#folly fanfic

[xmothbrothx]

A Dance With Death: A Folly x Reader fic

The first chapter has been released! Expect updates to appear every satuday and wednesday for the next few weeks. Stay tuned!

[lesbomaticlove]

[impyssadobsessions]

AHH did this for GTA event on discord. Though to be truthful I wanted to do something for this fic for a while. Its so much fun for a short bit and really set my hc on how to do Maddie in reveals gone wrong >w< FEAST OF FOLLY It is locked for registered users only.

Feast of Folly (1977 words) by CleanLenins Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Danny Phantom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Characters: Maddie Fenton, Jazz Fenton, Danny Fenton, Jack Fenton Additional Tags: Maddie Fenton's A+ Parenting, Poisoning, Attempted Murder, Protective Jazz Fenton, Ectober 2021 (Danny Phantom) Series: Part 6 of Lenn's Ectober 2021 Summary: Ectober Day 8: Poison Maddie is heartbroken that one of her inventions killed (half-killed) one of her children. She will do whatever it takes to make it right.

Its suppose to be Maddie seeing Jazz right before she fades away >w< Also this is how it looks without the eye hole...

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - epilogue. end.

dark aemond x maid ofc

work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

word count: 2k

follow & turn on notifs at @huramuna-fics for my fic postings!

a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

thank you for sticking with me while i struggled to get through the epilogue. i hope it tickles the itch that chapter 8 left with you and ties up everything with a nice bow. thank you for your patience, as always.

warnings: smut, power imbalance, religious guilt, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

am i dreaming of sunflowers - post malone & metro boomin, a$ap rocky, roisee

“Dracarys, Robyn.” 

“Dwa… caways.”

“No, no. Dracarys!” 

“Dwacawuys!” 

“... good enough for now, little one,” Aemond hummed, picking up the toddler with his good arm and holding him to his hip. “Now, how do we greet mother?” 

“Muña,” Robyn babbled, his chubby arms outstretched as he and Aemond approached Rosemary, who had an apron tied taut around her rounded belly. Her hands were dirtied with flour, which she pat down the front of her dress. 

“Very good, little bird!” Rosemary exclaimed, darting over to her two boys, a gentle hand laid on Aemond’s arm, to which he leaned in slightly.

“What’s for dinner, then, muña?” Aemond purred, pressing his lips to Rosemary’s neck, eliciting a giggle from her. 

“Venison stew and parsnip mash,” she responded. “‘Tis no sea bass, but it will do, shouldn’t it, husband?” 

“I suppose it will.” he responded swiftly, placing Robyn down onto the floor as they walked into the small cottage. He stretched his arm and shoulder before perusing the kitchen table. “More letters?” he asked, thumb flitting over parchment that was strewn across the table.

“... yes. She is begging for your return.” Rosemary avoided his gaze, stirring the mash that was still cooking on the stovetop. 

“I don’t understand why– I am useless to them like this.” he pulled out a chair with one arm, his only arm– the other one was amputated at the elbow, long healed and scarred over. His eye scar was speckled now with burns, the sapphire gone from his socket. He didn’t care to wear an eyepatch these days, his hair shorn short. He looked ghastly to everyone in the village besides his wife and son. He looked like his father now, how his face was sunken and the eye socket unadorned– just… there, with only one arm. When going to town, he wrapped a silken sash over the sullied side of his face, just so he wouldn’t scare the children. It was the least he could do.

“The war has been over for six moons, she says– they… they pray for you to come back to King’s Landing, Aemond.” she pointed out, taking the pot off from the heat.

“I have no dragon, I can’t fight– what use am I?” 

“You don’t have to have a use, husband– you merely need to be alive. Your mother and brother think you dead still.”

“I’m better off to them dead–”

“Don’t,” Rosemary snapped, hands on her hips. “Do not ever say that to me, or around Robyn either. I won’t have talk of that in this house.” 

Aemond bit his lip and tongue, eye lazing over the letter that was pursed between thumb and forefinger. 

Dearest Marigold,

I cannot wait to meet my nephew, he sounds like the most wondrous little boy. But we are still not able to leave the nest. The folk are in uprise at the lack of food and resources.

Mother mourns him. Brother has erected a statue in his honor.

You must convince him. We need him here. 

Please.

If you are unable to and do not return before the turn of Spring, I shall saddle up and get you all myself. 

Best,

Lady Orbweaver

His brow furrowed as he read it over and over again until his lone eye strained and watered from not blinking. “You should burn these.” 

“Aemond.”

“I don’t want to speak of it any longer.”

–

Spring had turned, the coldness of the nights bleeding into warm days as the flowered fields of the Riverlands finally began to recover from the war that had ended two years ago now. It had been two springs since Helaena promised to come visit– but she had not yet.

“Vaelaena, please don’t run so far ahead!” Rosemary called as she tottered down the wooded path towards the lake. Aemond was at her side, arm around her to steady the two of them as they walked. She was once again swollen with child, hoping for an early summer delivery date. 

Robyn was now five years old, helping his sister along the path. Vaelaena, now two, was the spitting image of her mother with wide brown eyes and wonderment at everything. 

“Okay mumma!” Vaelaena squeaked as she continued to do the opposite of what her mother asked.

“Vae, hold my hand!” Robyn smushed his fist into his sister’s, making her slow down. 

They reached the pebbled beach of the God’s Eye lake and Rosemary sat down on a flat rock. Aemond had fishing poles strapped to his back, fiddling with getting them off with only one hand. 

“Robyn, come help your father.” Aemond asked, much to his own chagrin. He hated to ask for help– especially from a five year old, but this was his life now.

Robyn took the fishing poles from Aemond and baited the hook– they had mulled around in the dirt a few hours earlier in the garden for worms. Mostly Robyn and Vaelaena, but Aemond kicked the dirt around, too.

“Now, cast it like I taught you, boy,” he sat down on the shore, knees bundled up in front of him as he watched his son cast the fishing line out into the lake. He blinked, remembering all too well when he had been bleeding out, dying on this very spot– his arm shredded to nothing but muscle and sinew, and his dragon drowning, sinking to the bottom of the lake. He had watched when they fished Vhagar’s corpse out of the lake, now nothing but a host of bones. They were looking for his body, he knew– they found Dark Sister and Caraxes, too. But they did not find Daemon’s body, nor did they find his. When he looked up at the sky above the God’s Eye, he was there again, swirling in a fight to the death against his uncle– it was suicide, it was… stupid. The despair he’d felt seeing them haul up Vhagar’s remains was immense. He was the cause of her death, a dragon who’d survived from the Conquest and beyond. Only to be brought down by an ugly bloodwyrm.  

But it had won the war, in short. Rhaenyra had surrendered after she heard of her husband’s untimely death and fled to Essos with her remaining children. Aegon and Helaena remained in the Keep and Jaehaerys was named heir. It seemed things were finally as they should be– and to them, Aemond was dead. At least, to everyone but his wife, children and sister. Helaena knew the entire time that Rosemary was alive and did not say a thing, and mayhaps Aemond was still cross about that. He had been furious at Rosemary for weeks after she saved his life. He was a terrible patient, in truth. All the while being angry at Helaena and Rosemary, he couldn’t be mad at Robyn, who aided in his recovery, the best a toddler could, of course. He didn’t even have to ask if he was his son, the boy was a spitting image of himself, of the portraits that had been done of him as a child, still hung in his mother’s rooms, he guessed. 

Rosemary and Aemond had wed shortly after he regained most mobility, about six months after he arrived in her cottage. They had paid a septon in the town in fifteen copper stars to wed them in the Sept– the Sept of the small village just being a one-room hut with a dirt floor. 

In town, they were known as Marigold Rivers and Torrhen Waters. They were nameless, just two bastards in love– and Aemond wished for it to stay that way. Despite his love being alive, his son– he couldn’t help but feel this was his punishment. To lurk in the shadows as a nameless bastard cripple while his mother and brother thought him dead. It was his punishment for starting the war, for being a Kinslayer– 

“Papa, look!” Robyn squealed, hauling up a small trout from the lake. “Papa!” 

“Good job, son,” Aemond hummed. “Bring it here, let’s see.” he gestured with his one hand as his son wrestled the tiny trout with two hands to bring it over. Despite it all, despite his despair he felt at his current state of being, he still wanted to be a good father. Better than his father was, at least. He had to be. He made every effort to be there, to teach, to nurture, to do what his own father never did. His son would never know that his father was a prince and he wouldn’t know he had the blood of the dragon in his veins– but he would be loved. 

Rosemary had Vaelaena on her lap, combing her fingers through her unruly blonde curls, wrestling them into a braid, humming a tune. Her tune was muted, suddenly, as the sound of wing flaps echoed through the air. 

Aemond’s chest bubbled in panic and elation, half expecting to see Vhagar from over the horizon. ‘Twas not Vhagar– of course.

It was a giant blue dragon– Dreamfyre. Atop her was Queen Helaena. She landed gracefully upon the pebbled beach. Robyn was frozen in fear or amazement, Aemond could not tell– Vaelaena had her face buried in her mother’s bosom, sniffling. 

Aemond rose to his feet, legs shaky like a newborn fawn’s. His sister was here, as she had promised– two years late, perhaps but… 

“Aemond!” Helaena called, trotting across the beach in her blue and black riding leathers. She looked radiant, hair windswept from the ride. Her face was plastered in the biggest, dumbest smile ever. 

“Hel…” Aemond echoed softly, trudging across the rocky terrain and meeting Helaena in the middle, wrapping his one arm around her. “Hel…”

“I’ve missed you so– my dear brother,” she sniffled. “We’ve all missed you terribly.”

“... how is mother?” 

“As well as she can be, considering the circumstances…” 

“Aegon? The twins? Maelor?” 

“All very good.” 

“... Helaena?” 

“Yes, brother?” 

“Why are you here?” 

“To ask you to come back. And I will not take no for an answer.” 

Aemond opened his mouth to speak, but saw a flash of white go past him as Robyn walked towards Dreamfyre. “Robyn, don’t!” 

Dreamfyre trilled a soft noise at the tiny human coming towards her, who stopped about three feet in front of her snout. Robyn reached out his hand, offering the fish he had just caught. The dragon looked at the little boy, letting out a huge sniff (which almost knocked over the poor boy) and opened her maw, slurping up the fish in a fell swoop. Robyn giggled and was thrilled, despite his hand now dripping in dragon slobber. He trotted back to his father, clinging to his pant leg. “Who’s this, papa?” 

“This is… your aunt. Helaena. She is my sister, just like Vaelaena is your sister.” 

“Vaelaena?” Helaena asked softly, brow perked. 

“... Mayhaps named after you and Vhagar.” 

Rosemary approached with the aforementioned toddler on her hip, already teary eyed from seeing Helaena. “Vae, this is your aunty Helaena– this is Lady Orbweaver I talked about.” 

“Lady… Owbweaber…” Vaelaena repeated, astonished. “Like in… my stories?” 

“The very same!” Helaena exclaimed. “I see that you haven’t given up your talent as a storyteller, Rosemary?” 

“Rosemary? … I thought mumma’s name was Marigold.” 

–

Fifteen years after the war between brother and sister had ended, the infamous feud dubbed by historians as the ‘Dance of the Dragons’, the realm was peaceful and quaint, still ruled by King Aegon II Targaryen, and his wife, Queen Helaena Targaryen.

By his royal decree, Aegon had bestowed the ancestral island of Dragonstone upon his brother Aemond Targaryen, who had returned five years after the war, thought to be dead after the battle over God’s Eye. 

Dragonstone is resided by the prince, Aemond Targaryen, his wife, Rosemary Targaryen, and their five children. Robyn Targaryen, Vaelaena Targaryen, Baelon Targaryen, Daehaerys Targaryen, and Mheya Targaryen, the last of whom was supposedly named for Rosemary’s late mother, who had ancestral roots in the Mountain clans of the Eyrie. 

The lamb survived the dragon– the lamb, in fact, saved the dragon.

[the-mcyt-crackships-brackets]

* Folly (Content SMP)&Saint Pearl (Afterlife SMP)&Death Goddess Kristin(DSMP)&Stratos Joel(ESMP S2)&Ocean Goddess Lizzie(ESMP S1)&LifestealOwner (Lifesteal)&Jschlatt (The SCU)&Watcher Grian (Life Series)&Sun God Bdubs (Hermitcraft)

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester’s Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 984

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

Warnings: A/B/O, dystopian au, non/con, dub/con, incest, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, physical/mental abuse, mention of collaring/leashed, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, death/murder conviction, show level violence, parental dominance, trafficking, branding

*Additional warnings will be added

Square filled: @spnaubingo true mates

A/N: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N II: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

PART V

Dean angrily stomped down the hallway and burst into the exam room, yelling, “Do you have any idea how fucking backasswards this state is, Dad!”

John blinked in surprise. Dean rarely spoke like this towards him as a Subordinate Alpha, which meant something was very off. Sam's ignored inquiry was another red flag. “Dean, what happened?”

“Do you know what they mandate done to prove ownership of O’s?” John was about to respond when the doctor reappeared, clearly unnerved by the angry scent rolling off Dean. “I need to speak to you privately, Mr. Winchester.” John doesn’t answer them back. “Dean, you got all the paperwork squared away?”

Dean acknowledged it was complicated, shifted his focus to the doctor, staring oddly at Sam, and barked, “You’re not his type, Doc!”  John ignored Dean's outburst and ordered them to wait outside the O’s room. They walked to another exam room, shutting the door. The doctor handed him a file. “This is the reason I asked to speak privately. It concerns your sons and the O.”

John read the first page. “The O’s file is flagged in the database? It was part of a lot taken during the bust of an illegal Pack distributor, and federal law requires spaying before resale?” The doctor interrupted, “Since I just examined it, I can attest this O is still fully intact. Heaven knows how Helms got hold of it.”

Anger crossed John’s handsome features, and snarled, “That son of a bitch! Her original purchaser accused Helms of selling them misrepresented goods. No wonder that Alpha sold her so cheaply.” He flipped to the next page and continued reading.

The next thing John was aware of was that he was seated on the floor. He knew most people would find this situation impossible, but he had had too much personal experience with the unbelievable to doubt it. “Mary’s obstetrician never said anything about us having twins!”

The doctor rolled a stool over and sat down before the big Alpha. “Was her physician at a government clinic?” John affirms the question, which makes the doctor sigh. “I bet she had an amniocentesis performed.” At John's expression, they said, “Some of their OBs order testing even if the ultrasound or blood work doesn’t show anything concerning.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Money. They use it to determine the sub-gender and designation because there are those among the elite wanting specific types of newborns. And twins with designations of Pack Omega and Breeder Alpha? It would’ve created a bidding war.”

John felt his lips moving, unable to vocalize the questions spinning in his mind. He did not want to believe the information when the doctor gestured to the results in his hands.

“I’m not lying about Sam and the Omega being twins.” John shook his head. “But I saw the ultrasounds. I would have known if I had a daughter!”

“With the older equipment, they could have already loaded someone else’s tape in the machine to fool you. And were you present during delivery?” John responded negatively.

“They drugged your mate, so she won’t remember the birth to smuggle the newborns out of the hospital directly. Something must have gone wrong since they only got your daughter, but it doesn’t explain how she ended up with that illegal distributor.”

John flashes back to seeing Mary and remembers how out of it she seemed after having Sam. Later, a shorter man appeared out of nowhere when he took Dean to the nursery, holding him up to see his new brother through its large window. He doesn’t remember their conversation, but Dean’s comment about not letting the man with the spooky eyes get Sammy stuck with him.

John's voice is hoarse. “How can she be a Pack Omega? And Sam a Breeder? They don’t exist anymore!”

“We might have evolved into civilized beings but still carry our ancestors' genetic makeup.” The doctor tapped a finger against their lips, “There was a theory that the reintroduction of Wild Pack DNA could reactivate Breeder genes within certain bloodlines, which would explain why the twin turned out a Pack Omega. She is your son's true mate.”

The doctor's words, certain bloodlines-true mate, pounded like a drumbeat, repeating in his keen mind and boarding on deafening when it hit him.

All this has something to do with Mary's death too.

“As that character in Jurassic Park said, life finds a way.” The doctor looked pained. “I must report all these results to the federal authorities by law. They will request a local retainer immediately and take them into custody. But since you have a court date,” the doctor calculated by wall clock, “In roughly thirty hours. I won’t send the results until then.”

John grew suspicious. “Why delay it?”

“I may participate in this system, but I’m not heartless. I have pups myself, and I’ve just dropped a metaphorical bomb on you. If these weren’t extenuating circumstances, you’d have legal recourse against Helms.”

John nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Are you obligated to tell all my pups about these findings?” The doctor replied yes but gave a pointed look, “Your party has left before I could notify them.” They paused to ponder a moment.

“Perhaps this is an unexpected blessing. The judge must accept these test results, negating your son’s conviction because now they’ve been brought together, their wolves won’t allow them to be separated easily.”

John left the office but slipped out of the clinic's rear entrance instead of returning to the exam room. He walked out of the security cameras' range and pulled out his phone, dialing a number he swore never to use again. It rang twice before answering.

“I told you to lose this number, you son of a bitch!”

“It’s about my pups.” There was silence, then, “I’m listening.” John released his held breath, “Bobby, I need your help, or I’m gonna lose them all.”

Part VI

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24 @flamencodiva @lassie-bird @nancymcl @spnbaby-67 @leigh70

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

[marauder23]

I cannot say enough words about this piece from Lilibeth. Her attention to detail is NEXT LEVEL. His hand on her back. The constellation of stars. Their expressions! The lightning!

This particular scene comes from chapter 5 of #StubbornFolliesFic

Hoping to update this weekend which will be the FINAL CHAPTER ❤️

Thank you @lilibethdrawsreylo for this incredible piece! 🥰

[bitbybitwrites]

7. We're going to Fire Island. It's like gay Disney World. (Fire Island, 2022)

Glee (but open to RWRB if you’re more inspired that way!)

My apologies for the delay! Took me a bit to finish this one - because it kind of exploded into something longer than a ficlet!

Thanks again to @tailsbeth-writes for all the Ficlet Friday posts!

It can also be read on A03 here.

Enjoy!

****

Fire Island Follies

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, San.”

Santana looked over at her friend and smirked.  “Lookin’ a little green about the gills, Hobbit.  You ok?”

Blaine took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he clutched his duffle bag close to his chest.  The ferry was going through choppy water, and his stomach wasn't faring well at all.  No one could blame him; Blaine was from central Ohio and hadn't had much experience being on the open ocean.

He opened his mouth to respond, but unfortunately, at that moment, the boat hit a particularly large wave.   The sea vessel bounced so much that Blaine snapped his mouth shut quickly, clapping one hand over it.  Santana swore he looked even paler than he had a minute ago.

“Don’t you dare hurl on me, Anderson.  I will kill you if you ruin these shoes.”

A young couple and their kid moved away from where Blaine and Santana were sitting, looking at the seasick young man warily.  Blaine gave them a weak smile and wave as he peered down at Santana's open-toe espadrilles.

“Fancy footwear for the beach, don’t you think?”

Santana snorted as she wiggled her Burberry-clad foot at Blaine.  "I gots to look good for my sweetie.” She leaned over and poked him in the side.  He squawked and batted her hand away with a pout.  “Can you just give me a smile for once and not look like I’m dragging you to your death.” Santana pleaded.

The boat hit another wave and bounced up and down again.  “I feel like death,” Blaine said through gritted teeth. "Just kill me now."

“Oh, perk up, sunshine.  We're going to Fire Island.  It's like gay Disney World."

****

Blaine was grateful once the ferry finally docked, a vomit-free voyage, thankfully.   He gingerly followed Santana out onto the dock, breathing deeply through his nose as he willed for the ground to stop swaying.  They both wove in and out of the throng of visitors to the island, searching for. . .

“Tana!” an excited voice squealed.

Blaine stepped aside just in time as a blur of blond hair and bright color whizzed by him, only to launch themselves into Santana's arms.  Santana laughed as she caught a young woman in her embrace, swinging her about and then carefully placing her on the ground, kissing her gently.

“Hi, cariño," Santana said softly.  "Miss me?"

The other woman giggled and nodded.  "So much."  She turned and regarded Blaine with a questioning look.  "I'm sorry, and you are?"

“Um, Blaine.  Blaine Anderson.  I, um . . . I’m Santana’s friend.”

The blond grinned and leaned over to deposit a peek on Blaine's cheek.  She placed a small, brightly rainbow-colored string of beads around his neck.  "Oh yeah, Tana said you might come.  I'm glad you did!  Happy Pride!"

*****

Blaine sighed as he sat on the deck, looking out towards the sunrise.  It was gorgeous view, and Blaine would have thanked anyone who would listen for this brief respite of peace and quiet.  There was a whirlwind of activity once Brittany led them back to the house where they would all be staying for the week.  He had wandered outside earlier for with a book ( and thankfully his noise-canceling headphones) while Santana and Brittany celebrated their reunion very thoroughly and . . . loudly.

"You know, it's hard making out over Skype.  You really can't scissor a webcam." Brittany had confided to Blaine in a stage whisper earlier.  "I'm so glad to see her again since I'm working out here all summer."

Blaine had just smiled and nodded.  He was slowly getting used to Brittany’s. . . rather quirky personality.  She was one of the main reasons Santana dragged him onto this trip.  Brittany’s latest job was as a waitress and sometimes backup singer and dancer for the Fire Island Follies.

****

“You are coming with me, short stuff.  I will not accept no for an answer.” Santana had threatened a week before.  “My lady is out there. I miss her, and I think you would have a really good time.  Come on.  You're hot.  I'm hot.  The island will be overflowing with other gorgeous gays you could hook up with.  Live a little.  You might dress like a grandpa sometimes, but it doesn't mean you have to live like one."

****

The door to the rental home slammed shut as Brittany skipped outside, adorned in a rainbow tulle skirt and bikini top.  An intricate collar of rainbow beads lay aginst her neck while her body shone with glitter even in the setting sunlight.  A tiara of multicolored rhinestones peeked out from the top of her head as well.  "Are you ready?" she asked excitedly.  "Tana will lock up and meet us there.  She told me to bring you on ahead early.   We could use your help to set up if you're for it."

Blaine looked down at himself.  “Are you sure this is ok?”  He nervously looked at the sparkly black mesh tank top and teeny green shorts that Santana had thrown at him when he stepped out of the shower.

Brittany’s blond head cocked to the side, and she considered for a moment.  "As long as you're comfortable.  I think you're fine." She said with a grin.  "At least it's not the underwear party.  That's only for the guys, and I have a feeling you wouldn't be ok just running around in a jockstrap or speedo all night."

She dug into a pouch at her waist and fished out a small tube of rainbow body glitter.  Squeezing some on her fingertips, she rubbed it on Blaine’s cheekbones, smiling at the finished look.

“Perfect.”

*****

Cheerios was definitely not what Blaine had expected, either. 

First, the nightclub/cabaret space was run by a former drill sergeant wearing a black tracksuit (with appropriately rainbow stripes up and down the arms) named Miss Sue.  Secondly, it was probably the most rainbow-themed place he'd ever been to.  Colored arches adorned the walls, the floors, the cushions on the bar stools and seats, and even the cocktail napkins.  The staff wore tight, tiny rainbow-themed uniforms, some looking like cheerleaders or football players.  (Well, that could explain the name of the place)  As far as he could see, there were lots of skin, crop tops, booty shorts, and so much body glitter.

And the doors hadn’t opened yet for the public.

The aforementioned drill sergeant was holding court by the DJ station at the back of the club when Brittany and Blaine entered.  She brandished a clipboard and barked out loud via a megaphone she brandished in her other hand: "Porcelain, you're up next!  White Chocolate, you shake your booty after.  Then Starchild, we'll run through yours again if you want."

A chorus of “Yes, Miss Sue.” from across the bar soon followed.

Brittany squealed as she dragged Blaine over to the bar.  “Oooh, we get to see a couple of the new numbers before we open the doors." She shoved Blaine onto a cushy, multi-colored stool before she took off backstage.  "Stay here.  Gotta go see if anyone needs help backstage.”

Before Blaine could protest, she was gone.

Fiddling with the hem of his tank top, Blaine looked around nervously. He couldn't help but feel like he was intruding.

“Porcelain, Starchild, White Chocolate . . who are they?” he wondered aloud.

"Well, me, for one."

Blaine swiveled around on his bar stool to find a ridiculously good-looking guy in the tiniest gold booty shorts that he had ever seen staring back at him.

“I . . .I'm sorry . . . wh. . .what?" 

The bartender tossed a rainbow-colored bar towel over his shoulder and plunked down a glass of water in front of Blaine.  “White Chocolate.  That’s me, I’m saying.”

“That’s . . a, uh. .  . .a nice name . .”

The blond grinned, the body glitter shining very noticeably off his abs. 

Blaine seriously tried not to stare.

He did.

"Stage name," the bartender confided to Blaine.  "Used to have a partner called Dark Chocolate I worked with, but he went off and got him a boyfriend who didn't like him writhing on stage with little ole me.  Jake came up with the names.  He said we were both smooth and sweet, and it kind of worked cause he was, well, you know, African American and I'm . . ." he gestured again toward his glitter-encrusted abs.

Blaine swallowed and really didn’t stare.

Really.

He really, really didn’t.

“That’s . . . interesting . . .”

The glittering golden god laughed as he leaned over the bar. "I'm Sam," he said, extending a handout. I saw you came in with Brit. Are you a friend of hers?"

Blaine nodded, grabbed the water, and took a large gulp.  "Well, more like friends with her girlfriend, Santana."

Sam grinned.  "Aww, that's great.  I haven't seen Santana in a while.  She coming later?”

As Blaine nodded, the lights in the room suddenly dimmed, and a low, sultry bass line began to be piped in through the speakers of the club.  All of the workers stopped what they were doing to focus their attention on the main stage.  A spotlight held tight on a solitary figure who faced away from the audience.  The person held their hand up, and as they snapped their fingers along with the music, the spotlight pulled back slightly, revealing a luxurious black velvet robe. 

Blaine’s jaw dropped as the person began to sing: sultry and beckoning, their hands skimming their hips, which swayed hypnotically along with the music.

*****

Never know how much I love you

Never know how much I care

When you put your arms around me

I get a fever that's so hard to bear

You give me fever. . .

The performer turned his head, revealing a strikingly handsome face and piercing blue eyes.  The man smirked as he noticed Blaine, watching awestruck.  The singer rolled his shoulder, allowing the velvet robe to bare one beautiful shoulder as he winked saucily at Blaine.

Sam leaned over the bar, whispering smugly.  "And that, my good sir, is Porcelain, one of our other headliners."

“He’s beautiful, “ Blaine murmured softly as he continued to watch the other man own the stage, dropping the robe on a particular beat of the song to reveal some tiny black leather shorts and a delicate body harness of crisscrossing silver chains attached to a heaver silver chain collar.  With every shoulder roll and hip gyration, Blaine could see those chains softly caress the man’s toned abdomen.  The leather shorts made it very apparent that Porcelain was not lacking at all in . . . endowments.

Blaine had never been so jealous of an outfit before in his life.  He was absolutely entranced by this siren before him.

The devastatingly gorgeous dancer continued to sing:

*****

Captain Smith and Pocahontas

Had a very mad affair

When her daddy tried to kill him

She said, "Daddy, oh, don't you dare."

He gives me fever

With his kisses, fever when he holds me tight

Fever!  I'm his missus, daddy, won't you treat him right?

"Would you like to meet him?" Sam asked quietly.  "I'm sure Brit or I can introduce you if you want."

Blaine was now at a loss for words, just nodding mutely while his heart raced.  Porcelain had danced his way to a stripper pole to one side of the stage, spinning around it a few times before leaning backward and arching his back as he eased off his leather shorts, not missing a beat while he did so.

And Porcelain was looking and singing directly to Blaine as those shorts fell away.

*****

Now you've listened to my story

Here's the point that I have made

Boys were born to give you fever

Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade

That’s it. 

Blaine was now officially dead.

Porcelain had a rhinestone-encrusted thong underneath those tiny shorts. As Blaine watched, the dancer kept singing while trailing his own fingers over his body, grazing his nipples, floating over his arms, down the arch of his neck.

*****

They give you fever

When you kiss them, fever if you live and learn

Fever!  'Til you sizzle

What a lovely way to burn . . .

Without warning, the audio track Porcelain was performing began to moan and speed up, rewinding and fast-forwarding erratically, breaking the hypnotic spell of the performance. Porcelain stopped all movements and stared out towards the DJ booth in confusion as the lights abruptly came up in the club.

“What the fuck?” Miss Sue bellowed.  “Someone get Zizes on the phone.  I don't care where she is or what she's doing.  Of all the goddamn times she decided to go on vacation, of course, it had to be today.  We need this shit fixed now.  We open in a few hours.”

Porcelain sighed as he retrieved his discarded clothing, slipping the velvet robe on and quickly disappearing backstage. 

Miss Sue stalked towards the bar, slamming her clipboard and megaphone on its surface.  She gripped the edge of the rainbow-patterned counter tightly,  so much so that Blaine could see her knuckles whiten even from his position a few stools farther down.

Without a beat, Sam quickly reached into a fridge under the bar and pulled out a large, ominous-looking black Stanley mug, passing it over to the club owner without a word.  Miss Sue took a giant slug of what was inside, a ferocious scowl darkening her features.

Many of the employees skittered away quickly to avoid her impending blow-up.

“Miss Sue,” Sam tentatively said as he cleared his throat.  “I, uh, I hate to be the bearer of more bad news . . .”

"What. Is. It. Now. . . " the cabaret owner growled.

"Sebastian won't be able to make it in tonight or for the rest of the week, actually," Sam quickly informed her.

“Where the hell is Sporty Spice gone to this time?  I need him and his goddamn lacrosse stick to work during the intermission.”

"Seb's found another Sugar Daddy, and he's taking full advantage," another voice chimed in.

Blaine spun around in his stool, only to find himself face to face with Porcelain.  Now out of his stage costume, the man was wearing sinfully low-rise, skin-tight jeans as well as a soft, light blue hoodie that was unzipped to reveal he was shirtless underneath.  Porcelain was sporting a set of toned abdominal muscles that Blaine wanted to reach out and touch.

"Last I heard, he was bragging last night that his new man was taking him to some mansion in the Hamptons for a week of fucking and all manner of excessive indulgence.  Clothing free."  Porcelain rolled his eyes as he accepted a glass of ice water from Sam.  "I'm not surprised he bailed on us today."

Sam frowned.  “But how the hell are we going to put on the follies tonight if we’re having technical difficulties?” he asked.  “I can do body rolls all night if you need me to, but it’s going to be odd with no music playing in the background.”

“Do we cancel?” Kurt asked Sue.

“We have never canceled a performance of the Fire Island Follies," Miss Sue shouted.  “It is not going to happen.  Not on my watch.”

Blaine swallowed.  He couldn’t believe he was going to do this.

“I . . . I could help.”

Miss Sue turned her sharp gaze at Blaine.  “Who the hell are you?” she barked.  "How the hell did you get in here anyway?"

"Blaine.  Blaine Anderson."  Blaine held out his hand to Miss Sue, who stared at it like the abhorrent item she felt it was.  He dropped it quickly and tried to smile reassuringly.

He wasn’t sure if it was working.

“He’s a friend of Brittany’s . .  .and Santana's." Sam piped up.

Sue sniffed, still not entirely impressed.

"And how can you help?" Porcelain asked as he trained a critical eye on Blaine, obviously just as skeptical of the newcomer as Miss Sue was.

“Can you play music?  Sing?” Miss Sue demanded.

“Y . .yes," Blaine stuttered.  "I can do both, actually, piano and guitar. It's what I do in Manhattan, actually.  It's my . . .my day job. Mostly gigs at The Duplex and Don't Tell Mama's."

“How long are you on the island for?” Sue continued her interrogation.

“Just the week,” Blaine reassured the club owner.

Sue stared at Blaine for a while; he couldn't say how long.  But the uncomfortable silence that stretched out while he found himself looked up and down seemed to go on forever.

“Up.” she barked at him finally.

Blaine slid off his stool while throwing both Sam and Porcelain confused glances.

“Turn.” she then ordered.

He did and then waited through another long silent patch from Sue as she made her deliberation:

“Hot Pocket,” Miss Sue ordered as she pinned him in place with a stare that quite honestly gave Blaine the chills.  “You’ll do.  You are to get your ass on stage and see what you can do with what instruments we have on hand.  Porcelain, work on your number first.  I want you to Fabulous Baker Boys the shit out of the song, you understand?”

"Yes, Miss Sue," the dancer nodded. He turned to Blaine, motioned towards the stage, and swiftly turned on his heel to walk towards it.

Blaine scrambled quickly after him.

“I’m Kurt, by the way," Porcelain informed Blaine softly as they walked out of earshot of the owner.  “You better be damn good, Blaine.  Or Sue will make you regret ever stepping foot in this club.”

“I am,” Blaine said, his heart racing.  “I am good.”

Kurt stopped in his tracks, turning quickly to face Blaine, who stopped moving as well.  A few quick steps and Kurt was mere inches away, his blue eyes darkening and staring at Blaine’s lips intensely.

“I like that.  Boys who are good for me.  Will you be good for me, Blaine?”

Blaine nodded, his breath caught in his chest.  It was dizzying being this close to Kurt now.  Blaine stared at the performer’s lips as well as they leaned in closer.

“I’ll see you backstage,” Kurt whispered with a smirk.  He turned quickly and sauntered up the steps of the main stage and through the curtain.

Blaine did not stare at Kurt’s ass as he left.

Oh, who the hell was Blaine kidding. 

He most certainly did.

****

NOTES:

I have a feeling that the actual Fire Island Follies is a men's only show . . but here in this fic, I wanted to include something for the ladies too - so Brittany's a performer as well.

Oh, and here in this fic, I kind of picture Sebastian doing a little lacrosse themed striptease act during their intermission of the show. Hence the "Sporty Spice" nickname. 😂

[loxosceleslolo]

Another First Step

or: my mind has been utterly consumed by an AU where it was Ansbach who met the Tarnished at the First Step (and one where the Tarnished bends the knee to Miquella at Enir-Ilim) so here's another one-shot. crossposted to AO3 as always, if you prefer to read there.

Folly stood before the imposing doors, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She took a deep breath, the musty air of the tomb filling her lungs one last time. A sliver of sunlight, golden and inviting, peeked through the gap beneath the ancient doors, a tantalizing promise of the world beyond.

Her mind raced, conjuring nightmarish visions based on her harrowing experiences since arriving in the Lands Between. She steeled herself for the grotesque – perhaps a monstrous abomination with too many limbs and not enough sanity. Or maybe a relentless warrior, blade already singing through the air before pleasantries could be exchanged. Most likely, she grimly mused, it would be both.

What else was there to do? She couldn’t molder in this damned tomb forever. She’d died three times since she arrived in the Lands Between and she would prefer to not spend an eternity dying of starvation and waking back up with hunger still gnawing at her insides. No, no. The only choice was to push through those doors and hope for the best. 

Gritting her teeth until her jaw ached, Folly summoned her courage and heaved against the unyielding doors. They groaned in protest, years of disuse evident in their reluctance to yield.

Suddenly, a flood of blinding sunlight assaulted her eyes, forcing her to throw up a hand in defense. The fresh air rushed in, crisp and sweet, filling her lungs like the first breath after nearly drowning. As her vision slowly adjusted, the world outside began to take shape.

The first thing she saw was a mesmerizing pool of golden light, swirling and pulsing with an otherworldly energy. It danced before her, hypnotic and alluring and unsettling in its ethereal beauty.

Then her gaze fell upon a figure, tall and imposing, draped in robes as black as a moonless night. They stood facing away, their attention fixed on the path ahead. A cascade of silver hair flowed down the figure’s back, shimmering like a veil of starlight. Folly couldn’t discern where the hair ended and the gleaming silver helm began, as if the two were one continuous, ethereal entity.

With practiced caution, Folly tightened her grip on her trusty axe, its familiar weight a comforting presence. She took a tentative step forward, her footfall barely a whisper on the ancient stones.

The figure turned at her approach, revealing more of that lustrous gray hair peeking out from beneath the helm. It gave the impression of a long, snowy beard, evoking images of sage elders and timeless wisdom.

To Folly’s surprise and mild relief, the figure made no move to draw a weapon or conjure a spell. This single act of restraint, in a land where violence was the common tongue, was enough to spark a flicker of trust in her wary heart. She ventured another step closer, the golden light pulsing at the edge of her vision.

“Tarnished, I presume?” The man’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, a stark contrast to his imposing presence. Yet it carried the unmistakable weight of age and authority, each word laden with hidden meaning. Golden eyes, bright and knowing, regarded her from behind the curious silver helm.

“So I’ve been told,” Folly replied, her own voice rough from disuse and the tomb’s dry air.

“Do you intend to seek the Elden Ring, young Tarnished?” The question hung in the air, heavy with implications Folly couldn’t begin to fathom.

“The what?” Folly cocked her head, confusion furrowing her brow. In all the chaos and confusion of her journey, no one had breathed a word about any ring, Elden or otherwise. “Boss told me I couldn’t stay with the company no more. Said I had to sail across the fog. So I did.”

“Why?” The old man’s question was gentle, but probing.

Folly shrugged, the weight of her ignorance settling uncomfortably on her shoulders. “Dunno. Best I can figure is that I got back up after I got a wound that shoulda killed me. And I kept seein’ this golden light—”

“No one explained?” A hint of surprise colored the old man’s tone.

“I mighta been drunk and seasick when the captain explained everything to me.” Folly admitted, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The old man sighed, a sound filled with centuries of weariness. “Well. Maybe you not knowing is for the best. I noticed you aren’t accompanied by a Finger Maiden. You won’t be able to turn any of your Runes into strength without one.”

Folly rubbed her temple, frustration building like a storm behind her eyes. “Old man. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

A pregnant pause stretched between them, filled with unasked questions and unspoken truths. Finally, the old man stroked his beard, the gesture slow and thoughtful. “You said you can see a golden light.”

“It’s bloody annoying,” Folly grumbled, her words laced with exasperation. “I can’t get rid of it.”

“I believe,” the old man said, his tone measured and confident, like a scholar imparting ancient wisdom, “That you are seeing the guidance of Grace. This light, does it seem to arc in a specific direction from time to time?”

Folly nodded, a spark of recognition flickering in her eyes.

“Which way is it pointing now?”

With a groan that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, Folly focused her attention on the pool of golden light nearby. Her gaze followed its graceful arc across the sky, tracing an invisible path to some unseen destination. She raised her hand, pointing towards a looming structure in the distance. “Up there. Toward that big castle on the cliff over there.”

“Hmm.” The old man stroked his beard again, turning to follow Folly’s indication. “It seems that you are being guided toward Stormveil Castle, young Tarnished. Though I know not why—you’ve no name, no maiden, no seat at the Roundtable Hold…” His voice trailed off. “Surely Queen Marika would not have called you here just for you to die in a ditch.”

Folly winced as if struck, the name landing like a physical blow. “H-hold on, mate. Did you say Queen Marika?”

“I did, yes.” A hint of amusement colored his tone, though whether he smiled beneath that imposing false beard remained a mystery.

“You’re tellin’ me that the whole reason I keep dyin’ and standin’ back up is because God Herself picked me to get this Elden Ring? Me?” Disbelief dripped from every word, Folly’s voice rising with each syllable. “Mate, I’m a no-name sellsword from the Badlands. Is she out of proper champions or something?” Folly hadn’t believed in gods at all until this moment, yet now divine intervention seemed the only explanation for her stubborn refusal to stay dead.

“A tiny pebble, when dropped into a still pond, can make the greatest ripples,” the old man intoned, his words hanging in the air like a prophecy.

Folly’s head swam with the implications of all she had learned.“I need a drink,” she grumbled, her voice a mixture of exasperation and barely concealed fear.

“There’s a nomadic merchant in that old church just ahead. Maybe he’ll have something.” The old man’s tone was neutral, although Folly was sure she heard the tiniest hint of a smile in it.

“Thanks,” Folly replied, gratitude warring with wariness in her voice. She started toward the old church, then stopped again. A new thought occurred to her, borne of the lonely terror that had been her constant companion. “Are you gonna be camping here for a while? I might have more questions later and you’re the only person I’ve met who didn’t immediately swing a sword at my face.” The words came out in a rush, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks in her tough exterior.

“I may.” The old man’s response was cryptic, neither a promise nor a dismissal, leaving Folly to wonder if he too would vanish like smoke on the wind. “I don’t believe I caught your name, Tarnished.”

“It’s Folly.” She steeled herself for the barrage of questions that usually followed, only, the old man said nothing for a moment, his silence a balm to her weary soul. “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Folly. I am Sir Ansbach.” His words carried the weight of nobility, of battles fought and won, of wisdom hard-earned through countless trials.

“See you around, I hope.” Folly’s farewell carried the weight of her uncertainty, her fear, and the tiniest spark of hope.

[silverskye13]

What's nailmasters folly out of curiosity? Hope I spelled that right

You did spell it right!

Nailmaster's Folly is a Hollow Knight fanfic that I dropped for over 4 years, and then inexplicably picked back up again this year. I have,,,, another few chapters ready on it to post I just haven't posted them yet because, as is my want, I keep forgetting the fic exists.

The fic centers on Nailmasters Oro and Mato, estranged brothers who, after a chance encounter in the Colosseum of Fools, are forced to deal with the reason for their estrangement. In the process, Oro must face down the anger and resentment issues that caused everything in the first place, and Mato must learn a thing or two about the ingloriousness of (almost) dying in battle.

It's the only Hollow Knight fic I've ever put even a remote amount of effort into, and whenever I think I've gotten it beaten, much like Oro's anger issues, it likes to stand back up and kick me in the face.

If you want to watch me struggle in real time, you can find the link here. Be wary: half of this fic is four years old, and the other half I'm clearly trying to relearn what it was about in the first place.

[xmothbrothx]

Chapter Two!

It's here!!!! Expect Chapter Three to appear Saturday!

[lesbomaticlove]

[sysig]

Party (group) party (celebratory)! (Patreon)

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - chapter 1.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 2k

i got a few requests for dark aemond x maid / servant / lowborn so here is my amalgamation of all of those! this will be a mini series!

warnings: smut (eventually, will add further tags on chapters with smut), power imbalance, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

guilded lily - cults • christmas kids - roar

It was an eve of spring, a gentle breeze whistling through the corridors of the Red Keep. A particularly strong gust rippled the bandanna atop the maid’s head– she slapped a hand to the crown of her skull, pulling it taut once more.

She shouldn’t be getting knocked over by a mere gust of wind– in the South, no less. The newly appointed maid was a young girl of nineteen name-days passed. She was known by Rosemary; Rosemary Stone. Originally from the Vale, more specifically, she was raised in the Eyrie. Her mother was a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne Arryn– the two women were particularly close and Jeyne took Rosemary under her wing as if she were her own after her mother passed. Rosemary knew there had been a deep love between her lowborn mother and the Lady of the Vale.

Rosemary’s mother spoke little of her father, if at all– she had heard rumors swirling around the Eyrie that it was a bannerman of Lady Jeyne’s, but she paid no mind to it, it didn’t matter to her either way. She was raised as well as a bastard could be and received much love from Lady Jeyne and her mother.

“Rosemary, you must listen to me, my dear,” Lady Jeyne had said just a few moons prior, “The world is changing. You’ve grown in the safety of the Vale, but I fear that… you are unprepared for your future. You’re a young girl, beautiful and you could become something one day, something beyond your name,” she paused, taking Rosemary’s hand in her own, “You must leave the Vale.” 

Rosemary blinked, recoiling slightly as if she’d been hit with a physical blow, “W-what? What do you mean, ‘leave the Vale’?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, “All I know is the Eyrie— all I know is you, all I know is… is…” she sniffled, clenching on Jeyne’s hand tightly before letting go. 

Jeyne let out a small sigh, getting a bit closer to her, their knees touching, “My sweet girl— that is exactly my point. I… cannot in good conscience let you live out the rest of your life here. You’re young, you have no titles, no land,” she paused, “No blood relatives keeping you here— you may see your bastardry as a hindrance and in some ways, it may be— but you have more freedom than anyone else in this Keep. More than I have, more than your mother had.”

The girl wiped the tears now pooling at her lashes, “I don’t wish to go— I don’t know anyone, and if… if I do, where would I go?” 

Lady Arryn took Rosemary’s hands in her own once more, rubbing small circles on them in a soothing manner, “I’ve been corresponding with King’s Landing— I believe you may be a good fit in the Red Keep, mayhaps as a handmaiden or a servant. I will make the necessary arrangements,” she let out a small sigh, “Between you and I— I’ve heard that King isn’t well, and that it is the Hightowers who sit the Iron Throne now. The Vale is impregnable— but it is also where information goes to die. I shan’t be uninformed, up here in the Eyrie with none the wiser if a war is brewing right under our noses— I wish for you to send me letters of anything you deem noteworthy. We are safe from legions of soldiers but we are nothing against dragons— Maegor saw to that.”

Rosemary’s brow furrowed, “You wish for me to… spy?” 

“In a way— think of it as your secondary goal,” Jeyne hummed, “Your priority is socializing, getting acquainted with other people and mayhaps finding a nice lover or two along the way, hm? You shan’t find any of those in the Eyrie, dear.”

The girl cracked a smile, albeit a small one. Slowly, she nodded. She didn’t wish to disappoint Jeyne. In a way, she was another mother to her, and she felt a strong desire to please her. 

But she still felt a deep pit in her stomach— she didn’t know what to expect in King’s Landing.

Rosemary was pulled from her reverie by a tap on her shoulder. It was Magelle, one of the older serving ladies. 

“Wake up, girl,” she whispered in a harsh tone, “Take this tray to the prince.” the older woman shoved a silver platter of hot water and tea leaves at her.

“The… prince— y-yes, the prince,” Rosemary stumbled, “Which one?”

Magelle rolled her eyes, “Do ye see wine on this tray? I told ye— the older prince only drinks wine. I’ll be rolling in my grave when that boy asks for tea. This is for the younger prince, Aemond. Remember what I told ye— no eye contact, especially with the second son. Ain’t a pretty sight none anyhow. Now get goin’.” she huffed, swatting the younger maid on the bottom, practically spurring her into action like a horse. 

Rosemary stumbled through the halls with the tray, getting lost a few times— what was the point of all of these damnable hallways? 

Eventually, she found her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. She counted, Aemond’s chambers were third from last.

A gentle knock on the door was heard as she walked up to it. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she adjusted the hood of her kerchief , pushing up a single, errant hair. The teacups rattled on the tray she was balancing with her other hand. She was to serve the prince– the second prince, to be clear. If she were to serve the first prince, she would’ve just had to come with a decanter of wine and call it a day. But this prince– Prince Aemond ‘One Eye’-- was an enjoyer of tea, apparently. Rosemary thought it a much better choice than wine— she found the liquid to be sour and unappealing. 

“Your g-grace,” she murmured, then cleared her throat, enunciating once more, “Your grace– your tea.”

“Enter.” a voice said– it was quiet, but something about it made her want to prick at her nail beds.

She opened the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the room with her head down. As a servant of the Red Keep, she was taught to not make eye contact with her betters unless addressed, especially Aemond, as Magelle had warned.

“Do you require sugar or cream, your grace?” Rosemary asked, putting the tray to the small wooden table, looking down at her feet. 

She heard shuffling from her right, the creaking of leather and light footsteps growing closer. The scent of sandalwood and fire permeated her nostrils— it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.

“You’re new,” Aemond said, not even facing her. He walked past her to the table she placed the tray upon, pouring the rich brown liquid into his cup, “Are you not?” 

Rosemary put her hands together, sinking her thumb nail in the soft of her palm, “Y-yes, your grace,” she replied, blinking profusely, “I’ve just come from the Vale less than three days ago.” 

“The Vale?” he hummed, “Hm,” he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup, stirring it, tasting it, before adding another two cubes. 

She watched from below fettered lashes, her eyes landing upon his hands— they were large and calloused. She heard that he was a proficient swordsman and rode the largest dragon in the world— and yet he took his tea with four sugars. Quite curious.

“If… you needn’t anything else, my prince,” she bowed slightly, “I will leave you to your tea.” Rosemary began to move, eager to escape. He was quiet enough, but something about him unnerved her— as if she was being taken apart in his head. 

“Wait,” his voice broke through the silence like a whip, “Come here, girl.” 

Her heart stopped in her chest— she was surely dead. She must’ve done something wrong, and he was to execute her. Rosemary was not an optimistic thinker. The maid turned towards him, head bowed. 

“Eyes up, little lamb,” he murmured, his already quiet voice rasping slightly, like flames licking at his throat. His hand, calloused and all, tucked under her chin, tipping her head up. 

Rosemary, ever diminutive, raised her eyes to him— her two deep, brown eyes met his one violet. She wasn’t breathing, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly. 

From her briefing about the royal family, she thought she was to look out for the older prince, Aegon, as he was known to be handsy with maids and servants alike. But no one had told her of Aemond except the warning not to look at him— and if they had, they said he was reserved, quiet and broody. 

Magelle said that he was a sight for sore eyes— and after looking at him now, she wondered if the old bat was blind. He had chiseled features and a pleasantly shaped mouth, like a taut bowstring. She glazed over the nasty scar over the right of his face, but didn’t pay it much mind. 

“Your name, little lamb?” he asked then, turning her head to the side, up and down, back and forth, as if appraising her like a slab of meat. 

“Rosemary, my prince,” the shaking maid replied, so quickly and quietly that she thought that she almost didn’t speak at all. 

The only indication that she had spoken was the tug of the prince’s upper lip in something akin to a grin. “Fitting. Lamb goes well with rosemary— or so I’ve heard.”

She felt a bead of sweat fall from her brow, “I don’t much like lamb, your grace.” 

He snorted at that, “You valemen, or valewomen, raise sheep, do you not? My uncle once said that the sheep of the Vale are prettier than their women,” he let go of her face, but not without looking at her a bit more, “He never had any taste, truly.” 

Rosemary felt her hands twitch as they came back together. What on earth did that mean? Was he calling her a sheep— more beautiful than a sheep? Was he calling her ugly? She was truly puzzled by the prince’s words, but said nothing of it. 

“Thank you for the tea. You may go now.” he hummed, turning away from her, attending back to his tea. 

A sigh of relief was felt throughout her body as she curtsied— it was still shaky from her nerves, but she managed to keep herself upright. “Have a good evening, my prince.” she murmured at last, leaving his chamber. 

She heard him once more, emitting a small ‘hm’. She could practically see the twitching sneer on his face like before. 

As she descended down the hallways, she unwrapped her kerchief from her head, her light cream colored braids falling out of their delicate shape and strewing across her back. Something about Aemond unnerved Rosemary so completely and her skin crawled as she left. 

She had never met a dragon before— how could she have? — but she felt as if he was an embodiment of one, bones made of obsidian and ash. And she was just a lamb in the face of a dragon. 

Descending back to her room— a chambered closet with a straw filled mattress— she curled into her bed, tossing her apron and dress aside. One of the things she brought from home— if she could even consider the Eyrie ‘home’ anymore— was a quilt sewed with thick, blue threads. It had depictions of the stars and moon, with little lambs and nightingales and dusk roses, sewn by her mother— with contributions from Jeyne— before her birth. Her hands traced the stitches, eyes filling with tears. The hem was frayed slightly from her habit of doing this very thing over the years. 

It was the only thing she had left of her mother, both of her mothers. Her chest ached at the thought that she would likely never return to the Eyrie, never see Jeyne again— never have her hands held by her, never have their knees touch, never have her kiss her forehead and tell her that everything would be okay. 

She was alone. A lamb alone in a castle of vipers and dragons. 

How truly precarious. 

Her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Tossing and turning, she dreamt of nightingales and lambs being torn limb from limb between dragons, some black and some green. Her skin was charred ash, her chest skewered by a stag’s horns until she bled out, wolves coming to feast upon her corpse. 

tag list: @watercolorskyy @queen--kenobi

[fandomfantasyy]

dear regretevator fans, i require your help 🙏🙏

on ao3, my current main fanfiction posting platform, i have quite a few regretevator fanfictions, two of which that rely on comments! i have:

folly/reader (angst, one sided enemies to lovers)

anonymous journaling au, variety of ships (relies on comments!!)

mach/pilby (hurt comfort except LITERALLY hurt, completed)

regretevator headcanon book (mostly relies on comments!!)

upcoming mach angst series with a variety of ships

if ANY of these interest you, i beg you to come help me out! you can find me at little_glitch !! hope to see you guys there !!

ps to any of my current fans: i MIGHT move my fanganronpa series over to there as i find the interface so much easier to use !!

[dragonfries12]

Party Beetle Fanfic - Part 2

Blue text is italics, red text is Folly being creepy (bold).

As their lips met, the world melted away. Pest hardly noticed Poob’s hand grab his sleeve, and was even less aware of his own hand sliding around their waist. In that moment there was no dream parasite, or headaches, or anger, just Poob’s hoodie in his hands and the taste of sugar cookies on his lips.

After what could’ve been only seconds or perhaps an eternity, Pest finally let go and opened his eyes. They widened in horror as realisation sank into his stomach, cold and hard.

“I- I have to go.” Pest turned and ran for the regretevator.

“Pest! Wait!”

He ignored Poob’s call as he slammed his fist against the elevator button and yanked on his shoes. The moment the doors slid open he shot into the elevator and rapidly pressed the ‘close doors’ button multiple times.

“Pest, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” Poob’s words were cut off as the doors clicked shut.

Pest shrank down to the floor, burying his head in his hands. What’s wrong with me? What the hell did I just do? I must have brain damage or something. I have to call Dr. Retro. Desperately searching his pockets, he managed to find a single crumpled regretevator ticket. He quickly flattened it out and slipped it into the ticket slot. He punched in the floor number for the subway and waited impatiently for the elevator to take him home.

Once the elevator arrived, Pest raced down the tunnel and barreled into his room. He shakily dialled Dr. Retro’s number on his phone and waited. Please pick up, please, please-

“Hello?”

“Dr. Retro!”

“Pest? Is that you, sugar?”

“Yes! Yes, I need you to come to the subway right now, I think I have a concussion or something.”

“Oh dear, I’m on my way.”

Pest hung up the phone and began to pace around the room. It had to be the head injury, it had to. Why else would he kiss the person he hated more than anyone. Almost anyone, he thought, recalling last night’s encounter. Something had to be wrong with him.

Realising Dr. Retro had no idea where he lived, Pest hurried back to the platform. He found her peering around just outside the elevator, laser gun in paw.

“Pest! There you are! What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter, can you just fix whatever’s wrong with my head?”

“Well, I’ll have to see if there’s anything wrong in the first place.” Gently, she sat him down on a bench and began to inspect him for signs of a concussion. After that, she peeled off his bandage and eyed the wound. “It looks like you’re alright. I’ll just laser this and you’re good to go.”

“Wait, so there’s nothing wrong with my head?” Pest asked as she carefully zapped away his injury, “No concussion? No brain damage? Nothing?”

“Fortunately,” she said, “Just take it easy for the next few days and call me if anything seems off, alright?”

Pest hardly heard her. Nothing was wrong with his head. Nothing was wrong with him.

“Take care, sugar,” Dr. Retro called as she disappeared back into the regretevator. Pest slowly trudged back to his home. She had to be wrong. Never in his right mind would he do something like that. In my mind. . .her. He rushed into his kitchen and wrenched open the cupboards until he found a bottle of melatonin gummies. Downing a handful, he crawled into bed and squeezed his eyes shut.

Gradually, sleep claimed him, and he was in the ominous void once again. Echoing laughter greeted him and he whipped around to face the giant red eye above him.

“I thought I might see you again,” Folly said.

“You! What the hell did you do to me?!” He roared.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t fuck with me, I know you had something to do with this! You messed with my head last night! What did you do?”

“I’m only an observer, bug. I have no power over your mind in the waking world.”

He stepped back, anger dissolving into fear, “No, no, you’re lying.”

“The truth hurts more than any lie ever could, Pest.”

Pest shot awake in a cold sweat, laughter still lingering in his head. She wasn’t lying; he could tell. He didn’t have a concussion. He wasn’t manipulated. It must’ve been the medication, he told himself. He couldn’t believe that he’d do any such thing with a clear mind. He wouldn’t believe it.

* * *

Pest winced as his stomach growled. He’d been holed up in his home for 4 days since that night at Poob’s house. Eventually, he’d inevitably run out of food and was now forced to find something to steal. Thankfully, the elevator was empty. He didn’t want to deal with conversation right now, especially since he had no tickets, so he’d have to wait until the elevator stopped at a shop naturally.

The regretevator groaned to a halt and the doors glided open with a ding. Pest glanced at the exit to see what floor it had stopped at and his heart sank. Standing just outside the elevator was the unmistakable form of Poob, gift box in hand. Pest snapped his gaze away as they entered the elevator. It doesn't matter, it didn’t mean anything. Just a stupid decision made from medication-induced delirium.

“Pest, I’m really sorry about-”

“Don’t,” Pest cut them off before they could finish, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

He saw them deflate a little in his peripheral view.

“Okay.”

They stood in silence as the elevator made a few more stops. Part of Pest wanted to yell at Poob — put the blame on them somehow — but he knew he couldn’t. Medicated or not, it was Pest who’d approached Poob. It was him who’d grabbed their hoodie. It was him who pulled them in and- Don’t go there.

Pest chanced a glance back at Poob. They were fiddling with the ribbon on their present, looking dejected. Maybe he shouldn’t be so cruel, they did save him from bleeding out in the subway. So? I don’t owe them anything, he thought bitterly, they need to get over whatever mushy feelings they have and move on.

Pest returned to staring at the wall until the regretevator finally stopped at a grocery store. As he slipped between the aisles, quickly pocketing some snacks and microwave dinners, he felt himself relax a bit. It felt good to be doing something so normal to him. He slid back into the elevator just before it closed. He was acutely aware that Poob was staring at his bulging pockets. Why do I care? When have I ever cared?

“Um, the Friendship Party is this weekend,” Poob said.

Pest forced himself to look at them, “And?”

“Are you gonna come?”

Pest realised he didn’t actually have an answer. The Friendship Party was a celebration Poob had invented as yet another excuse to party, but it wasn’t like any other occasion. Everyone showed up, Pest included, for a night of snacks, games, dancing, and often some drunken shenanigans. He usually went for the food and the opportunity to win bets on party games. He simply tolerated Poob’s existence before, but now it was different.

Pest decided on a shrug as his answer.

“Okay. This is my stop,” Poob said, “See you there. Maybe.”

Maybe.

Previous || Next