ please do not repost ]

2nd pic = commissioned art from a local artist [ personally owned / please do not repost ]

Color thingies because I'm deranged to not use them: Orange: Plo Koon Pink: You/OC/Reader Blue: Internal thoughts Purple: Self-Inserts

Perfect divider by @idontgetanysleep with itty, bitty, cutie-patootie Plo Koon face ♥

You do so much day in day out that it has become a wonder if you exist only to appease the fury and bitterness that resides in the damned. A conundrum of a cycle wherein you have no qualms in allowing anyone of your borrowed time and yet it seems to be quite burdensome to rob others of theirs, regardless of how deep you have plunged into the great seas of woe. A quandary that leaves you doubtful if you even deserve to feel such sadness and allow it to consume you when you should be keeping your heart empty to nurse and rid others of the vicissitudes of fate. An enigma that though should have enticed you to unravel and explore, leaves you abandoned not with want, need, or wanton desires, but abandoned as the word itself defined — left alone and all its synonymous narrative; forgotten, maybe.

But it’s not that bad, right? You get to live, meet people, experience things old and new — and besides, someone out there has it far worse than you. You should be grateful.

And so you become just that; "Grateful” — in every sense of the word.

You stopped ‘complaining’ because someone else has it far worse than you; stopped trying to ‘talk about it’ because you’re afraid to tell them that even after all the unprompted and unsolicited advice, you remain buried six-feet under the vicious weight of thoughts so intrusive you couldn’t bring yourself to cry it out of your system anymore —in hopes that it depletes you enough to fall asleep.

That you stopped trying to ‘deal with it’ because it has come to the point that trepidation has now been rooted so deep within the confines of your soul, it hinders you to function. To have fear of having to be seen in such a pathetic, weakened state that even the most mundane tasks remain undone. That the mere fact that you haven’t showered or bathed in days because you were so afraid that if you’re not careful enough, you’d slip and die without having to tell someone how much they mean to you.

That if you perish, as you begin to feel so deserving of such fate, you would leave them with the same conundrum. That, they, too, would have to suffer these intrusive thoughts because no one came; because they, too, were abandoned as the word itself defined — left alone and all its synonymous narrative; forgotten.

So yet again, you sit not with your knees enclosing your chest in an embrace like in the holovids — rather you’ve taken shelter under the dining table because it felt ‘safe’ there knowing that escape is but a kitchen knife away. Yet again you do not stand before the mirror contemplating on smashing it with your head or your fist, because you couldn’t bear the thought of having someone clean up the mess you’ve made. Yet again you do not frantically tap your fingers on the floor in fear that the neighbors might hear and complain and as such, you will all that you could muster to silence even the slightest of whimpers because you know someone would come and would have to sit through your ‘dramatics’.

And so yes, here you are in all the glory of one being ‘grateful’.

Here you are under the table of your lavish living room with today’s breakfast at midnight, a pile of unwashed dishes, laundry on the ground, and your commlink buzzing incessantly that seems to stab your fingertips with each attempt of a response. So you just read them, the messages — the funny ones, the sad ones, the work-related ones, the ‘are-you-okay?’ ones, and the ones from your beloved friend and confidant who had constantly dropped by and threatened to break the door down, forcing you to reply ‘I’m not home, I’ll message you the soonest’.

But you are, as we have established.

You pray to gods your people serve, even to ones you don’t and know not of; eyes closed with fingers knotted over your chest so tight that you could feel the in-between dips of your knuckles burrow further as if ready to break if not bruise. Your lips shake begging through a plethora of ‘please don’t’, ‘go away’, and ‘not today, please’, hoping that this does not turn into some heroic stride of having you swept off your feet and be given the ‘much needed’ respite and attention because today is simply not the day — as it was yesterday and the day before, and the day before the day before yesterday.

You’ve gone this far, do you honestly wish to disappoint those who believe in you? Do you feel it wise to make them feel bad because their words of comfort and support failed? Do you feel they are deserving of your failure because you could not find it within you to handle even the simplest of things?

Exactly. They deserve better than that. And after all, someone out there has it far worse than you.

Right…?

***

“Is it the gown that’s throwing you off? Cause I can’t cut it up and make it look sexy and we can rolepla—”

You couldn’t even finish because he’s stared you down with such oppressive silence all you could think of was apologize for something you don’t even know you’ve done but whatever it is, it must have been as heinous as to exist in the same timeline as him.

“What?”

“...”

You knew exactly what — he no longer wants you around. He no longer wants to deal with your obstinacy and how you constantly pry him from more pressing matters over something so trivial, so dramatic, so unnecessary.

“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re gonna be baby about this, Plo.”

“...”

It’s exactly that. He’s supposed to be somewhere; a meeting maybe? A mission? Maybe he’s tired. Tired of you.

“Look. I’m okay. I just… I just have really nosey neighbors, okay? I’m fine. Please.”

“...”

“I’m really, really, really, okay. I promise you.”

“...”

I’m okay, baby. I am. I am now.

“Well?…. Say something.”

“...”

He’s upset, no — he’s angry. He’s… He’s…

And just as you have occasionally been exposed to the oppressive nature of his silence, you turn to him as if matching your assumptious claim of him plagued with seething abhorrence over having to ‘take care of you’ again. Your brows meet in brewing animosity, glaring vehemently at Plo — ironically in contrast to the relaxed creases of your Kel Dor Jedi.

“If you have somewhere to be, just leave. I don’t know why you’re here if you’re just gonna be like that.” You couldn’t pocket an obvious sniffle and so you opted to turn your head away towards the unsuspecting bouquet of flowers of pinks, whites, and yellow chrysanthemums. It did you no better as ragged breath fell past lips that quivered and silver-hazed eyes that threatened to become even more fuddled with tears.

“I get it, okay? They shouldn’t have called even if it was an emergen—.”

They really shouldn’t have. I’m sorry if they had to call you. I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be more grateful for what I have. I swear. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.

“But they did.” Came Plo Koon’s abrupt response, devoid of any obviously implied emotion — neither from the tone of his voice or the subtle shift in his masked visage.

You knew better than to argue. After all, you were no stranger to how ornery he can be, that even his fallen master found him stubborn and difficult — for all the good reasons, that is.

“Sorry.” Was all you could say.

For having known Plo for centuries, you would have thought that you’d get used to the power he held over you. That even mere words carry so much weight that he could say ‘love’ and wound you so deep to this very day, that him mirroring your candor with so much nectarous affection in the form of endearments ‘little love’ or ‘my darling’ disillusions you from the illusion itself.

That just by the mere sound of his voice, that unspoken timbre reserved only for your ears and your ears alone, would have you whisked into the grandeur of a fool’s paradise. A quixotic ideal where war can go fuck itself just as Plo can go fuck himself too, but through means of using every inch of your existence leaving nothing to waste. That just by the mere serendipitous touch of his talon-clad fingers paired with his poorly crafted apology for inadvertently wrapping around your neck so deliciously tight, he could easily bring to your knees to do no more than worship him as you would a god to atone for the sins of subjecting those around you in yet another depressive episode.

It gave you a sense of grounding at the very least; a laughable means of coping you’ve developed over time. One that would put his mind at ease to know that in spite of the decline of mirth within your soul, you still had some reserve to keep yourself from the point of no return — even if it meant you were doing it for others, not so much yourself.

You turn to face the still-standing Kel Dor whose hands remained tucked behind. Expressionless was better than him pacing frantically and mouthing off a full-on lecture. Though part of you expected to use this to his advantage; to go over how your last visit went and the lingering feeling of having professed indirectly required confrontation — then again, it wasn’t exactly the first time the two of you indulged in a very elusive discourse about matters of the heart. But at least you got to say it again, right? I mean not hearing it back is nothing new.

You hear him sigh, whether it was relief or frustration it hardly mattered. He was gonna chew you off you and you knew it. He’s probably at his wit’s end having to come to your rescue for what, the third time now in a month? You’ve already quit bounty hunting because Plo pulled the ‘I would rather you indulge my father in managing the hatchery in Dorin’ card. I mean who wouldn’t? You get to spend time with Dorin’s most charming Kel Dor, who has been quite-like a father to you with little knowledge that he’s about to become your father-in-law if Plo would just stop being a Jedi Master for a hot minute. That, and the fact that you get to help Dorin rebuild their population through the hatchery — not your more preferred method of helping since you’re pretty set on the fact that Plo is quite virile.

Even wishful thinking of him has deterred you from your further decline even for the fleeting moment of his visit. As for how long it’ll last, the daunting possibility of how grave the next ‘episode’ would be, looms about.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” It was more of a statement than an inquiry. You knew he was upset just from the fact that he hadn't approached you yet or had spoken much. Not many knew how chatty Plo Koon can be or how mischievous or playful he truly is behind the ever well-behaved aristocratic demeanor. You lowered your as your teeth sank to the bottom of your lip apologetically as you continued. “I understand if you are. I’d be mad at me too.”

“Good. Then we can move forward.” Plo Koon replies, true to his no-attachment Jedi teachings that infuriated you more than anything. And he knew; he knew how to drive you so far up the wall, you sometimes wish he just would — drive you up the wall and impale you on some 13-inch goodness of Kel Dor dic— “Oof!”

“Plo, what the fu—.!”

Plo Koon had very uncharacteristically whacked you with a miniature version of himself in the form of a plushie. Yes, your beloved three-hundred and eighty-four year-old Kel Dor childhood friend who makes you feel things that the Order would frown upon, has brought you the greatest gift that he could and could not give — himself.

“Oh, you are clever. Clever, clever, clever.”

And just like that, he had completely flipped your mood in ways you had not anticipated. The ever-wise, patient, kind, and doting Jedi Master had struck again. He didn’t need to say anything to convey his unwavering presence in your life and how he’d continue to be there in ways you’d need him; be it an amicable sense of support and an ear to ramble onto or the carnal sense of allowing you to peruse his entire existence in smutty stories in your head as long as they’d keep you occupied to leave no room for thoughts that he believed shouldn’t be there. He knew — knew you like the back of his own hand.

“Though I must say I did not have the heart to have that made anatomically correct.”

With a dramatic and proud pause, Plo makes his way to sit beside you, pushing you quite forcefully to give him room on the bed. Leaning to rest his back against the same pile of fluffed pillows as his arm wandered around your waist, he made himself further comfortable by crossing his boots beside yours at the edge. A subtle clear of the throat had you leaning your temple onto his shoulder, chuckling amused as he continued his seemingly required narrative.

“I’m sure you’re quite aware of how it would be highly inappropriate to make it so.”

He made a gesture to measure the length of the Plo-plushie’s leg, extending quite a leap past it as if you didn’t know how impeccably well-endowed he is that you need a visual. “Then again, I get the feeling this little one will be subjected to being defiled in the most… intimate of ways with or without… a certain appendage.”

“Plo, you prude, old man. Just say it. Say ‘cock’. Say ‘cock’ right now and I swear on all things encompassing our centuries-old friendship I will cease all attempts of killing myself.”

Plo had never seen such sternness and determination in your eyes that you actually had him caught off-guard for once. Torn between addressing your suicidal thoughts and the fact that the proposed resolution is so ludicrous that he was actually considering it knowing how you operate. You’ve had this chase of making him purposely say filth as it gives you delight beyond comprehension to have the dignified and highly revered Jedi Master General succumb to such sinful treats. Not that he was above such things, but they weren’t exactly preferred in his vocabulary.

“These… thoughts, my dear. Are they frequent?” It was enough to melt your heart among all the things Plo Koon. You’ve loved him for so long you’d let him stab you in the gut for fun — not that he’d do it, of course. Genuine concern etched over the creases of his face and the tenderness of his free hand caressing the back of yours that held the adorable toy. “Has something happe—.”

“Plo, I swear. Just say co—”

“Duche—”

“Plo.”

“Duch.”

“Just say—”

“Little love, please let’s tal—”

“Ep! Ep! Ep! We don’t say things like that in public.”

“Yes, we surely do not say things like that in public.”

The impasse called for silence. Lucky you, you had a little Plo-plushie to play with. You folded the plushie’s arms to cross over his chest, holding it down with one hand while the other pressed down over its forehead making it look disgruntled. “There we go. Now there’s two of you.”

“Indeed.” Plo Koon replies, taking the hint of your uneasiness and unwillingness to divulge the woes of your existence just yet. “Though I do not as such, little love.” He adds, reaching to adjust the split-legged plushie, into a more self-respecting fashion.

“You do not sit like that!” You replied incredulously. “Not with your —”

“But I do, my sweet. I do not, as you young ones call ‘mansplain’ in spite of being well endowed with a very large cock…—alorum behavior, which by the way is very much unlike me. I am but a humble Jedi with humble needs.”

The excitement in your eyes bloomed with laughter, shaking your head with a well-deserved slow-clap offered to the improper-elusive Kel Dor Jedi Master. He joins in the chorus of your blissful giggle with a hearty rumble of his own and a playfully pompous nod of acknowledgement of yet again another triumph.

“By the stars, I love you.” You sigh, dreamily as you feel the light creep through the darkened veins of your soul — truly a Jedi’s work at play. “I just… I love you. I love you so much I can’t.. I can’t….”

But as quick as the light bore once more into the shadowy depths of depression, you began fanning yourself in an attempt to suppress an outpour. Your eyes welled up and you began gasping for air as you tried your very best to stifle the whimper than turned to disheartened groans of pain, until you had begun to cry so profusely, your body shook in a mix of incoherent emotions.

You mumbled in between tearful pleas of asking Plo to make “it” stop, to do something because it wasn’t what you wanted right now. You threw in painful lines in jest, innuendos and petty attempt to restart the banter, self-deprecating jokes and nostalgic references etched like core memories between the two of you in your younger years— the last thing you wanted was for your time with Plo to end on a bitter note knowing he’d have to leave soon.

He held you tighter than what your knitted frames would allow, a little more and he’d have crushed you and as much you knew within yourself you wanted nothing more than to be turned to dust by a certain Kel Dor’s embrace, your tears seem to be the undisputed victor.

You felt the weight of his head over your crown, the scent of him filling your senses as you head your drenched face onto the side of his neck while your arms latched onto the toy, squeezing it in your own embrace. You wanted it so badly to be him, but you couldn’t bring it upon yourself to bestow him guilt of being limited in the gesture as to comply with the teachings of the Order. You wouldn’t dare put him in that predicament. And so you held the toy version of him imperviously close to you as if suffocating the poor little thing.

And then it happened.

“I know it baby, i’ll be a star And then you’ll be all mine And they won’t be able to take you from me”

You have been a fan of Mimi Mirage for as long as you can remember. The day you saw a poster of her at a record shop, you were so drawn that you purchased all four of her albums and had it on repeat that at some point, you were sure Plo Koon fancied a song or two from one of the most played albums when he’d come over. He’d also taken upon this interest of yours to spoil you Mimi Mirage merch, using his connections to procure signed copies. Plo had also made it a point to frame them because it’ll wear less if unexposed — all for your benefit, of course.

“I’m gonna make this planet pink I don’t care what they think I’m gonna make this planet pink”

You started to laugh in between a now fully-developed hiccup from all the crying and hyperventilating. You sniffled, whimpered, giggled, and even sorted a little at how off-key and weird it sounded being sung by your beloved Kel Dor friend. He continued, straining to get the key right and endure the missing words with hums and guesses that had you laughing as your face remained nuzzled on the side of his neck.

“You’ll be mine”

He mouthed the words slower over the specified lyric, the spurs of his clawed hand drawing idle patterns over the small of your back while the other purchased your cheek with a thumb strumming sweetly over the corner of your lip.

“I’ll take the risk”

You turned to receive a rather affectionate gaze, his thumb in a continuous stroke over the fullness of your lips from corner to corner. The weight of him heavy over your own forehead; turning, tossing, seeking that perfect angle for you to feel the contrast of the cold, stannic mask and warmth of the little exposed skin on his face. You could feel the protective lenses over his eyes push against the bone of your brow until he found that perfect spot to nest half of his face onto half of yours.

Your lips curve into a smile, then parted to utter more serene titter as you hear that luxuriously rare, short, single-syllabled chuckle of his that made you just wanna bear ninety-nine of his babies. But unfortunately, this little space-face-press shenanigans would pardon him from depriving her auditory needs to hear more of Mimi Mirage’s Planet Pink butchered by an esteemed member of the council, General of the 104th Battalion, and Jedi Master of great tenure and importance.

“Sing, old man.”

You whined with a pout — to which you then blushed from Plo Koon’s response of pushing the tip of his thumb between your parted mouth to shut you up. After all, you asked him to sing and you best listen. With a sigh of defeat and amusement in one, he dipped his thumb further enough to feel an earnest tongue brush onto the pad of his digit.

You hear an evenly rare grunt that had you bite your lip as if to savor the fleeting touch that descended excruciatingly slow down your chin and delicately along the column of your throat.

Flustered beyond recognition, you feel the heat pool between your legs as his tone takes a chasmic turn. Spurs slithered along the expanse of your neck until he had collared his hold around you with a verily gentle and mindful squeeze. The gesture merited an sultry groan of approval and encouragement, accompanied by an elevated hissing sound from your smaller frame.

“Must I say the words, little love?”

You were too intoxicated to respond that all you could was a well-surrendered hum.

“I….”

In spite of the nearly losing all inhibition with the faintest of force applied over your neck, you draw your sight back as if to peer through the decorative holes of his protective eye-wear and gaze upon the windows of his soul. Your heart quickened further, anticipation built on the very hill you’ve silently swore to die on for this make or break turn of events.

Has the day come for him to finally say it?

You whispered the very words you’ve often given him, the endless ‘I love you’s’ that were often replied with “I knows” and “thank yous”. Days when you’d want to wring his neck or stuff him inside your pocket and whisk him away from the Order — days unlike today where he knew exactly what to say to make it all better. To make all the pain go away and allow herself to redemption to start anew. Today, he said the words… to Mimi Mirage’s Pink Planet in the perfect key and timing.

“I wanna be your dream girl I’m gonna be your dream girl”

Plo distangles himself from you, his hand cupping his antiox mask with a hearty laugh before rubbing his temples and taking a seat on the couch beside the bed.

Nothing in this world would have made you feel better and would have rid you of the storm that brewed in your apartment for weeks than to hear your favorite three-hundred and eighty-four year-old Kel Dor Jedi utter the words “I wanna be your dream girl, I’m gonna be your dream girl.”

The room was soon an echo of you laughing so hard you wept a little. Then complained that your cheeks stung and that your stomach felt knotted from having to crease up. You’ve also boldly asked him to sing more of it — of which he politely declined, responding of talks of copyright and apprehension in jest.

As you simmer down and the minutes turn to hours of light conversation, you sigh and ready yourself for a nap. It had been such an exhausting week and with sleep finally blessing her with attendance, she turned to his side and momentarily watched him in his meditative state. With a yawn and a kiss to the little one (Plo-plushie), your eyes grow heavy.

Part of you wanted to wake him up and confess what it was that had gotten you down this rabbit hole of misery, paranoia, anxiety, and immense sadness, but you weren’t his burden to bear. You weren’t anyone’s burden to bear.

Your eyes finally submit, once more enveloped in darkness as your voice fades to a whisper. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I just don’t know where home is anymore, Plo. I don’t know where you are in my life anymore either. But you don’t have to know that…”

Unbeknownst to you, Plo knew exactly what the answer was.

And just as you have drifted to the land of dreams, his hand hovers over yours, light enough to touch but never wake you.

“Right here.” He says.

“Right here.”

NPT. @saengak @amorfista @eyecandyeoz @kimiheartblade @t3mpest98 @starrrgazingbunny @exosorcery @eloquentmoon @plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows @daddycephalopod @quiglettt @mild-disorganization @reader6898 @matookahitaki @ghostperson69 @notthestarwar @sev-on-kamino @sofir-kefir @veny-many @daimyosprincess @pickleprickle @baufraus @bobaprint @storm89 @arcsimper5 @what-i-meant-to-say @keebeees @omaano

#♝#dukeoftheblackstar #plo koon #plo koon x reader #plo koon x you #plo koon fic #plokoon #plo koon/reader #plokoon/reader #plokoonfic #plokoon/you #ρℓσ∂υ¢н #plo koon ficlet #plo koon x oc #plo koon/oc #there's a very handsome hubby-material Kel Dor Jedi Master General in there bearing gifts if you look really hard ♥

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hezzabeth · 5 months

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One of the hardest bits when writing this part involved translating everything Isabeau said into fake medieval talk.

"Is she going to keep talking like that?" Revati whispered to Aurora.

"Yes, and it's adorable," Aurora whispered back.

"Ask her about the naked people and my tent," whispered Brigadeiro.

"You should probably ask her yourself," Aurora whispered, and Bridgadeiro let go of the cart to chase after Isabeau.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Revati asked Dityaa, who was busy singing to the bees.

"I suppose so, although I feel a little conflicted about burning it," Dityaa admitted.

"It's just a glorified storage container, Didi," Revati reminded her as Dityaa helped her push the back of the cart.

"A storage container I grew in for nine months! And isn't it strange that it walked all this way to find me? Why would it do that if it was really empty?" Dityaa asked.

"Because you're probably a heroine with an extraordinary destiny," Revati replied sarcastically.

"Do you really think so? You know this does explain how close our ages are," Dityaa remarked.

"Does it?" Revati grunted as they finished walking through the archway.

Beyond the archway was a cramped market filled with hundreds of people.

Hundreds of people.

They hung off the balconies above, spilling out of the open shops.

"How…" Revati trailed off.

Whistleton only had around eighty residents.

Shakespeare lane had less than fifty.

Revati never remembered such intense crowds from her childhood.

"Sister Morganna, a firm believer in the redemption of the lost and the mending of the broken. Our noble knights venture into the wastelands once a fortnight in quest of such souls," Isabeau explained.

"Sister Morganna? I thought she was some sort of duchess," Dityaa asked.

"Sister Morganna, in the wake of the tempest's fury, discovered a divine calling, and in her unwavering devotion, she cast aside the reign of kings and queens," Isabeau replied, gesturing vaguely to a tapestry hanging from one of the balconies.

The tapestry depicted a woman wearing a crimson headdress.

Her hands were clasped together, and she was surrounded by a golden circle.

She seemed to stare at the crowd with judgmental devotion.

"Really? When the tornado killed my father, Amma said God is probably dead, and Nanni slapped her," Revati recalled as they moved the cart between two stalls.

"The blacksmith is down yonder lane. I shall take my leave of thee," Isabeau said before kissing Aurora on the cheek.

"Will you come? The lad wishes to procure his tent," she asked, nodding at Aurora and Bridgadeiro.

"Yes, we'll be back in this spot in an hour," Aurora said firmly to Revati.

The two sisters watched as Bridgadeiro, Aurora, and Isabeau melted into the crowd.

"Well, she seems very nice, not sure what she was saying most of the time... but very nice," Dityaa remarked as they headed down the alleyway.

"Oh, she's awful, she must be an amazing kisser," Revati replied as they walked down the alley.

Revati realized that Isabeau had led them to what was once the "demonstration" area.

Back before the invasion, it was the quietest, dullest part of the park.

People only ever went there to escape the thrumming crowds or buy very specific souvenirs.

Now, however, it was bustling with activity.

People were walking out of the stonemason shop holding tiny marble dragons.

Through a window, Revati spied other shoppers in the candle shop.

Ladies were gossiping outside the weaver's, some holding rolls of fabric.

In the center of it all lay the blacksmith forge.

A faded white sign reading "Emberforge" marked the entrance.

Revati pushed open the heavy doors, and a wave of coal-scented heat assaulted them.

"No more orders today, come back next week," the blacksmith remarked.

"Afternoon, Camilo," Revati said, and the blacksmith spun around.

The last time Revati saw the blacksmith, his hair had been a smooth inky black.

Now, however, it was specked with grey, and lines had blossomed around his dark eyes.

"Dear God, is that you? Is that my little Revati Sheikh?" He cried, clapping his hands over his mouth.

"Yes, it's me, Uncle," Revati said with a small smile.

"And Dityaa! Our princess!" Camilo gasped, and Dityaa smiled.

Camilo stared at them both again, completely astonished, before grabbing Revati in a tight hug.

Suddenly, Revati was seven years old again.

After trading in the pub, father would head to the Blacksmiths.

Jay and Camilo would then play around of chess together while Revati read next to the fire.

Sometimes Dityaa came as well, although she complained about the soot getting on her dress.

When Revati turned seven, Camilo had presented her with a lump of coal.

"How did you get in here? Sister Morganna's men keep a tight lid on things," Camilo said, releasing Revati only to move on to hug Dityaa.

"We snuck in! But why did Morganna cut us all off? She obviously lets other people in from the wastelands," Dityaa asked, and Camilo shrugged.

"No idea! Probably has something to do with her crazy love of a fictional deity! She also makes everyone speak like they have plums in their mouths," Camilo replied before noticing the cart.

"Is that something for me? I'm assuming you wouldn't risk your lives just to visit an old man?" Camilo asked.

"We need you to melt this down," Revati said, nodding at Bridgadeiro, who pushed off the old fabric holding the android.

Camilo's eyes widened with shock, and his lips quivered.

"I see," he whispered before rushing to the forge's door to lock them with a massive bar.

"So can you do it? Nanni is worried about what Amma will do when she sees it," Revati asked, and Camilo shook his head.

"No, the forge wouldn't be hot enough! It's built to withstand the extreme temperatures of Mars! You would have to throw it into a volcano," Camilo replied, stopping down to examine the android's broken legs.

"Great, the nearest volcano is at least a three-day walk away," sighed Revati.

Camilo looked up.

"I can repair it," he finally said.

"Oh, I don't think Mother would want that," Dityaa giggled nervously.

"I could easily turn it into autopilot mode, fix its legs, and give it a polish!" Camilo smiled eagerly.

"And it wouldn't be connected to any artificial intelligence signal clouds?" Revati asked suspiciously.

"An old model like this? Highly unlikely," Camilo said before, in a deft movement, he picked the android up, throwing it on the stone workbench.

"It was doing incredibly things before it broke down, blathering cryptic rhymes," Revati admitted.

Camilo bustled over to the android's face, pressing down on its eyes with his fingers. With a hiss, the faceplate opened, revealing a mass of dead wires and a small glass screen.

"See, this is the problem, the receiver model hasn't been locked," he said, gesturing to a small green chip with a tiny glass red center.

Revati exchanged a completely confused look with her sister.

"How do you know this? You're a blacksmith," Revati pointed out, and Camilo chuckled.

"Before the invasion, I was a Robophysician; when the appliances invaded, I was up on the roof healing the clockwork dragon's bolt rot," Camilo replied, gesturing to the chip.

"The receiver modules are designed to receive signals from the baby's parents," he said, pointing at the chip, and then he pointed at several scorched wires.

"The only problem is when the android is left unlocked, it can receive signals from everywhere! You were probably hearing a distant signal from the..." Camilo paused and looked at his phone.

The android did nothing.

"Of course, that always ends up frying the robot's processors," Camilo admitted, gesturing to the blackened wires.

Revati peered down at the mess and tangle. Revati knew that her sister was born near Mangalrajya. This robot, this thing would have had to walk for months to reach Olde Landon. No wonder its legs were glowing stumps.

"Can you fix it?" Revati asked.

"Yes, I have some wires I cannibalized from the dragon… but it will take at least a day," Camilo replied.

"Sissy! Nanny said we should melt it," Dityaa protested.

"Nanni is obviously lying to us, the appliances tried to assassinate you twice! You have this weird supernatural power! This android could have answers," Revati pointed out.

"I don't really care about answers," Dityaa replied.

"Well, I do! If something weird is going on, I need to know so I can protect our people," Revati said firmly, and Dityaa sighed.

"Fine! Fix it then," Dityaa waved, and Camilo smiled.

"Fantastic! How will you be paying?" He asked.

"Paying? You want me to pay?" Revati asked, and Camilo nodded.

"This is going to take a lot of work," he replied.

"We have a large supply of strawberries; Aurora will drop them off next time she visits," Revati said, and Camilo clapped his hands with delight.

"Let's get to work! I want to give her anti-gravity floating boots to replace the broken legs!" Camilo smiled.

Outside the forge, the air was growing damp and cold. Night was inching closer, and Dityaa shivered, running her bare arms.

"You should have brought a jacket, that dress barely reaches past your elbows," Revati pointed out, and Dityaa scowled.

"Where did everyone go?" Dityaa asked instead.

Dityaa was right; the bustling lane was almost completely empty.

"I don't know, church? They did say Lady Morganna has gone all religious," Revati guessed.

Revati's understanding of medieval London religion was spotty at best. Revati's father was a Shakta Hindu who had brought his family's idol right across Mars. It was a small idol depicting the goddess Shakta dressed in gold. Every morning, Jay would carefully wash the idol before anointing it with lemon juice. When Jay died, Amma had shoved the idol under a chair. Dityaa was the only one who pulled it out and began bathing it again.

"It seems too quiet for church, no one's yelling over the loudspeaker," Dityaa pointed out as they stepped back into the castle's main square.

The entire crowd had grown eerily quiet, standing still, facing an elevated platform.

An elevated platform Aurora and Bridgadeiro were standing on with nooses around their necks.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Revati whispered under her breath.

“Why is everyone so obsessed with murder today? Did someone taint the water supply with mushrooms again?” Devati whispered, and suddenly, the courtyard filled with the terrible blast of out-of-tune trumpets.

#nanowrimo #science fiction #life on mars #saying farewell to armageddon #speculative worldbuilding #speculative fiction #sci fi #ya scifi #science fiction novel #writing science fiction #spilled ink #spilled writing #nanowrimo2023

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impossibleprincess35 · 6 months

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The Echo and the Stain | ch 14

[Excerpt:]

Satine’s gaze had darted around looking for danger, and as his hand in hers let go only to change positions and reach for her again, seeking to entwine his digits in hers, she turned back to him with a demure expression on her face.

Her eyes shined like nothing he had ever seen before, as no sky could compare to their beauty, and no shade of blue had ever come close to the complexity of her irises. Her dark eyelashes fluttered as she stared back at him, and his mouth went dry as he felt her hand reach in return for his and their fingers interlaced at their sides.

Slowly, as though Obi-Wan was afraid to frighten the moment away, he brought his hand from her waist and he reached up for her face. She was filled with nervousness and feelings of anticipation, and when his hand cupped her cheek, she instinctively nuzzled her face against his palm and her eyes felt as though they were looking through to his soul. He swallowed hard and licked at his lips as his thumb brushed very softly against her skin where the second streak of dirt had been deposited by her playful gesture. Then, he reached up to her forehead and did the same there, brushing away the dirt, rendering her face clean again.

His heart was pounding in his chest and he could sense her pulse as it was doing the same.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the empty space between them where temptation yearned for them to explore.

“I kind of like cleaning up your messes,” he whispered back, nearing her as he took a small step forward and his pulse sped up when she didn’t back away from him.

Satine’s breaths were shallower now as she felt an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach that she’d never felt around anyone else before. The way he looked at her left her feeling vulnerable but free, as though he could see through her and the walls she had built up over the years. Even in spite of how the events on Kalevala made her hesitant to trust in people, there was something about him that she felt was worth the risk.

As Obi-Wan’s hand returned to her cheek and his calloused skin felt out of place against its softness, everything else about it felt right. The warmth of her flushed complexion, how her pupils dilated as she stared back at him from beneath her dark eyelashes, and even the way her hand was clammy in his own; he felt at home with her, as though she had not only found her way into the heart of the temple ruins, but she had burrowed her stubborn self into his own heart.

The Duchess of Kalevala’s ethereal eyes softened as she whispered, “Please kiss me.”

The Jedi padawan hesitated for a second as his fingers combed through her dark hair and he moved in nervously as her thumb softly stroked his hand at their sides and he squeezed hers in return.

Chapter 14 is up.

Also, Alexa play "Labyrinth" by Taylor Swift on repeat. Kthxbye.

#the echo and the stain #obi wan x satine #obitine #fanfic

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tuttocenere · 7 months

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Verdict: Busoni's Doktor Faust has that insufferable 20th century dude vibe to a certain degree, but. At least it's not about national character and whatnot. Just some guy trying to keep it together as the world burns around him. Just a man trying various ways to save his soul, none of which work. Just good old Faust being oh so tired of life and finally giving up. As one does.

And in between, he summons a bunch of demons, none of which please him. He kills a guy, but doesn't really want to take responsibility. He performs some magic but only to impress a duchess. He gets into philosophical arguments with a bunch of angry Burschenschaftler (students) who don't even listen. He destroys his magic book and is to die at midnight for it. And quite honestly he really doesn't mind. He goes back home but his home is empty and his family is dead and his students like the new professor just as much.

Sollte dieser Mann verunglückt sein?

I can definitely see the Marlowe Faust influence too. Both in the nature of Faust's adventures and also in the way he fruitlessly begs God for mercy in the end.

The finale of the opera was not finished when the composer died and I think that really adds to the text. If you don't like the ending you see, maybe it's not the right one. Maybe it really should be different. Poetic.

Oh and the music is very beautiful in that post-romantic kind of way. It also has some echoes of those Schubert Schumann songs from Faust. I like it.

#busoni faust #faust in general #liveblogging #the devil is kind of superfluous here though #it's the world that drives our man to despair

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weirdplutoprince · 2 days

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Have you read the Duchess with the Empty soul?? Is not technically Isekai but it’s time travel and there is a “cold Duke of the north” that is actually an uwu man

I did but it's been a while! I remember mildly enjoying it, but I got a bit bored of it when the romance arc took over the plot for a while lol. Unsure how I feel about the evil gay couple, even if they are kind of funny. Overall ok story! Doesnt inspire me great emotions though!

#asks #isekai asks #indicados

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manhwa-animated-cover · 2 months

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#the soulless duchess #the duchess with an empty soul #yvona bote #claude azentine

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inscrutable-shadow · 3 months

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Possessive

more of reality and his trinket.

also on ao3!

He was staring again, he could tell. He just couldn't help it. Reality was absolutely enamored with his trinket. To say that he was surprised wouldn't be accurate, of course he had good taste, he was Reality. What he hadn't expected was the rush of pride he felt while watching his trinket work a social gathering. The human prince easily navigated the complex fae social conventions and didn't even need help avoiding any verbal trickery he was tested with. Everyone who spoke with him was impressed with his skill, and Reality absorbed every drop of praise as if it had been meant for him. It had him walking on air all evening and alleviated the usual soul-sucking boredom of entertaining his father's guests.

It wasn't a large party. Merely a precursor to his trinket's debut ball next week, a warmup to avoid any major errors on the big day when so many more eyes would be watching. Not that it was needed, that dazzling smile that had so charmed Reality was even more effective on empty-headed partygoers. Reality would be surprised if his trinket needed his help at all, though he wasn't foolish enough to abandon a human he actually liked to the whims of Summer Court fae[1]. He'd remain close at hand and watch the show.

"Can I help you, my lord?" his trinket asked innocently. Right, he'd been staring.

"Only admiring my prize, trinket. You are quite the charmer. Not every human would be so comfortable amongst all of these fae."

"Oh, it's nothing." The young prince blushed and buried his face in his wine glass. "I'm used to doing this same sort of thing at home. If anything, it's easier, fey social customs are strictly regimented and each social cue has a specific expected response. It turns a conversation into a dance, a puzzle that I take pleasure in unravelling." Reality loved it when he did that. He could listen to his trinket talk for hours about culture and philosophy, but it was difficult to draw him out and get him to speak, he was so afraid of being boring. To Reality, his trinket could never be boring.

"You have noticed them testing you, I am sure. Lord Ó Conaire attempted twice to take your name."

"I did think it rather bold of him to try that in front of you."

It had been, and Reality had certainly made a note of the disrespect, subtle though it had been. "Mm. I would have stepped in if you had needed me, but you handled it well enough on your own."

There was that smile again. "Thank you, my lord. I made sure to study up. At home, I was always being tested, and mostly by those who disliked me already and would contrive any means for me to fail. Here, where those I meet haven't yet formed an opinion of me, I have an advantage I shouldn't squander. A good first impression sets me up in a better tactical position for the future."

"You, trinket, think like a fae."

"I think like a prince, my lord." What a response! Oh, how Reality adored his trinket. He was just flawless in every way. Nowhere could he have found a better prize than the one he held in his hands now.

Unfortunately, one person always knew when to show up to ruin Reality's good mood. "Divines preserve us, it's Delphinia. Prepare yourself, trinket."

"Your cousin, the one that you hate?"

"Yes, that one, now hush! Ah, Lady Delphinia, What a pleasure." Reality's bright courtesan's grin had a manic edge to it.

Delphinia's answering smile was tamer but no less fake. "Prince Reality. Good to see you out of season[2]. So this is your fiancé? He's taller than I expected."

"Yes. This is my favorite trinket." Reality rested a hand on his trinket's shoulder and was pleased when the human prince relaxed under the touch. "Trinket, meet Lady Delphinia Fiothrey, Duchess of the Eastern Vale."

"Pleasure to meet you, Duchess. I am known as Prince Thanatos of House Iuventus. Your presence is welcome, and the willingness to help me integrate that your people have shown me warms my heart." Still on guard against the loss of his name. How adorable.

Delphinia curtsied. "Prince Thanatos. Welcome to the Court of Estival Splendor. Though your time here may be short, I hope you will find it meaningful." Swinging right out of the gate, I see, Reality thought. Opening with a jab at the human's short lifespan was certainly a choice. "Allow me to introduce the Viscount Odhràn Duibh, he's been visiting my court and relished the opportunity to visit the royal estate."

"And what an estate it is! I consider myself blessed to have been invited to see it," the viscount blustered, and Reality immediately stopped paying attention. The dance of politeness between people who didn't know and didn't like each other was so tedious it bored him to tears. He sparked a bit of magic between his fingers to keep himself entertained.

This continued for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. One sentence in particular, spoken by Duibh, brought him back to the conversation."It's too bad you're otherwise engaged. I'd love to add a pretty thing like you to my court."

Reality seethed. The pride he'd been feeling before curdled inside of him and turned to jealousy. The human prince was his trinket, how dare this man even think of taking him away, let alone speak that thought even in jest? His magic shifted inside of him, wondering if it was needed, but he shoved it down. His trinket had this under control, and his mother would make it a whole thing if he lost his temper at a social event again.

"How are you with languages, boy? Your Fae is excellent, are you pursuing other studies?" That sounded conversational, but the tacit "for a human" was clear. As well spoken as the young prince was, his consonants were clumsy and he regularly stressed the wrong syllables. Anyone could hear it. The "polite" lie was just an insult to his intelligence.

"Oh, please, I'm not fluent yet. My best languages are the Northland and Southland human languages[3], though, as you can tell, I'm conversational in Faerà, and I've been studying the Dragontongue. My aim is to be able to write poetry in all four. I've quite a long way to go."

"What a well-educated young prince!" Delphinia said snidely. "Divines know his Highness couldn't hope to write poetry in four languages."

"He ought to use you as a scribe. With a head for words and politics like yours, you'd do well with a scroll and ink by the throne." The Viscount's expression evoked a merchant haggling, a vulture circling. Reality knew that look and he did not appreciate it.

Delphinia tittered vapidly. "Yes, when he gets tired of you, you're always welcome at my estate. You'd look a dream in purple and white."

The jealousy caught and flared into rage. How dare they imply he didn't take care of his toys? How dare they imply a lack of education and intelligence on his part[4] while simultaneously saying his trinket was fit for no more than to be a servant? To talk of putting him in livery of all things, when he should wear nothing less than the finest of silks? And, chief among these, how dare they talk about taking his trinket away from him? The human prince belonged to Reality and no other, and he'd be damned before he let anyone else lay a finger on him.

Reality's magic churned inside of him, and his hand tightened on his trinket's shoulder. They just wouldn't stop pushing. The young prince's eloquent deflections were losing steam under the onslaught. "Again, I-I'm sure my lord has duties for me to perform here, I couldn't possibly get away…" Duibh reached for the prince's hand and he stepped back in search of safety, bumping into Reality's chest. He looked up into Reality's eyes, the careful mask of politeness falling away into a look like a startled deer. "M-my lord?" Help me, those eyes pleaded, and Reality saw red.

"Enough." The word hung heavy in the air, or maybe that was the magic that filled the space around them. A rumble of thunder sounded outside, and heads began to turn in their direction. Those who lived in the palace were well aware what that sound meant for Reality's mood, but Delphinia and the viscount didn't have the same kind of experience to tell them what would come next. "Leave him."

"We were only teasing him, Reality, nothing was meant by it," Delphinia began, sensing she may have made a mistake of some kind, but no halfhearted apology would save her from Reality now.

"My trinket is not yours to tease. He is mine, and I will decide his activities and where he goes. You are distressing him."

Duibh wasn't as cognizant. "If he's distressed by a light verbal sally, becoming a prince of the Fae might be a bit much for him. He's only human, after all."

Reality's eyes flashed and a single pulse of magic rippled outward from him, ruffling his trinket's and Delphinia's hair. The viscount wasn't as lucky. Where he'd once stood, the wave of power peeled the layers away until all that remained was a plain moth fluttering confusedly toward the chandeliers on the ceiling. Reality wove copper and glass from the aether into a lantern and imprisoned the wayward insect within.

"Hear me." Reality spoke, and all eyes turned toward him as his voice resonated through the room. "This human belongs to me. You will treat him as a prince of the realm, with all of the deference and respect that entails. Let this man be your example." He held the lantern aloft so that it could be seen by all. "This is the consequence for allowing one's tongue to run free. I expect you all to exercise proper judgement in this matter."

"Y-You… turned him into…" His trinket was shaking, and Reality felt a little bad about it, but that feeling wasn't as prominent as the way his magic rattled the bars of its cage, begging him to use more of it. That wouldn't do.

"Yes. Hold this, would you, trinket?" He handed the prince the lantern. "And come with me, I need to vent the rest of this energy." His chest itched with the seething magic inside of him, that miniscule display of power hadn't been nearly enough. He stalked off toward his training ground behind the palace, Where he could use his abilities mostly freely.

His trinket, after a moment's startled hesitation, followed him wordlessly, and he felt a pang of victorious satisfaction.

---

Reality's training ground was more accurately described as a containment zone. At the bottom of an abandoned quarry lay an assortment of wooden training dummies, as singed and scorched as the surrounding stone. Reality spent much time here during his adolescence, and though his control over his power was much better now than it had been, he still used the site often.

His trinket looked around in fascination. "Is this where you go to be alone?"

"Mm. I need not fear harming others inadvertently so far from the court. I come when the divinity is restless, so that I may use up more power than I could otherwise. If you require solitude, it is free for your use as well, though you may encounter me, which I imagine defeats the purpose." He also came out here when the magic tangled up in his stomach and made him sick, or after a particularly frightening incarnation scare[5], if he wasn't too exhausted to leave his bed. He couldn't let anyone know he struggled. It would only alarm them, he could handle it on his own. He always had.

Now, though, that feeling in his stomach wasn't nausea, only bubbling rage. "Set that down over there and step back, will you?" he instructed his trinket, indicating a wooden block about sixty paces away that he often used for target practice. He stripped off his doublet and replaced it with one of the lighter training shirts he kept in a nearby chest. He didn't miss the way the human prince stared.

"W-What are you going to do to him?"

"I'm going to frighten him so badly he'll have nightmares about me for two-and-a half centuries.[6]" He couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. By the Divines, he was going to enjoy this. He so rarely was permitted to act on an emotion he truly felt.

His trinket had other plans. "Haven't you scared him enough? You turned him into a moth, I don't think he'll be mouthing off to you again anytime soon." the prince hugged the lantern to his chest almost protectively.

Reality sighed and rolled his eyes. "It's not as if I could leave him that way. Mother would throw a fit. And I have to do something about the level of comfort some have with disrespecting me to my face."

"I can handle a few unkind words, you don't have to—"

"This is not about you!" Reality snapped. His magic fizzed, and he suppressed a shudder of discomfort. "You belong to me. Your actions and others' opinions of you reflect on me. And I am not some common faery bound by the laws of courtesy to accept any insult sufficiently veiled. I am the Prince of Verdure, and I have not only the power but the responsibility to maintain the honor of my house by whatever means I find necessary." He snatched the lantern from his trinket's hands and set it on the block himself. "Now, stay out of the way. You are prettier undamaged."

His trinket was still talking, but Reality ignored him, focused on lining up his shots and deploying his energy barriers to prevent the insect from being destroyed by the shockwaves. A little concussive force should be enough to remind Duibh who he was dealing with. He conjured a bead of compressed flame, one of his favorite spells, and launched it. The explosion was spectacular, detonating a meter to the right of its target, and Reality allowed himself a laugh and the rage to fizzle out into elation. The lantern shuddered, but Reality knew what he was doing. He wouldn't break it.

A second shot, then a third. Reality shook his shoulders to loosen them, getting into a rhythm. It was just as he'd loosed the fifth spell that he heard his trinket shout "No! I won't let you kill him!" and saw him lunge for the lantern. It was too late to call the magic back. Reality acted on instinct, grabbing at his trinket's arm and yanking him backwards away from the explosion, which hit exactly where it was meant to. The lantern, and the fae-moth within, remained intact.

There was a moment of silence, both of them just standing in shock, but once he was sure his trinket was alive, Reality had space to be angry. "Divines preserve us, what possessed you to do a thing like that? I could have killed you! Your faith in my control is flattering but unfounded—" He stopped. It took him a moment to identify the sound that had given him pause as stifled sobs. Why was his trinket crying? "T-Trinket? Are you unwell? I did not mean to… frighten you…"

The red mark that sprang up on his trinket's pale skin was distinctly hand-shaped, and no one would be able to mistake those long fingers as belonging to anyone but Reality. His heart dropped. He had forgotten his strength, forgotten how fragile humans were. He'd always had a habit of breaking his toys. He'd promised his father he'd be careful with this one, but the hurt and betrayal in those crimson eyes, welling with tears, told him everything he needed to know about his failure. The human prince tucked the injured arm against his body and stumbled wordlessly off toward the palace. Reality didn't follow. He turned back toward the lantern and let off another salvo of spells.

---

[1] The fae of each of the seasonal courts have a tendency toward a particular temperament. Summer Court fae like the Fiothreys are the capricious tricksters of human folklore, as likely to bless as to curse and more concerned with what will entertain them than the wellbeing of others or the structural integrity of their surroundings. They won't go out of their way at all, whether to help or to hurt. A human's best defense is to be politely boring, so that they are bound by courtesy and it would be easier to find something else to do than to find a loophole in the social contract to exploit.

[2] When out of season, it's rare for one of the seasonal courts to hold a social event. They tend to spend the off season "living their lives," as it were, taking care of intracourt business and spending time with their families. They will attend the in-season events, of course, but otherwise rarely travel or make contact with humans.

[3] The languages spoken in the Reach and the Southlands were once related, but drifted apart after centuries of separation. For a native speaker of one, the other would be much easier to acquire than either Faerá or the Dragontongue, if only because human mouths are meant to produce these sounds.

[4] Reality, in his words, "did not read." This wasn't to imply that he couldn't, he was Reality Fiothrey and he could do anything, he merely found it difficult and claimed the symbols shifted when he attempted to focus on them, and therefore he chose not to do so. His arcane studies tutor had suggested his affinity for runic sigils was so high that it disrupted similar processes, which made him sound more impressive. Thus, it was the explanation he accepted.

[5] When the divinity made its (disturbingly frequent) attempts to escape from his body, Reality was usually under the care of the court wizards and diviners. If his body were ready, the Divine Reality would incarnate through him smoothly and there would be nothing to worry about, but it was not, and so preventing that incarnation was paramount. As he grew older, the power grew stronger, and often they feared he would not be able to hold it back, but Reality Fiothrey was nothing if not a man of iron will. Even if he battled the transformation for hours, he would always emerge victorious. It took a toll on him, though, and he was sometimes bedridden for days afterward. The Chief Diviner's utmost worry was that an incarnation event would occur when Reality was yet too exhausted from the last to put up a fight.

[6] Reality did not often use contractions or colloquialisms, a habit ascribed to the Divine Reality's influence. In times of strong emotion, however, a new speech pattern could emerge. Reality reported feeling the most like himself in these moments.

taglist: @crash-bump-bring-the-whump, @athenswrites

#original fiction #my writing #writeblr #coy writes #prized possession au #reality fiothrey #the archfey reality #thanatos iuventus #trinket!thanatos #wip:rwtv #this is technically not whump #don't have any more workable brainworms for these two and i'm sad

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