Tw: bodily trauma (Mostly limited to feet) described in semi-graphic detail, abuse, fairytale-typical violence
2,410 Words
A prince seeks a girl beloved by the fae and in considerable danger. All she's left him is a shoe stuck in the pitch he spread to slow her down.
He finds something unsettling.
********
A single slipper, spun glass that twinkles in the light, far too delicately crafted to have been made by human hands. A series of mismatched footprints - one shod and one unshod. Blood at the bottom of the steps, leading down the paved road only to veer suddenly into the woods.
The girl had run, apparently desperate, rather than stay and become a princess. Or, perhaps he had hoped for too much. How would she know the reason he had tried to physically trap her without any context? It wasn't as though he had vocalized his desires to whisk her away, merely made pleasant (if affectionate) conversation, only to cry out desperately each night she ran out in such a hurry. He was expecting far too much from the girl, who didn't seem quite like any other noblewoman he'd known.
She had such a bundle of contradictions about her person: joyful but guarded, poised but her posture was terrible. She danced like she had been born doing it, but seemed to have never encountered a snack table before, baffled at how, exactly, she was meant to grab a finger sandwich. If he really thinks on it, it had felt like she had existed around nobility, but never as part of it… ever deepening her mystery.
She also dressed in the most beautiful gowns he had ever seen, each shaped and shimmering in a way that was impossible to achieve with human hands. The spun-glass slipper he held now only further supported that. Magic of this magnitude could only be the work of the fair folk. They were capricious at the best of times, but the girl seemed to have a pure heart, a gentle spirit, which implied that they were willingly, happily helping her (it was possible she'd been fae blessed, or an ancestor had). That, however, only raised more questions… and concerns. Fae were moved by dire plights, by tragedy, not merely girlish whims.
She was in trouble.
He doesn't know her name, not even an alias. It had never seemed important, he had never offered his own, and perhaps that, too, had been a colossal blunder. If she didn't recognize him as the prince without his name, how was she to have known, even the slightest bit, his intentions?
All he has of her is a shoe, and a feeling that she was in grave danger in her home.
Well, a magical shoe will fit only one foot.
He must look like an utter madman, but dire circumstances call for drastic action. He doesn't care, really, if she agrees to marry him or be courted or anything in the end. She needs help. He can do that.
**
It is a month later and he has tried the slipper on the foot of every woman claiming to be eligible, and a few that he simply believes may be in trouble. No luck.
It is the final house in his carefully constructed perimeter, with a very wealthy widow, her two daughters, and their servants, based on what his scouts report. The widow doesn't bother asking to try the shoe on for herself.
He takes in the candidates - the two girls are well-dressed, nervous looking, and far younger than he recalls the girl from the ball being. But still he calls the first over, kneeling and taking her foot from its initial shoe.
The eldest daughter is wincing, furtively glancing between the shoe and her mother, and there is something about her foot that seems… odd, but she slips it on, and the shoe manages to fit. Then, the heel begins to turn red, and he realizes just why her foot had seemed unusual in shape.
Her heel has been cut to fit.
They think he's an idiot.
These girls are in far more trouble than he'd initially anticipated. Looking closer, he can see that scars dot the girl's face, appearing to come from bee stings or some tinctures that promise to grant beauty and grace (or so the smarmy tradesmen proclaim). Her arms and legs have similar indications, and the way that she whimpers through her first hobbling step tells him that someone has deformed her to try and carve out a princess.
He catches her by the arm, carefully turning them away from the widow’s gaze as he gestures to two of his men.
"Did your mother do this? Tell me the truth, you aren't in trouble," he instructs quietly.
The girl, trembling, nods.
“Go with my servants, they'll clean you up and find you somewhere safe to stay,” he whispers as he delicately peels the reddening glass from her foot.
He can't tell if her relieved tears are from its removal or his whispered assurances, but she very quickly begins following the servants to a small awning.
He stops the widow from snatching her back by offering to try the shoe on the younger daughter, making some blithe remark about his servants cleaning up the other in appreciation for their trouble. That seems to satisfy her.
This girl is missing her toes, the wound appearing days old, if that, and he nearly vomits as the shoe slides onto her foot and she bites her fist, body jolting as the injury presses against the front of the glass slipper. He cannot be sure if the subsequent tears are of relief that she has pleased her mother, or could it be pain at the enchanted glass pressing snugly against her dire wounds? Perhaps it's a cruel mix of both, and hope that this will free her from the woman who had mutilated two daughters to try and force their way up the social ladder.
She takes half a step before falling into his arms, and he has another pair of his men hold her and whisk her away as he peels off the slipper, now crimson all the way around.
If his intended target truly does come from this place, it is no wonder at all that any magical being is aiding her. Not if this is how the lady of the house treats her own children. He shudders to think what anyone deemed lesser must go through.
It is curious, though, that the girls have been carved precisely enough to fit the shoe he holds. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only grows.
“Have you any other daughters?”
His tone is no longer blithe, no longer aloof.
“No, my lord.”
She is furious, face reddening beneath a pale dusting of powder.
“Any servant girls?”
“No, just an old maid and a pair of footmen.”
Ah.
“You would lie to your prince?” His voice is ice, and he stares into her gaze, confident and full of his own fury.
“I beg your pardon-”
“I know there is a girl here. Often covered in ash, silent and quick-footed. My scouts have seen her, have heard of her from the townsfolk.”
“No there is no one-”
He cuts her off again, hand on the pommel of his sword. He decides perhaps she can only understand the language of promised violence. He begins to walk towards the manor.
“I will tear this building apart brick by brick to find her. If you do not produce her before I make it to the door, I will execute you, here and now, for high treason, as well as the mutilation of your daughters. It will not be fast. It will not be merciful.”
This seems to get to her and she curses quite loudly and stalks over to a cellar door, dragging a young girl out from beneath.
It can be none other than the girl he danced with, and she clutches at the pure, magical sibling to the red slipper in his own hand. He scarcely recognizes her, covered in soot and grime and blood from head to toe. As she stumbles, he sees that beneath her scant coverings her back is covered in lash marks, and the fabric - looking for all the world like a repurposed flour sack - sticks to her in painful-looking areas, pink seeping through the canvas cloth.
His men seize the woman before she can bolt, and he kneels, using a handkerchief to wipe out his slipper as best he can, offering it to her with a careful slowness.
“Here, my lady. I would like for you to try this on.”
She bursts into tears and shrinks further, scooting away.
“I-I'm afraid, sir, it won't fit.”
Her voice is scarce more than a whisper, and hoarse, as though she has been screaming.
“Why not? You hold its twin.”
“I-”
The widow begins screaming not to listen to anything the girl says, calling her all manner of names, calling her mother and father even worse, and he has a servant gag the woman before she can move upwards to grandparents.
The girl has poked her feet out, and he gasps to see what's been done to them. It seems the woman was not content merely to try and force her daughters’ feet into the mold, but additionally had to ensure the slippers’ owner wouldn't fit.
He had once, at a party held by a prince from a foreign land, beheld a shoe so tiny that it fit in the palm of even the daintiest lady in attendance, and they had all been shocked and horrified to learn that it belonged to an adult woman. A practice recently outlawed, they were told, wherein the bones of a woman’s foot were broken and bound when she was still a child, to make them tiny and useless in some display of wealth. That she was so well-to-do that she would never even need to walk.
The girl before him appears to have had such a thing done to her, the shape of both feet utterly unnatural where they aren’t covered in scabs and blood. Her toes and heels mirror her stepsisters’ both, the remaining bones have most surely been crushed beyond repair, and he cannot fathom the pain she must be in.
He hopes, however, the fair folk intervening on her behalf have their own tricks.
“May I try them on you anyway?” He asks softly.
“If it hurts, I'll stop immediately. I no longer care if they fit, I know you are who I seek.”
The brave girl nods tentatively, and he carefully scoots on the ground towards her, helping her to sit up and taking the slippers.
He looks up at her face, waiting for her approval before he begins to slip the bloodied shoe onto her mangled foot.
Like magic, it slides on effortlessly, and they watch in awe as the tortured flesh begins to knit itself back together beneath the glass. He quickly adorns the other foot, and the healing magic works its way up from her toes, all the way to the top of her head, cleaning and repairing all in its way, turning her flour sack covering into a beautiful, simple slip.
He's found her, and the fair folk seem happy to see it.
With the pain subsiding, she finds her voice more fully.
“Please, your majesty, my sisters! Are they alive?! Please, they did nothing wrong, not really, not because they wanted to, and I-”
He touches her shoulder, not lingering, just enough to give a brief tactile distraction, her face snapping back to his.
“They’re safe, and being cleaned up by my servants. We’ll allow them rest, and then get their stories, as well as your own. Fret not.”
She shakes as tears stream down her eyes anew, and his heart aches for her. All he can think to do is distract her.
“So… what's your name, my lady? I believe we ought to properly introduce ourselves after all this.”
She looks his face over, and while clearly relieved from pain, she appears only marginally less afraid. Though her lips twitch into the ghost of a smile at his last words.
“Ella. They called me Cinder Ella. “
“Well, Ella, it is my very good pleasure to meet you. I am Prince… well, my parents gave me many names. Twelve names, actually, but you can call me Christopher, or Karl, or Gregory, or Kit. Or-”
He flounders. He never actually thought past finding her. Her smile tentative, but radiant.
“What would you like to be called?”
He can't stop himself.
“Yours,” he blurts out, and he can feel his face turning red as he stands, helping her up and refusing to meet her gaze.
“Well… it may be a bit soon for that,” she whispers, hands running over themselves.
“Of course. I've just been so worried about finding you. We- we can take all the time you want. And if it ends up that you need something or someone else, we'll work that out too. I'm just- I'm glad I found you in time,” he confesses, and her smile grows slightly.
“I really enjoyed dancing with you,” she begins, and ducks her head shyly. “I'd like to do it some more, some day, perhaps when things… are calm.”
“As much as you want.” It's an easy promise.
As they turn to walk away, the widow begins to shriek through her gag, and a swarm of birds begins to form and descend on her. He pulls the girl - Ella, he reminds himself - to his chest, using his hands to delicately but firmly shield her ears as he watches this dark, primal vengeance - the cruel woman's eyes are ravaged and devoured by the feathered fiends, their little claws carving bloody marks like tear tracks.
He quickly walks Ella away from the grisly scene, and his men (having run once the birds began to descend) see to the woman they leave behind. The fae may have enacted their bizarre justice but there is still the matter of his own court system forcing her to face her crimes on human terms.
That can wait.
For now, Ella walks in step with him towards the awning holding her stepsisters, glass slippers seeming not to bother her in the slightest. As she sees the other mutilated girls, she breaks into a sprint, amazing given her earlier demeanor, but he lets her go. Her slippers leave no prints in the dirt - a fairy hallmark, he recalls. It doesn’t matter. A hopeful smile slowly forms on his face as the small girl throws her arms around her stepsisters, all three sobbing in blatant relief.
Perhaps, given time, they may live happily ever after.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 35/?
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games), baldur's gate 3 - Fandom
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Tiefling Character(s) (Dungeons & Dragons), Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Halsin/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Original Female Character(s), Auntie Ethel (Baldur's Gate), Mayrina (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate), Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate), Halsin (Baldur's Gate), Other Character Tags to Be Added, Raphael (Baldur's Gate), Zevlor (Baldur's Gate), Arabella (Baldur's Gate)
Additional Tags: non-graphic mentions of forced pregnancy, astarion deserves better, not-tav has been through some shit, Fluff, Cuddles, the inherent trauma of brainworms, the inherent intimacy of fetch quests, ptsd descriptions, Non-Graphic Smut, so far - Freeform, Non-Graphic Violence, Canon typical body horror, astarion is a bit less of an asshole here, astarion gets with someone genuinely good and kind, astarion is annoyed by kindness, will update tags as needed, no beta we die like goblins, self-indulgent bullshit, why am i even posting this, WIP, I love my dead pansexual nightmare boyfriend, idk what this is either, possibly quite ooc
Summary:
Astarion hates how very, nauseatingly kind Willow is.
It's also one of his favorite things about her (or it will be).
A shameless self-indulgent fic where someone doesn't give into the feral-cat anger of Astarion, and he manages to snag a 10/10 goody good.
Summary: The gang works in a mall in a very affluent neighborhood.
The girls keep noticing that a regular shopper, potentially a manager/owner at a store (they aren't sure since they usually work day shift) keeps hanging around.
He poaches Mina's fiancee, a contractor who primarily works with making things OSHA compliant, now stuck on the night shift but saving money for their future house, which is good, right?
Then he brings Lucy over, and he keeps trying to corner Mina…
*****
"Honestly, Mina, he's probably just shy. You know how those nocturnal types get," Lucy tutted.
Mina shook her head, shuddering slightly. "Jonathan says he's very… bubbly? Excitable?" She shook her head.
She didn't trust it. The guy had been coming in for weeks now. He was becoming a real creepy regular, always staring and saying nearly nothing, and had already poached her fiance to work for him at the high-end jewelry store/Cafe combo (seriously, who did that??) across the mall from them.
Now she barely got to see Jonathan, always too busy with work or too tired from it to do anything. Sure, the money was really good, and they almost had enough for a down payment on their dream house, but that wouldn't be worth it if he was too exhausted to be there with her. Or actually get married.
"You worry too much. He seems nice. Even asked if I wanted to work there part-time."
For some reason that just gave Mina an even worse feeling.
"And you want to go to that place? The people there look like they're even nastier than here!"
"You know I can handle it. Besides, if I hate it, I'll quit. Easy peasy." The girl winked and Mina sighed.
"Fine… but text me so I know you get there and home safe."
"Sure, sure, mom."
***
Three months later, and Mina was increasingly more worried.
Lucy barely had time for her, and had completely neglected the "I'm alive" texts for weeks. Mina only knew as much because one of Lucy's roommates would text her when they saw her slink in at absurd hours. Arthur, Lucy's main squeeze, usually heard from her once every day or two, and he'd let Mina know as well. Bless him.
Jonathan was still overworked at a night job that left him so tired he barely lived in the daylight hours. Mina would try to get him to quit, but he would talk about the money. No one else would pay a retail legal guy this much, he said.
The worst, though, was that the creep still came around, still stared, but now he seemed to be growing more confident, or maybe bold. He knew her name. Would look for her specifically when he came in, ask her to help him find the same things, make her ring him up.
The managers wouldn't listen when she complained, since "he hasn't even touched you." She was on the verge of quitting.
"Ah. Miss Mina, there you are."
Dammit. He'd found her hiding place.
"Hello, sir. How can I help you today?" She plastered on her Customer Service Smile, hiding her true hate behind it.
She hated this man. The way he looked at Lucy and now her. The way he would always make some remark about Jonathan's work ethic. The way he hovered, just above her. Never touching her, no, but that didn't make her feel any less gross.
"Ah. I was needing some help finding my things. You're so smart and good at this… your service is always top notch, as well. You're sure I can't convince you to come work for me? I'm sure Miss Lucy would love that, and your fiance Harker."
She didn't say what she really felt about that request.
"Sorry. I'm just too content here. Works much better with my schedule."
"Oh, that's right, you're a student, yes? Literature?"
How did he know that?? Lucy, probably. Or his little goon that John swore up and down would stalk them around campus. The kid was a store manager, somehow, but they always saw him on campus, no matter the time of day.
She just nodded, already knowing what he wanted, and he followed along so closely she felt his breath on her neck.
"Your usual, sir?"
"Please, my sweet Miss Mina. Call me Vlad."
"Of course, Mister Vlad. Sir."
She hated it.
But until he either touched her or someone else complained, or she graduated and got a better job, this was how it was.
"Oh thank you, sweet Mina. You are such a delight."
She wished Quincey was here. He always had a way of keeping her out of the creep's way. But he had finals. She understood, and wished she was studying too. Anything to be away from here.
She tuned the man out as she grabbed his things, the same every night, and rang him up.
He departed, as always, undressing her with his eyes as he did.
One day, she'd leave. And on that day, she'd let the creep know exactly how she felt.
Stella is a helping hand at the Carnival, not talented enough to have any kind of act of her own, but brilliant with animals and kids. She has a crush on the newest attraction. Could it be mutual?
A/N: just a silly little thing that happened when I tried to picture what these two would be doing in a circus.
****
To watch Solomon throw knives was to watch a master work. The precision and strength were art in themselves, and Stella could never help staring when she passed by his acts. It was mesmerizing, and she was only human. Not that anyone like her had a shadow of a chance of being with someone like him.
It wasn't to say she was ugly or anything of the sort. She thought she was pretty enough, in an earthy way, and her figure was one earned by years of hard work on a farm that she left only to help here. But everyone knew that the help and the stars didn't really intermingle. Not in a lasting way. The light of stardom, even here, was simply too bright for most.
She was content to watch from a distance as he performed, satisfied that she could at least have that privilege. Maybe he'd know her name eventually, if either of them stuck around long enough. That would be amazing.
She wasn't expecting to be asked to assist.
"Now, Miss, forgive me. I see you all the time, and it's really amazing to see you work, especially with the animals, but I don't believe I've ever caught your name?"
She can scarcely believe it. He had asked for volunteers as she was taking a break and watching him for a moment, and he settled on her. Here she was, mere feet away from the man she fantasized about.
"S-Stella," she managed to squeak out.
He grinned and took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips.
"A Star, indeed," he purred, and turned back to the audience. "A massive round of applause for my lovely helper Stella, if you please!"
People actually clapped, and he had her stand against a bright red wall. There were no previous holes, which was nice, nothing to try and cram herself within. This was almost too intense to be real. But he had knives in his hands, and he was saying something about remaining very still.
Not that she could move under the intensity of his gaze anyways.
As the knives went in around her, it felt… romantic. Sensual, even. One landed between her knees and he winked, and she thought she was going to die and ascend to Heaven itself.
The world was silent save the sound of metal piercing the material behind her, and she was numb to everything but the sensation of blades zipping past her, tiny breezes blowing her curls around ever so slightly.
It was over all too soon.
But rather than say goodbye, Solomon held her hand after their bows, pressing another lingering, searing kiss to her knuckles.
"You were perfect. How would you like to be my partner full-time? Nobody's ever been as still as you," he praised, and for a terrible moment she thought he may have missed during the show, tragically killing her, and this was indeed Heaven.
"What? You want…me?"
"Oh, very much so, but even just as co-performers would be fine," he purred, and that wink made her legs weak.
"I, I would love you- to. I mean to."
Dammit.
He merely grinned and pulled her in for a proper kiss, resting his forehead against hers when he pulled away. "I might just love you too."
Summary: Monster of the Week shoots s1 Dean into the future. He isn't expecting Sam to be so open to things. And why does he look… like that?
This is just a baby ficlet inspired by chats with @rpsocsandcanonohmy
****
"Oh fu-"
The curse doesn't leave his mouth as Dean Winchester is shoved through the… temporal tear? Or whatever it was. The next thing he knew, he was rising unsteadily to his feet. Where and when was he?
He wandered a bit, realizing he recognized the area. Foresty, but familiar. It felt nostalgic. If this was where he thought, there would be a bunker right… about… there! Bingo!
He unlocked it and stepped in with a sigh. The state of the place seemed to say it was after his time, not before. He wandered briefly before he heard steps coming, quickly, and was met with-
"Sammy?!"
"...Dean??"
It was his baby brother. No mistake, but…
Besides the obvious signs of aging (at least 10 years, and there were hints of gray in his hair and stubble), the first thing that Dean really noticed was the hurt in Sam's eyes. The pain, the sadness, and something more, just as bad, just as heartbreaking to see.
Before Dean could think much more, he was scooped into a bone crushing hug. It was amazing, being held with so much love, but again, heartbreaking. He had no idea what could have happened to make Sam of all people react like this.
"What happened?" He managed to ask as Sammy eased up a little.
"I should be asking you that."
"Time bubble monster or some shit."
"Fair enough. Let's figure out how to get you back, then."
Dean wanted to argue, say he had all the time in the world, that he was here, now, and could take away whatever was causing the hurt in his brother's eyes. But he couldn't. He had a Sammy back in his time that he needed to get back to just as much.
***
The work went surprisingly quickly. Older Sam had an incredible mastery of his researching skills, and so much more knowledge than Dean could ever recall even Dad having. It was amazing to see his little brother so effortlessly finding information, working through ideas and problems each. And to work with him without the usual weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth and all.
He almost didn't want this to end.
Sam wouldn't tell him much of what had happened, and he knew that was for the best, frustrating as it was. He could guess plenty. Like the fact that this Sam had lost his Dean somehow. The way that he looked at Dean, with a misty sort of sadness, like a bad scar that ached on stormy days. The way he was extra touchy-feely in a way past Sam would die before becoming. The way Sam sometimes cried at night when he thought Dean couldn't hear.
Dean wanted to stay. To comfort him and promise that things would be okay. That he'd fix it. Somehow he would survive whatever took this version of himself out. He almost said as much, but decided against it, refusing to hurt Sammy any more than he obviously already had. So he'd be a perfect helper, and try not to forget this later.
***
They were an amazing team, and soon it seemed something had clicked. And he couldn't hold his big question in any longer.
"Sammy," he began, as Sam worked on some hocus pocus to send him home, "am I the reason for all that pain in your eyes? Did I hurt you? Do I hurt you??"
If it was a yes, he'd kill himself before making his version of Sam go through it. He'd do anything to take that haunting sadness away.
For his part, Sam looked up, expression unreadable.
"No," he said at last. "It's just time. We went through a lot. Both of us."
"And how long ago did future-me die?"
Sam gulped hard, and Dean wished he hadn't asked. Clearly it hadn't been long enough to stop hurting so badly Sam got teary about it.
"Sorry, Sammy. You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sorry," he mumbled, grasping his baby brother and holding him tight.
"I'll make it right," he vowed, "whatever it takes. I… I'll fix it. Just you wait."
Sam squeezed back tightly.
"That's nice to say, Dean. But you're gonna be busy. I know I don't act like it right now, but… past me is going to need his big brother. Don't… don't change. Just be there."
"Always," Dean said.
"Good. Now you need to go back. I don't think much time should have passed, if anything."
A big rip opened up, looking exactly like what had brought him here. Dean took a deep breath, hugged Sammy again, and stepped through.
He'd do better.
The next time he saw that Sammy, and he swore to himself he would, there wouldn't be any of that hurt. His Sammy would be happy. Even if he had to do it all over by the time he got there.
Summary: Erik, the Opera Ghost, died a long, long time ago. His body did, at least. But there's obviously something haunting the Opera House. A demon has come back to play.
A/N: this is just a snippety bit that I've had on my mind for a while that I might do more with later!
****
The misshapen incubus glared from his seat atop the chandelier as the little people ran about with their manufactured emergencies. Always such haste for inconsequential problems. A wig not powdery enough, a music stand with a squeak, a shoelace too short, problems problems problems. It was all so tedious to observe, but was a necessary evil for his true love: music. Opera, musical theater, concerts, concertos… all were soothing to his fiery soul. It was all he needed to be happy.
Until he saw her.
**
"Miss Daee, is it? Like the Swedish violinist? Descended from the musicians and craftsmen?"
Christine nodded politely, hands clasped in front of her. "Yes. Gustave was my father, may his soul be at peace," she added, taking in their reactions. Glib sadness, the kind when one knows of the deceased but never met them. Good. They'd not pry into her past beyond the niceties, see nothing more than the stars.
"And why have you chosen the Paris Opera House for your first performance?"
"It holds a dear place in my heart. My parents always spoke fondly of it, the way the sound carries and the building seems to have a beautiful life all its own. It really is second to none…" she leaned in conspiratorially, "despite what Sydney may want the world to think."
The delighted, rather pompous agreement signaled she had succeeded in acquiring a short residence.
The managers spoke of rehearsal schedules, practice spaces, all things well and good, and of course she could stay within the building, yes it was fine to walk around for inspiration occasionally, perfectly safe, etcetera, etcetera.
She tuned out the blathering, polite smile never wavering, as she took in the building. Old, beautiful, full of character and dignity. She loved these places, not just for the architecture or history, but for the spirits they carried. Usually wholesome, delightful things, spectres of musicians or actors, the lingering memories of cherished performances, the emotional highs and lows imprinting the space with beautiful light.
Unfortunately, it was a spirit of an entirely nature that brought her. She felt the markings in her skin tingle slightly as she felt the air shift. Something was here. Something decidedly out of place with the musical crowd. With luck, she could remove it peacefully. If not, she'd drag it back where it belonged.
Christine Daee was, after all, the most gifted exorcist this side of Rome. When she wasn't busy maintaining her solo career, she was ridding the world of evil. It seemed a little cliche, maybe a little anime, opera singer by day, demon hunter by night, but it was her life and she loved it.
Her favorite part, however, was never the expulsion. It was when she could save someone or something from the darkness. She hoped she could do so here.
***
He watched the beautiful woman as she was escorted through his opera house, heart pounding as she effuses over the building and its charm. It seemed she would be performing, when rehearsals for the current project were through, and had chosen this place specifically for her grand season debut.
Erik hadn't felt stirrings like this in ages, but he knew well how vipers hid behind pretty faces. He tried to control the runaway feelings he had for this newcomer, at least until he could find out more. She could be terrible, after all.
But then they insisted she test out the stage. She stepped out, seeming sheepish and uncomfortable, but when she opened her mouth, it was like the host of heaven itself was singing through her. Her voice was divine, beautiful, otherworldly. Erik knew that she had to become his. His own Angel of Music.
Byleth really will do anything to help her students, though they feel more and more like "colleagues" every day, even pretend to be in an engagement with one.
Sylvain's parents insist on meeting the girl he's finally managed to snag. Surely, after all this time, he's found someone, right?
Sylvain begs his professor to fill in, just for a dinner, maybe spend the evening at his parents' place, just so they'll leave him alone! He isn't expecting to actually catch feelings for his attractive friend and mentor…
*****
"Ya gotta help me, teach! My parents just won't stop with this nonsense!"
Sylvain was into his dramatics early, it seemed. She tilted her head, encouraging him to explain.
"They're insisting I bring a girl home to meet them this weekend. They won't take that I don't have anyone. They're threatening to cut me off and disown me!"
Well, that did indeed warrant some dramatic wailing. She had heard the horror stories of noble families, especially from her Ashen Wolves. And other noble students. And the non-noble ones, thinking more about it.
"What do you need of me?" She had a sinking feeling.
"Just pretend to be my fiancee for like, 2 days maximum. If they think I have that, they should leave me alone for a while. Enough time to maybe actually settle down," he added with a sigh.
Byleth nodded, then, much to Sylvain's delight.
"You mean it? Oh you're the best! Meet me back here after you pack! I promise I'll make it up to you somehow!"
With that, he ran off to… somewhere, and she was left with a rather intense sinking feeling.
****
When she returned to her room, still the same small dorm she'd lived in as a professor, she couldn't hold back the anxiety that had managed to build since the moment Sylvain had opened his mouth earlier. She sat on the bed and took steadying breaths, clutching the ring she wore as a necklace now, the only tangible gift her father had left her, beyond the clothes she wore.
What would be expected of her? How did a fiancee act?? Would she need to be chatty and catty and the other things that all the women in her life were? And even then they were all so different! Would she want to be demure and sweet like Mercedes, or fiery and bright like Dorothea? Clingy? Standoffish? What did Sylvain - and more importantly, his parents - want in a girl? She had a crest (and far more than that, but she certainly wasn't about to say it), which was something she knew was important to them. Enough so to disown their oldest child. Did she really even want to impress people like that? Sylvain certainly seemed to have a great bit of disdain for those types of decisions…
She thought briefly about just asking the man what he needed her to be. But that seemed just as daunting. She'd never had an easy time with speaking, articulating anything that she wanted or needed, even since she had become a professor. Her needs were simply secondary to those around her, and she was happy with that. She liked to care for others, to protect. Now, to be in a spotlight… it unnerved her even further.
But she would never know if she didn't ask.
She would ask.
Absolutely.
Any minute.
……..
Perhaps she'd just ask when she saw him next naturally. They would have to travel, certainly. And she knew just enough about the world to be able to pack things that should be adequate. A gown, perhaps two? They were gifted to her by Mercedes and Manuela, who insisted she needed clothing appropriate for formal functions after she'd worn her usual armor to a recent celebratory ball. She'd tried these dresses on, they fit fine, so they would do (even if she hated how exposed she felt in them). Along went a pair of sandals she could wear with them. Then knives. A few more knives. Some very small knives. Bandages, just in case.
All in all, she filled her entire small bag. Surely that would be enough. Almost too much? No, no, she had to believe in herself. This would work.
She walked back to the hall where Sylvain had said, and waited, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest.
She could do this.
***
Sylvain wasn't very surprised to see that the professor was already packed when he returned. He was surprised she'd managed to fill an entire suitcase. Though judging by the weight of it in her grasp, it had to be more metal than cloth.
Oh well. It was fine. She was a warrior Goddess or something, right? He trusted she knew what she was doing. She was the most capable woman he knew, after all
"Are you ready?" He asked, smiling brightly as she looked up.
She nodded, and his smile grew. Classic teach.
He led her out to the monastery gates, where a nice carriage was waiting. She glanced it over with surprise.
"What? Didn't think I was gonna make you walk, did you?"
She looked down bashful.
Ah.
"Nah, nobles get uptight about that sort of thing. Come on, put your bag here," he said, opening a storage space at the top.
She hesitantly did so. Seemingly afraid to scuff anything up. It was cute.
He put his own bags beside her, amused at the sight. The last time he'd traveled with a lady, he'd had to hold his things as hers took up the whole space. Just one more thing to love about the professor.
But he couldn't keep calling her that, especially in front of his family.
But…
He realized with a start he didn't have a name for her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Her father had been Jeralt Eisner. So her surname was Eisner. But he couldn't just call her "Miss Eisner," or "Professor Eisner," right? No that was absurd.
She noticed his concern, setting a hand on his knee and tilting her head in question.
"Sorry, uh, not to sound weird but… what's your name, professor?"
She looked a little shocked herself, but it quickly became a small smile.
"Byleth."
"It's pretty," he said reflexively, and he swore he didn't imagine a tinge of red on her cheeks.
"Thank you. It will be… unusual to be called that. But I will do my best."
"What do you mean?"
"Well…" she considered a moment - always so thoughtful in her words - and responded, "you and the others all simply call me 'professor.' Or something close to it. Jeralt and the mercenaries just called me 'kid.' I… I can't remember the last time someone actually used my name…"
Oh. That was… sad, honestly. Names were important. And hers was so nice.
"Well, get used to it," he began with a grin, "cause that's all I'm calling you for the next two and a half days!"
She smiled back, giggling even. It was rare to see such emotion from her (such positive emotion, anyway) so blatantly on her face.
He couldn't help falling in love, just a little more. Maybe he'd ask her on an actual date after this...
***
The rest of the journey was blessedly uneventful. They stopped once to eat and give the horses a break (and Byleth thanked the driver so sincerely, the man looked taken aback), and Byleth spent most of that time looking around the small tavern, picking at her food, and listening to others.
Sylvain thought it was a nice change of pace from the girls that chatted every moment of the day.
They got to the estate before dark, and Sylvain insisted on carrying Byleth's case. It was, 100%, more weaponry than anything else, and he marveled at how she could hold it with such ease. It was easy to forget how incredibly strong she was.
He managed to get the things inside, allowing a servant to make the rest of the trip to their rooms. He didn't envy the guy.
"Mother, Father, this is Byleth Eisner," he introduced when they came go greet their guests.
"Oh it's so wonderful to meet you! I was beginning to fear our dear boy would never find someone! And he and his crest aren't getting any younger!"
His mother's laugh was catty as ever, and he forced himself to keep his smile.
He did note that the professor- Byleth, her name was Byleth- had a flash of anger, nearly hostility, cross her features before she schooled them back to her usual stoic look. He doubted anyone but himself noticed it, but it was nice to see his feelings weren't singular.
She plastered on a frankly pleasant smile and bowed, and his parents' bewilderment only widened his grin.
"She's a wonderful girl," he said brightly, "a fighter and scholar, you know. All befitting the Crest of Flames…"
That schooled them right back into awe and delight, and scarcely believing their incompetent youngest boy could do so well for himself. When they began to talk about potential children, however, Byleth began to look uncomfortable, and he took her arm, pulling her close.
She looked a little surprised, but didn't fight it.
"We've had a long journey. I imagine you'll want us to look presentable for dinner…?"
His mother tutted and conceded and his father went back to his chair and his cigars and his books, his usual pre-dinner ritual.
Sylvain let out a relieved sigh as they made it to his wing of the house.
"Sorry about them. They're just…" he floundered a bit.
"The same parents who disowned Miklan," she offered softly, squeezing his hand.
He nodded with a sigh, wiping his face.
"The same. Luckily we only have to be here two nights. If you'd rather not spend dinner with them, I can make us up an excuse, or-"
She shook her head adamantly, face one of determination. She would see this battle through, as she had all others, from the front line.
He chuckled softly. "All right. Well, I'll meet you down there when you're ready. There should be a maid in your room to help with anything you need."
She nodded again, and marched into her temporary quarters.
Damn, he loved her. Maybe... this could be something more.
***
Luckily for Byleth, the girl assigned to help her was kind and talkative. She didn't bat an eye when Byleth dropped her clothes and tugged on a dress, merely came over to help lace it up.
She was also very pleasant when she insisted on doing up Byleth's hair. Which was good, as the professor had no idea what she was doing in that department. She could tie it up, or maybe do a simple braid, but that was the extent of things.
Makeup was similarly foreign, though the girls at the monastery occasionally had her model lip paints. Those days were, she thought, fun. Now, however, this was business. Battle, even. And she was the best at battle. Right?
For additional courage, she put her father's ring on her finger, letting the warmth of the metal soothe her. Besides, it wouldn't do to be a ring-less fiancee.
She was so, so grateful the sandals were flat, as she didn't think she could face the grand, curving stairs in a heel any greater than the small ones on her boots. Especially not with how her hand gripped the railing. She found herself terrified of disappointing Sylvain, and second-guessing every aspect of herself. What if she was too quiet? Too stoic? What if, now bared to the world as she felt, she was hideous? What if?
The doubts died a fiery death, however, when he saw her, and his expression shifted into one she'd seen all too often at the monastery, though had only recently come to understand: the man's face was twitter-pated, as her father would say. Lovestruck, even. It changed into something gentler as she felt her face heat up. He took her hand, kissing her knuckles delicately.
"You look amazing," he murmured, breath tickling her ear.
She blushed darker and tilted her head sheepishly.
"I mean it," he insisted, and looped his arm around hers.
"Now, shall we? Who knows? Maybe that ring'll move to my finger after we get back." He grinned and boldly kissed her cheek.
As she blushed and fussed and whined, she found she didn't hate the thought.
Warden Mahariel leads a (pirate) ship to try and unite the cluster against the tyranny of Loghain - the Navyman who betrayed his king and the Grey Warden Fleets.
Kanaia doesn't let anyone else take the helm, not for any longer than a couple of hours. Sten forces her to take a rest.
*****
The Warden's Revival, a small (stolen) vessel from the heart of the human side of the cluster, raced along the asteroid belt, weaving in and out of danger like a needle through thread. Her destination was the Denerim Circle, a moon dedicated to (imprisoning) the cluster's Mages. Her captain was trying to recruit as many as she could to take back the cluster before the Archdemon sailed in to destroy everything. They would be a great help.
Captain Mahariel, Kanaia to her friends, sat at the helm, as always, steering them masterfully through the belt. She hadn't slept in a couple of days, subsisting on a terrifying brew she'd concocted in massive batches, a recipe from her home world. It had caused other members in the party to develop intense jitters when they'd tried it, even Zevran, who had at that point been able to keep up with all other caffeinated beverages he'd tried. Sten, massive as he was, seemed least effective, but even he described the sensation as "unpleasant, even for this planet system."
It was therefore equal parts terrifying and awe-inspiring to see the woman look so calm and focused after seven cups (that they'd counted), flying them at a breakneck speed through a veritable minefield.
No one was going to tell her to stop, though.
Except the resident "joykill."
As they slowed, approaching a planet where they could refuel, Sten stayed behind with the captain.
"Kanaia Mahariel," he rumbled, standing in front of her.
She startled, glancing up with a sheepish expression. It seemed even the captain needed a period of rest, if only to think.
"The lockpicking failure is taking over when they return. You will sleep."
"What? No, Sten, I'm fine, I-"
"No. You and I are going to your room and you will sleep. Before you pass out flying and kill us all. And you will. No one can stay awake forever."
Before she could object, he scooped her up in his massive arms, and she was asleep before she could even protest.
No one bothered the pair while she got her rest, though gossip abounded about whether this was a practical move only, or if the Qunari had a soft spot for the elven mage.
It became a pattern. When they docked, Sten would unceremoniously abduct the captain and force her to rest. She was no good, he said, if she was dead from exhaustion or worse.
No one said anything when he started calling her "Kadan" after she found his sword, either, but Zevran grew a cheeky smile that wouldn't go down even when he was forced to scrub halls in retaliation.
If it kept him from angrily brooding, and her from crashing them into a planet, and everyone from dying before the official coup or facing the actual demon from hell, they could do whatever they wanted.
Summary: Vicar Max is an unmated Alpha, having taken vows (or so he says) to remain so for life. In reality, there simply hasn't ever been anyone - omega, beta, or otherwise - who sparked his interest for more than just a romp. As a priest, of course, it is his duty to aid those in times of distress, and as he has done in the past, he offers his services to this new captain: an omega woman whose cryo-induced heat-blockers are going to wear out any day now (if his nose is still trustworthy).
His usual iron-solid self-control, however, may just slip and crumble as her usually ice-cold facade melts away to reveal someone just as vulnerable and alone as himself…
*******
Maximilian DeSoto was an alpha. He had never taken a mate, and thought that he never would. Officially, the reason was a vow of semi-celibacy for his work as the Vicar of his tiny town. Sure, he was there to lend aid to omegas in need, and was renowned for his self-control and discretion in those matters, but he never sought his own self-pleasure. At least, not with anyone else.
Truthfully, the reasoning was a little less spiritual and a little more self-important. He'd never found an omega he felt attached to, or that seemed worthy of his time and efforts.
He hadn't expected his new Captain to be any different.
She was intriguing, to be sure. Impossibly old, but her awakening also landed her a naivety that he couldn't help but find rather charming. She was stoic, cold, even terse and snappish at points. But she also had, hechad noticed, a tremendous capacity for compassion and gentleness. She was smart and savvy and clever. But never a know-it-all. Never obnoxious. He hadn't even clocked that she was an omega until some weeks after they'd boarded the ship and began their wild little galactic quest.
But omega she was, and whatever blockers or suppressants they'd pumped into her for the journey over were starting to fade. He could smell it as keenly as any omega he'd ever known. He didn't know if she realized it was happening, and he decided it was in her best interest if that didn't end up public knowledge. So when he felt the time was near, he insisted the other crew take a holiday. Go anywhere but the ship for a week, and he gave them plenty of fun money.
****
He knew that was the right call when he entered the hallway her room was in.
"Oh Captain," he cooed softly, soothing her as best he could, alpha pride fully on the line here. She smelled incredible. Better than anything he'd had before. His usual brand of iron self-control was slipping quickly.
Thankfully, she didn't seem to mind.
He didn't realize when he bit down hard enough to claim her for himself amidst their tumble.
He felt very embarrassed about it when his head cleared, holding her possessively to him over an hour later. She didn't seem to mind, thankfully.
"I'm scared," she admitted softly in the first hazy afterglow.
"What in the worlds of?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Everything, to be honest. Did I ever tell you what my job back on Earth was all those centuries ago?"
"No, it wasn't crusader, or adventurer, or professional athlete?"
"No," she said with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I was a librarian, trying to be an author," she murmured.
"You're kidding."
"Not even a little."
"My sweet, brainy captain," he cooed, kissing her neck where he'd marked her as his.
"No wonder you're so cool under pressure. I've read legends of the troubles libraries often faced."
"I suppose. I think the bandits are a lot worse."
"Don't worry, I'll keep you safe if you ever need it," he assured her, reveling in how she seemed to melt into him.
"My sweet Vicar Max," she replied, yawning and falling under. She'd need the rest, if that first bout was anything to go by.
So Vicar Max found himself a mate, and the world started to make more sense as his Path began to unwind.
Fandom: Harvest Moon/Story of Seasons: Wonderful Life
Summary: Player Character / Gustafa
Willow has inherited the family farm, but she has a problem: it's hard to be a mermaid in a nosy town!
One night she takes a dip, and gets a shock when someone spots her….
A/N: I might add onto this one later, but I do like it short and sweet!
********
It had been two seasons since Willow had come to to take over the family farm, and life was… interesting.
She hadn't expected such a warm welcome, honestly, but everyone seemed happy to meet her and offer their support. Takakura was as surly as she remembered, but he also had that warmth in his hugs she had missed.
She'd always had a knack for the natural parts of life, raising animals, gardening, things like that, and it seemed that she would be able to have a perfectly fine life here in Forget-Me-Not Valley.
Except she had a secret:
Her father, may his memory be a blessing, had been a human, 100%.
Her mother, may her soul be at peace, had not.
They met, or so they said, on a dreamy beach when he shipwrecked a little sailboat on a desert island, and she pulled him from the wreck. Willow wasn't entirely sure that was the truth, but it didn't really matter. She came into the world with gills and a tail that had, fortunately, become a pair of fine legs quickly enough.
Due to her father's genes, she could live on land for the most part. Her mother gave her a sea-longing, though, and a physical, life-or-death need to be fully submerged in water a certain portion of time, at which point her gills and tail would show up (a neat evolutionary mechanism, her father would say). With experimentation, she calculated that she could get by comfortably on about 10 minutes a day.
Luckily, there were ponds all around the valley, as well as a river that fed right into the ocean. She had no shortage of fresh water. The problems came when the villagers never quite stuck to a strict schedule. And they seemed to love being wherever she was sometimes. As nice as they all were, this wasn't good for the solitude she needed to comfortably soak. And she knew what would happen if people found out.
Her mother's death had been proof enough of that. Sailors had caught her in a net, and she'd become a freakshow attraction until her husband, Willow's father, had shown up to help her escape. They didn't make it home.
Willow wouldn't let anything like that happen to her.
In the two seasons since she'd arrived, she'd made do with the shower, but that wasn't going to last. She'd have to brave the outdoors eventually…
2 A.M. seemed like a decent time to sneak out. No one would be awake, surely, and she could use the pond near the little sprite guys' tree (she still wasn't entirely sure what they were, beyond very friendly). The coast was clear enough, and she didn't hear anyone as she sunk into the beautiful blue water.
It was blissful, letting herself sink just enough for her tail and gills to come out to play, floating serenely and letting herself just be. It had been exhausting being so dry for so long, not letting herself wade too far into the ocean or river when she'd needed to fish. She'd earned this.
She didn't know she'd fallen asleep until a loud gasp woke her up, causing her to flail around in a panic. She didn't even see who was there before she leapt out of the water (the pond simply not big enough to hide in by going down) and ran as fast as she could towards Melody Farm.
She nearly made it, too.
A loose rock sent her falling hard, knocking the precious little air she'd gulped in straight back out. She didn't know if she was more terrified of discovery, or embarrassed of the noise she'd made hitting the ground as footsteps came towards her. Maybe she'd explain it away as hallucinations. Maybe they'd just blackmail her or threaten her or something and not just kill her outright. Maybe-
"‐Okay??"
Wait, what?
Two hands came down and looped under her arms to help haul her up. She blinked blearily as she was set on the ground, and one of the hands made it's way to her cheek. It was soft, warm. She couldn't help leaning into it as she tried to clear her head.
"I said, are you okay, Willow?"
"I'm….what?"
"Okay, let's get you home and sitting down, hold tight."
She was picked up like a bride and she tried to make out features in the darkness. Failing that, she shut her eyes tight and held onto the mystery man, who seemed like he wasn't, in fact, about to make her into sushi or sell her to the carnival?
She kept her eyes closed (and tried not to get motion sick) as he managed to get her inside her cabin and set onto her bed. She opened her eyes again and was very surprised to see two beautiful blue ones staring back down at her, brows raised in concern.
"Better?"
She nodded meekly.
"Good. That was quite a fall. You really worried me."
"I… sorry?"
"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have scared you so bad. I was just surprised is all. Not often you see the impossible here, you know?"
"...."
He chuckled as she tried to figure out what to say, but it was… kind. Warm, like his hands.
"I don't think I've ever seen you without your glasses," she managed to retort, "so that's two impossible things."
Gustafa laughed and shook his head.
"I dropped them chasing after you. Don't worry, they're probably fine. Really, though, are you okay?"
She nodded.
"Just embarrassed. I'm supposed to be graceful, you know."
"Sure, sure. I gave you a real fright, you weren't in top form or something, right?"
"Right… how much did you…?"
"Well, I really thought I'd gone crazy when I saw your tail. It's really something lovely, you know."
She couldn't help blushing and shrugging.
"Seems more like a curse, sometimes."
"Why?"
"Because people would… it's not safe, for my kind."
"Merfolk?"
She nodded again, pulling her knees up to her chin.
The musician smiled gently, and gently placed a warm hand on her arm.
"It's okay. I don't think anyone here is like that… but your secret's safe with me. You're not the only non-human person I've met."
"Have you met a lot of merfolk?"
"No, you're my first, I'm proud to say," he answered, beaming.
She couldn't help a soft giggle, shaking her head.
"There we are… there's that lovely smile. Would you like a song to cheer you up?" He asked, pulling his favorite guitar from his back.
She nodded again, laying back down as he started to play.
"Let's hear a tale before we part,
About an apple sweet and tart…"
She listened until she couldn't help falling back asleep, his soft voice soothing her as well as any of her mother's lullabies.
She's wasting her PhD discussing fairy tales and folklore for internet strangers.
He's an ancient being… who likes to talk about history for internet strangers.
They get requests for a collab.
A/N: yes these are entirely original characters from a story I've been working off and on for the past 3ish years. Is it written down at all? Hahaha hahaha no. Do I love them anyways? Absolutely.
***********
"-And that will do it for our history lesson today. This concludes our tour of Bram Stoker's London. Please do let me know what period of history that we should explore next. This is Monsieur E, goodnight."
***
The comments section was wild, always, but something new caught Chalemeaux's eye:
"Beautifully done as always, Mr. E!! Have you ever thought of doing a collab with Lizzy Grimm?"
He'd never heard of that person before, but the commenter helpfully left him a link to her most recent video. Amusingly, it was about tracing the origins of the Victorian Vampire. Well, he would see how accurate she was.
Intrigued, he pressed play.
***
"-And that's all for today's journey through the bloody, sexy world of Europe's Vampires. Thank you, as always, for your love, support, and suggestions! If you have a favorite fairy tale, folk tale or other piece of past mythology you want me to cover, please leave that in the comments below. This is Lizzy Grimm, signing off!"
***
Elizabeth looked through the comments on her latest video - a really fun look at the origins of vampires as they were presented in Victorian and Romantic-Era literature: Carmilla, Varney, Dracula, the like.
The few people that followed her and left comments were always delighted by this sort of thing, it seemed, but one in particular sparked her interest:
"I loved this, Ms. Grimm! Would you ever do some kind of collaboration with another channel? It would be so much fun to see you and Monsieur E work together!"
Oh, she knew of him. The beautiful history youtuber that she'd followed since practically day one of his work. His deep dive into the Jack the Ripper case had inspired her to start her own channel, using somewhat similar methodology (in addition to what skills she was currently "wasting" from her time getting her PhD). She would love to work with him on literally anything, but there was no way he'd notice a nobody like her. She had just enough followers and sponsor money to keep the lights on, and that was fine for her.
She replied to the sweet comment (as she tried to do to all of her non-troll comments), a thank-you and self-deprecating something-or-other about how he was definitely too busy doing his work and far too popular to notice her. It read fine. She tried to put the whole thing out of her mind and went to bed.
***
Well, this channel was positively lovely. The host - one Lizzy Grimm - was also rather lovely, as well, he thought idly. She had a way with words that was magical, and he could tell that there was a passion here for her work. He remembered a time, eons before, when he felt the same way about history, and research, and the mess of it all. Fond days running around with the poets and historians, trying to make beautiful the ugly universe.
He spotted the comment on her channel asking about working with him (it was one of only a handful on the video), and the response broke his heart a little, honestly. That she didn't seem to feel worthy, but did seem to know him? Interesting.
He looked up her username in his own followers, and was shocked, perhaps a little humbled even, to see that she was there… and she was his first. He remembered, blearily, just starting out. Every follower was a miracle, it seemed.
Looking further, she had commented something encouraging on every one of his videos. Admittedly, he had been blessed with quick success (a perk of being conventionally attractive and niche), and they soon got lost in a sea, but there they were…
Well, now, of course he would have to reach out. Even if nothing came of it, he simply had to let her know how grateful he was for her support.
***
She couldn't believe it when the email popped up in her notifications. It had to be a prank. Or someone pretending to be him. But no.
"Dear Ms. Lizzy Grimm," it began, proper and eloquent like he was, "I'm Monsieur E, as you may know. I am actually him, even, and not some kind of hacker or other ne'er-do-well playing with your time. I am unsure how else to prove this, so please see the attached screenshot of you, my very first follower."
She looked, and indeed, the screenshot was there, on his channel, and… yes, it did appear she was his first follower. It felt like some kind of sacred honor, now, honestly. She hurriedly read on.
"I was approached by a commenter, who seems to have also reached out to you, requesting we collaborate. I would like you to know that I would be extremely honored to do so. I would like to meet up, if possible, to go over these details, and perhaps just talk with a fellow history and literature lover. I understand this is very unusual, and perhaps feels unsafe, so do feel free to tell me to shove right off, and I will do just that.
Thank you, so much, for your support. It means the entire world to me.
Yours Truly,
M.E."
Well, that… happened. He wanted to meet her. The impossibly handsome history king wanted her, wasting her life, average nobody, to work with him. He wanted to meet her in person. It felt like some kind of dream. Of course she'd do it. That he even bothered to mention that it could be sketchy to meet in person was very considerate. She quickly shot off a response and tried not to hyperventilate.
***
He hadn't been expecting a response so quickly, but there it was, shiny and unread in his inbox. He immediately opened it.
"Monsieur E,
I was surprised and, admittedly, thrown off when I saw your email. You were indeed correct that I didn't believe it was actually you at first. The screenshot has me mostly convinced.
"I would love to work with you, yes. And to meet up. A café or something similar would be perfect, a neutral, populated place where we could both feel comfortable that neither is going to murder the other. I live right near Galway, though I'm not native, as you may guess by the conflicting accent, and I believe in videos you have mentioned that you live more North? I don't mind taking a train to meet up somewhere in the middle, if that is convenient? I have friends in England and Scotland as well, that I can stay with if needed, if we want to do in-person collaboration.
I am very excited by the potential of working together. Thank you for everything.
Yours truly,
Elizabeth G. Bennet."
Oh. She had used… well that certainly appeared to be an actual name. He felt his heart warm and speed up, and re-read the missive several times. She actually wanted to meet up! And she really wasn't that far away! Hell, he thought he had a place in Killarney or Cork, and that wouldn’t' be too far of a drive… Oh, he had plans to make.
And a future collaborator, perhaps… even a lover? To meet.
