#19th century sofa

[artschoolglasses]

Sofa, designed by Benjamin Henry Latrobe, decorated by George Bridport, and made by John Aitken, 1808

From the Philadelphia Museum of Art

[galleryofart]

The Tambourine Player in Repose

Artist: Jean-François Portaels (Belgian, 1818-1895)

Date: 19th century

Medium: Oil on cradled panel

Collection: Private collection

Description

Jean-François Portaels studied in Brussels under his father-in-law, François-Joseph Navez, in Paris with Paul Delaroche, and in Rome after winning the Grand Prix de Rome in 1842. The artist traveled extensively on a five-year excursion through Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, Spain, Greece, Hungary and Norway. Upon his return to Belgium, Portaels served as the director of the Ghent Academy from 1847-1850, and from 1863-1865 he taught at the Brussels Academy. The artist was appointed as the director of the Academie Royale des Beaux-Arts in 1878, a long-time aspiration.

He is best known and celebrated for his exotic Orientalist scenes and depictions of Oriental women. The allure of this subject matter with its colorful palette, striking patterns, sumptuous fabrics, bold jewelry and far-away impressions is all notably expressed in The Tambourine player in repose. He took inspiration for this painting and other exotic works of his oeuvre from his vast travels and exposure to the Eastern world. During his role as serving director of the Academy, Portaels had a great influence on an entire generation of Belgian artists and his exotic paintings were responsible for introducing an Orientalist fashion in Belgium.

The artist also became known for his paintings of biblical scenes and portraits of prominent figures.

[portrait-paintings]

Hilaire Degas

Artist: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917)

Date: 1857

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY, United States

Edgar Degas, born Hilaire-Germain-Edgar De Gas (19 July 1834 – 27 September 1917) was a French Impressionist artist famous for his pastel drawings and oil paintings.

[empirearchives]

An Empire gilt-bronze-mounted mahogany, ebonised and giltwood daybed, possibly by F.-H.-G. Jacob-Desmalter, French

ca. Early 19th century, Napoleonic era

Source: Sotheby’s

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

Sofa, laminated and solid rosewood; New York, ca. 1856. Designed by John Henry Belter and manufactured by J.H. Belter and Company.

[pucksandpower]

Unfinished Business

Ghost!Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you arrive in Monaco expecting a once-in-a-lifetime vacation and you certainly get one — a fairytale romance with a Monegasque Prince … from the late 19th century

The gentle hum of a luxury sedan fades as you and your three best friends step out onto the sun-drenched streets of Monaco. The air is thick with anticipation and the salty tang of the Mediterranean. Your eyes widen as they trace the elegant facade of the Palais Grimaldi, its pale stone walls gleaming in the afternoon light.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually here,” Mia breathes, her voice tinged with awe. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco? It feels like a dream.”

You nod, unable to tear your gaze from the intricate architecture. “It’s even more beautiful than the pictures,” you murmur.

Zoe hefts her designer luggage. “Well, ladies, shall we see if the inside is as impressive as the outside?”

As your group approaches the grand entrance, a smartly dressed concierge greets you with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Palais Grimaldi. You must be our contest winners. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“That’s us!” Olivia chirps, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m Olivia, and these are Mia, Zoe, and Y/N.”

The concierge, whose name tag reads ‘Philippe,’ bows slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your suite.”

As you trail behind Philippe through opulent hallways adorned with priceless art and glittering chandeliers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve stepped into another world — or perhaps another time. The weight of history presses in around you, whispering secrets from centuries past.

“The Palais Grimaldi has quite a storied past,” Philippe explains as he leads you up a sweeping marble staircase. “It’s been home to Monaco’s ruling family for over 700 years.”

“700 years?” You echo, your mind reeling at the concept. “That’s incredible. Has it been a hotel for long?”

Philippe chuckles. “Oh no, mademoiselle. The palace only opened its doors to the public a few years ago. It’s still used for official state functions, but the family decided to share its beauty with the world.”

Mia leans in close, her voice low. “I bet these walls have seen some scandalous things over the centuries.”

“More than you can imagine,” Philippe says with a wink. “If these walls could talk ...”

As you reach the top of the stairs, a long corridor stretches before you, lined with ornate doors. Philippe stops before one and produces an old-fashioned key with a flourish. “Your suite, ladies.”

The door swings open, revealing a space that takes your breath away. Soaring ceilings, silk wallpaper, and antique furnishings create an atmosphere of timeless luxury.

“Holy. Crap.” Zoe’s usual composure cracks as she takes in the opulence. “This is insane.”

Olivia immediately flops onto one of the plush sofas. “I’m never leaving. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming when the week is up.”

You wander to one of the tall windows, mesmerized by the view of the sparkling Mediterranean. “I can’t believe we get to stay here for a whole week.”

Philippe clears his throat. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything at all.”

As the door closes behind him, your friends erupt into excited chatter.

“Did you see the size of that bathroom?” Mia gushes. “The tub is practically a swimming pool!”

Zoe is already examining the ornate writing desk. “Look at this. It’s probably worth more than my entire apartment.”

You run your hand along the silk-covered walls, feeling a strange thrill as your fingers trace the intricate patterns. “It’s like stepping back in time,” you murmur.

Olivia bounces on the bed, giggling. “Well, I for one plan to enjoy every modern amenity this place has to offer. Who’s up for raiding the mini bar?”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of unpacking, exploring every nook and cranny of your suite, and planning your itinerary for the week ahead.

As evening falls, you find yourself drawn back to the window. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pink and gold. The principality below comes alive with twinkling lights, promising endless possibilities.

“Earth to Y/N!” Mia’s voice breaks through your reverie. “We’re thinking of heading down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. You in?”

You turn from the window, smiling at your friends. “Absolutely. Just let me freshen up a bit.”

In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and reapply your lipstick. As you study your reflection in the ornate mirror, a strange sensation washes over you — almost as if someone is watching. You shake your head, dismissing the feeling as jetlag-induced imagination.

Rejoining your friends, you make your way down to the restaurant. The maître d’ leads you to a table with a stunning view of the moonlit gardens.

“I propose a toast,” Zoe says, raising her glass of champagne. “To friendship, adventure, and a week we’ll never forget!”

You clink glasses, the bubbles tickling your nose as you sip. As your friends chatter excitedly about their plans for tomorrow, your gaze drifts to the gardens below. For a moment, you could swear you see a figure in old-fashioned dress moving among the hedges. You blink, and the apparition vanishes.

“Y/N? Hello? Anyone home?” Olivia waves her hand in front of your face.

You snap back to attention. “Sorry, what?”

“I was asking what you wanted to do first tomorrow. Beach or shopping?”

You consider for a moment. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a tour of the palace. I’d love to learn more about its history.”

Mia grins. “Ooh, good call. Maybe we’ll run into a handsome prince.”

You laugh, but something in your chest flutters at the thought. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”

As the evening wears on and the wine flows freely, you find your thoughts continually drifting back to the palace and its centuries of secrets. By the time you return to your suite, a pleasant exhaustion has settled over you.

You bid your friends goodnight and curl up in your luxurious bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets cool against your skin. As you drift off to sleep, the last thing you see is the moonlight streaming through the window, casting ethereal shadows on the walls.

In your dreams, you wander the halls of the palace. Everything is hazy, like looking through frosted glass. You turn a corner and come face to face with a young man dressed in 19th-century finery. His eyes, a startling shade of green, seem to pierce right through you.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. A profound sadness radiates from him, tugging at your heart. You reach out, wanting to comfort him, but your hand passes through him like smoke.

You jolt awake, heart racing. The room is bathed in the soft glow of pre-dawn light. You sit up, running a hand through your tousled hair.

“What was that?” You whisper to the empty room.

As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, you can’t shake the feeling that your dream was more than just a product of your imagination. Something about this place, about that mysterious figure, calls to you in a way you can’t explain.

You slip out of bed and pad to the window, watching as Monaco comes to life below. Whatever secrets the Palais Grimaldi holds, you’re determined to uncover them. Little do you know, this is just the beginning of an adventure that will change your life forever.

***

The Monégasque sun beats down relentlessly as you and your friends lounge by the hotel’s exclusive rooftop pool. The glittering Mediterranean stretches out before you, a canvas of blue punctuated by gleaming white yachts.

“Now this is what I call a vacation,” Mia sighs contentedly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.

Zoe nods in agreement, not looking up from her book. “I could get used to this kind of luxury.”

You smile and close your eyes, trying to focus on the warmth of the sun and the gentle lapping of the pool water. But there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t shake off.

Olivia notices your furrowed brow. “Y/N, what’s up? You look like you’re solving world hunger over there.”

You hesitate, unsure how to explain the strange occurrences of the past few days. “It’s nothing, really. I just ... have you guys noticed anything weird happening in the palace?”

Mia perks up, always ready for gossip. “Weird how?”

“Well ...” you start, then falter. How can you describe the way your hairbrush moved across the dresser on its own? Or the whispers you heard in the empty library? “It’s going to sound crazy, but I think there might be something ... supernatural going on.”

There’s a moment of silence before Olivia bursts out laughing. “Supernatural? Come on, Y/N. I know you’ve always been into that ghost hunter stuff, but this is a five-star hotel, not a haunted house.”

Zoe looks up from her book, her expression skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not just jet-lagged? Or maybe it’s all that rich food we’ve been eating.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I know how it sounds, but I swear, strange things keep happening. Last night, I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror, but when I turned around, no one was there.”

Mia sits up, suddenly interested. “Ooh, was he hot?”

“Mia!” Zoe admonishes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

You sigh, realizing how ridiculous you must sound. “Never mind. You’re probably right, it’s just my imagination running wild.”

But as the day wears on, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Every shadow seems to hold a secret, every creaking floorboard a whispered message.

That night, as your friends snore softly in their beds, you find yourself wide awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. The moonlight filtering through the curtains casts eerie shadows on the walls, and the silence of the night seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

Unable to bear it any longer, you slip out of bed and into a robe. Your bare feet are silent on the plush carpet as you make your way to the door. You pause, hand on the doorknob, heart racing. Are you really going to do this?

Taking a deep breath, you step out into the dimly lit hallway. The palace is different at night, the opulence muted, shadows deepening the corners. You walk aimlessly, letting your instincts guide you through the maze-like corridors.

As you round a corner, a chill runs down your spine. At the end of the hallway, you see a figure. It’s only for a split second before it vanishes around the next bend, but you’re certain it was the same man you saw in the mirror.

“Wait!” You call out, breaking into a run. You turn the corner, but the hallway is empty.

Breathing heavily, you lean against the wall. “I’m losing my mind,” you mutter to yourself.

“I can assure you, mademoiselle, that your mind is quite intact.”

You whirl around, heart leaping into your throat. There, standing before you, is the man from your dreams and glimpses.

He’s of average height, with wavy dark hair and piercing green eyes. His clothes are old-fashioned — a tailored suit that wouldn’t look out of place in the late 19th century. But the most shocking thing is that you can see right through him to the painting on the wall behind.

You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. The ghost — because what else could he be — holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

His voice is gentle, with a slight accent you can’t quite place. Despite your terror, you find yourself oddly calmed by his presence.

“Who ... what are you?” You manage to whisper.

The ghost bows slightly. “I am Prince Charles of Monaco, at your service. Or at least, I was Prince Charles. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I am.”

You blink, trying to process this information. “Prince Charles? But that’s impossible. The current Prince of Monaco is Albert.”

Charles smiles sadly. “You are correct. I’m afraid my time as prince was cut rather short. I died in 1894.”

“1894,” you repeat, feeling light-headed. “So you’re ... a ghost?”

“It would appear so, yes.” Charles looks down at his translucent hands. “Though I prefer to think of myself as ... temporarily disembodied.”

Despite the absurdity of the situation, you feel a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Temporarily disembodied? That’s one way to put it.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with amusement. “I find a touch of humor helps in most situations, even death.”

You shake your head, still struggling to believe what’s happening. “Why can I see you? Why now?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Charles admits. “I’ve been bound to this palace since my death, unable to move on. Most of the time, I’m invisible to the living. But occasionally, someone comes along who can perceive me. You, mon chérie, seem to be one of those rare individuals.”

You take a step closer, fascinated despite your lingering fear. “So all those strange things that have been happening ...”

“My apologies,” Charles says, looking sheepish. “I’m afraid I got a bit ... overeager when I realized you could sense me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Well, mission not accomplished,” you say dryly. “I’ve been terrified for days.”

Charles’ expression turns contrite. “I am truly sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to interact with anyone. I forgot how alarming it might be.”

You study him closely. Now that the initial shock has worn off, you’re struck by how young he looks — no older than his mid-twenties. And there’s a sadness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“How did you die?” You ask softly.

Charles’ face clouds over. “That, I’m afraid, is a rather long and complicated story. One that I’m not entirely sure I understand myself.”

You’re about to press further when a noise down the hallway makes you jump. Charles holds a finger to his lips and gestures for you to follow him. He leads you to a hidden door behind a tapestry, revealing a narrow servants’ staircase.

“Quick, in here,” he whispers.

You hesitate for a moment before ducking into the passageway. Charles follows, closing the door behind you. In the dim light filtering through cracks in the wall, you can barely make out his ghostly form.

“Why are we hiding?” You whisper.

“The night guards,” Charles explains. “They wouldn’t take kindly to a guest wandering the halls at this hour. And I’d rather not have to explain why you’re talking to thin air.”

You nod, seeing the logic. “So ... what now?”

Charles gives you a mischievous smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, since you’re already up and about, how would you like a private tour of the palace? I can show you things no living guide knows about.”

The sensible part of your brain is screaming that this is insane. You should go back to your room, crawl into bed, and pretend this was all a vivid dream. But the adventurous part of you, the part that’s always longed for magic and mystery, is practically buzzing with excitement.

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” you say with a grin.

Charles’ smile widens. “Please, call me Charles. I think we’re a bit beyond titles at this point.”

He starts up the narrow staircase, and you follow close behind. As you climb, Charles begins to speak in a low, melodious voice.

“This palace has been the heart of Monaco for centuries. Every stone, every timber holds a piece of history. There are secret passages like this one crisscrossing the entire building — escape routes, trysting spots for illicit lovers, hiding places for treasures.”

You emerge from the staircase into a small, circular room at the top of one of the palace towers. The view of Monaco at night is breathtaking, the city a glittering jewel box beneath a canopy of stars.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, moving to the window.

Charles stands beside you, his presence cool but not unpleasant. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Even after all these years, it still takes my breath away. Well, metaphorically speaking.”

You turn to look at him, struck by the wistfulness in his voice. “It must be hard, watching the world change around you while you stay the same.”

Charles nods slowly. “It is ... challenging. But it has its compensations. I’ve witnessed history unfold, seen my beloved Monaco grow and flourish. And occasionally, I get to meet fascinating people like yourself.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks and are grateful for the darkness. “I’m hardly fascinating compared to a ghost prince.”

“I beg to differ,” Charles says softly. “You saw me when no one else could. You followed me up here without hesitation. That takes a special kind of courage and openness to the extraordinary.”

For a moment, you’re lost in his intense gaze. Then you remember that he’s, well, dead, and clear your throat awkwardly. “So, um, what else can you show me?”

Charles seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Ah, yes. Follow me. There’s so much to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur of hidden rooms, secret passages, and Charles’ stories. He tells you about the palace’s construction, about the triumphs and tragedies of the Grimaldi family, about the small, everyday moments that history books never record.

As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, you find yourself back in the hallway near your suite. You’re exhausted but exhilarated, your mind whirling with everything you’ve seen and learned.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, a note of reluctance in his voice.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. My friends will be wondering where I am if I’m not there when they wake up.”

Charles nods, then hesitates. “I ... I hope this won’t be our last conversation. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart. “Of course not. I still have so many questions. Like how you ended up ... you know.”

“Another time,” Charles promises. “For now, sleep well, Y/N.”

As you watch, his form begins to fade. Just before he disappears completely, you could swear you see him wink.

You slip back into your room, your mind racing. As you crawl into bed, you wonder how on earth you’re going to explain any of this to your friends. But one thing’s for certain — your vacation in Monaco just got a whole lot more interesting.

***

The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. You stand on the balcony of your suite, outwardly admiring the view, but your mind is elsewhere. Your friends’ voices drift out from the room behind you.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Mia calls. “Are you coming to dinner or what?”

You turn, plastering on a smile. “Actually, I think I’ll skip it tonight. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

Zoe frowns, concern etching her features. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange all week.”

“I’m fine,” you assure her quickly. “Just ... taking in all the history of this place, you know?”

Olivia rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Only you would come to Monaco and spend all your time geeking out over old buildings instead of hitting the beach.”

You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

As your friends file out of the room, Mia lingers behind. “Seriously, Y/N, is everything alright? You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

For a moment, you’re tempted to spill everything. But how could you possibly explain Charles? “I’m fine, really,” you insist. “Go enjoy dinner. I’ll see you later.”

Once they’re gone, you wait a few minutes to ensure the coast is clear. Then you slip out into the hallway, your heart racing with anticipation.

You make your way to the library, which has become your usual meeting spot. As you enter, you see Charles materializing near the fireplace, a warm smile lighting up his translucent features.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he greets you, his voice as smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “I trust you’re well?”

You can’t help but smile back. “Better now,” you admit, then immediately feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I mean, you know, because ... history and stuff.”

Charles chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah yes, the fascinating history and stuff. Shall we delve into more of it tonight?”

You nod eagerly. “What do you have in store for me this time?”

“I thought we might explore the east wing tonight,” Charles says, moving towards one of the bookshelves. “There’s a passage behind this Voltaire that leads to some rather interesting places.”

As he speaks, Charles reaches for the book, his hand passing right through it. A flicker of frustration crosses his face.

“Allow me,” you say softly, stepping forward to pull the book. The shelf swings open, revealing a narrow passageway.

Charles bows slightly. “After you, mademoiselle.”

You enter the passage, Charles’ cool presence right behind you. As you walk, he begins to speak, his voice low and melodious in the confined space.

“This passage was built during the reign of Prince Charles III — my grandfather,” he explains. “It was meant as an escape route in case of invasion. Monaco’s sovereignty was often threatened in those days.”

“But not anymore?” You ask, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

Charles sighs. “Monaco’s position is more secure now, but it wasn’t always so. In my time, we were constantly navigating a delicate balance between France and Italy, trying to maintain our independence.”

You emerge into a small, octagonal room with windows overlooking the sea. Moonlight streams in, casting everything in a silvery glow.

“This was my private study,” Charles says, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I spent many hours here, dreaming of what Monaco could become.”

You turn to him, curious. “What kind of dreams?”

Charles’ eyes light up with passion. “I wanted to modernize Monaco, to bring it into the new century. We were so dependent on the casino for revenue — I wanted to diversify our economy, improve education, and implement new technologies.”

“That sounds incredibly progressive for the time,” you say, impressed.

Charles nods. “Some thought too progressive. There were those who resisted change, who wanted to cling to the old ways. But I believed — I still believe — that progress is essential for survival.”

As he speaks, you find yourself drawn in by his enthusiasm, his intelligence. This isn’t just some stuffy old royal — this is a man with vision, with dreams that were cut short far too soon.

“What stopped you?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression clouds over. “Ah, well, dying tends to put a damper on one’s plans.”

You wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no,” Charles interrupts gently. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”

An awkward silence falls. You move to the window, looking out at the moonlit sea. “It must be hard,” you say eventually. “Watching the world change around you, unable to participate.”

You feel Charles move closer, his presence cool at your side. “It has its challenges,” he admits. “But it also has its joys. I’ve seen Monaco grow and flourish in ways I never could have imagined. And now ...” He trails off.

You turn to look at him. “And now?”

Charles’ gaze is intense, making your heart race. “And now I have the pleasure of sharing it all with you.”

You swallow hard, acutely aware of how close he is, ghost or not. “I ... I’m glad,” you manage to say. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Charles.”

He smiles, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Nor I you, Y/N. In life or in death.”

The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotions. Then Charles clears his throat (do ghosts need to clear their throats?) and steps back.

“Come,” he says, his tone lighter. “There’s much more to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind of secret rooms and hidden treasures. Charles shows you a concealed vault where the crown jewels were once kept, a forgotten ballroom with faded frescoes on the ceiling, even the old dungeons deep beneath the palace.

Throughout it all, Charles regales you with stories — some historical, some personal. You learn about the political intrigues of 19th century Monaco, about Charles’ childhood pranks, about the hopes and fears he had for his country’s future.

As dawn begins to break, you find yourself back in the library, reluctant for the night to end.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, echoing his words from your first meeting.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. But I don’t want to go.”

Charles’ expression softens. “Nor do I want you to. But your friends will worry if you’re not there when they wake.”

You sigh, knowing he’s right. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here,” Charles promises. “I’m not going anywhere, after all.”

As you watch him fade away, you’re struck by a realization that both thrills and terrifies you. You’re falling in love with a ghost.

The next few days pass in a blur. During the day, you go through the motions with your friends, trying to show enthusiasm for the beaches, the shops, the nightlife. But your mind is always elsewhere, counting down the hours until you can see Charles again.

Your friends notice, of course. How could they not?

“Okay, spill,” Mia demands one afternoon as you all lounge by the pool. “Who is he?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What? Who’s who?”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “The guy you’re obviously sneaking out to meet every night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you coming back to the room at dawn.”

“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer.

Zoe puts a hand on your arm. “Y/N, we’re your friends. You can tell us anything. We’re just worried about you.”

You look at their concerned faces and feel a pang of guilt. You hate lying to them, but how can you possibly explain the truth?

“It’s not ... it’s not what you think,” you say finally. “I’ve just been exploring the palace at night. It’s quieter then, easier to imagine what it was like in the past.”

Your friends exchange skeptical looks.

“Right,” Mia says slowly. “And this has nothing to do with the ‘supernatural occurrences’ you were going on about earlier?”

You force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just my imagination running wild. I’ve just been ... really into the history of this place, that’s all.”

Olivia shakes her head. “If you say so. But Y/N, this is supposed to be a fun vacation. Don’t spend the whole time with your nose in a history book, okay?”

You nod, grateful they’re not pushing further. “You’re right. I’ll try to be more present.”

But that night, as your friends sleep, you find yourself slipping out once again, drawn to Charles like a moth to a flame.

He’s waiting for you in the library, a book hovering open in front of him. As you enter, he looks up with a smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Ah, Y/N,” he says warmly. “I was just refreshing my memory on some of Monaco’s more obscure laws. Did you know it’s technically illegal to wear stiletto heels in the palace?”

You laugh, some of the tension from earlier melting away. “Seriously? Why?”

Charles grins. “Apparently, they damage the floors. It was enacted in 1898, four years after my ... departure. I always wonder about the story behind laws like that. What outrageous incident prompted such a specific prohibition?”

You settle into a nearby armchair, tucking your legs underneath you. “Maybe a scorned lover stabbed someone with a stiletto?”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “My, what a violent imagination you have. I was thinking more along the lines of a clumsy debutante wreaking havoc on the ballroom floor.”

“Boring,” you tease. “My version is much more exciting.”

Charles chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Your mind is a constant source of fascination to me.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh? How so?”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering slightly in the moonlight streaming through the windows. “You see the world in such a unique way. You’re not bound by the conventions and expectations of my time. It’s ... refreshing.”

“I could say the same about you,” you reply softly. “You’re nothing like I would have expected a 19th-century prince to be.”

Charles’ smile turns wry. “Ah, but I’ve had over a century to adapt and learn. Though I must admit, much of modern life still baffles me. Perhaps you could explain to me the appeal of this ‘Instagram’ your friends keep mentioning?”

You laugh, launching into an explanation of social media that leaves Charles looking both intrigued and mildly horrified. The conversation flows easily from there, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless rhythm you’ve come to cherish in your nightly meetings.

As the hours pass, you find yourself moving closer to Charles, drawn in by his warmth (metaphorical, of course — he’s actually quite cool to be near) and charm. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every fleeting expression that crosses his face.

At one point, Charles reaches out as if to touch your hand, then seems to catch himself, pulling back with a flicker of frustration crossing his features.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Sometimes I forget ...”

You swallow hard, your heart aching. “It’s okay. I ... I wish you could too.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken longing. Charles’ eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the impossibility of your situation crashes over you like a wave.

“Y/N,” Charles begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I-”

But before he can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching the library.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Hide behind the curtain.”

You scramble to conceal yourself just as the door opens. Through a gap in the heavy fabric, you see a security guard sweep his flashlight around the room.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the beam of light passes inches from your hiding spot. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging, your legs shaky with leftover adrenaline.

“That was close,” you breathe.

Charles nods, his form flickering with agitation. “Too close. Y/N, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting you in these situations. If you were caught ...”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, don’t say that. I don’t care about the risk. Being with you, learning about you and your time — it’s worth it.”

Charles’ expression softens, a mix of affection and sorrow in his eyes. “You’re extraordinary, do you know that? But I fear ... I fear I’m being selfish, keeping you to myself like this.”

You take a step closer to him, wishing more than anything that you could take his hand. “You’re not keeping me anywhere I don’t want to be.”

The words hang between you, charged with meaning. Charles opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, conflict clear on his face.

Finally, he says, “It’s nearly dawn. You should go, before your friends wake.”

You nod reluctantly, knowing he’s right but hating to leave. As you reach the door, you turn back to look at him one last time.

“Charles,” you say softly. “I ... I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

He smiles, but there’s a sadness in it that tugs at your heart. “I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

As you make your way back to your room, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. You’re falling hard and fast for a man who’s been dead for over a century.

It’s impossible, it’s insane, and yet ... you wouldn’t trade these moments with Charles for anything in the world.

But as you slip back into bed, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains, a nagging doubt creeps in. How long can this go on? What happens when your vacation ends? And most troublingly of all — what aren’t you seeing in your infatuation with this charming ghost prince?

***

The musty scent of old books fills your nostrils as you hunch over a stack of historical tomes in the palace library. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. You’ve been here for hours, your friends long since departed for a day of sunbathing and shopping.

“Find anything interesting?” Charles’ voice makes you jump. You look up to see him materializing near the bookshelf, a curious expression on his translucent face.

You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes. “Nothing concrete yet. There’s frustratingly little information about your death in these official histories. It’s always just ‘Prince Charles died tragically young’ with no details.”

Charles moves closer, peering at the book you’re reading. “Ah, Gustave Saige’s ‘Monaco: Ses Origines et Son Histoire’. A rather dry read, if I recall correctly.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’re not wrong. But I thought it might have some clues.” You hesitate, then ask, “Charles, why don’t you just tell me what happened? How you ... died?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “I wish I could. But the truth is, my memories of that time are ... fragmented. I remember tensions rising, arguments with the council, and then ... nothing. Just waking up like this, bound to the palace.”

You reach out instinctively to comfort him, your hand passing through his arm with a chill. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”

Charles gives you a sad smile. “It’s been my reality for over a century now. But I must admit, your determination to uncover the truth has given me hope I haven’t felt in a very long time.”

Your heart swells at his words, even as a pang of guilt hits you. Are you really doing this for Charles, or for yourself? The thought of him finding peace and moving on fills you with a complicated mix of emotions you’re not ready to examine too closely.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you turn back to your research. “Well, if these books aren’t giving us answers, maybe we need to look elsewhere. You mentioned arguments with the council. Were there records kept of those meetings?”

Charles’ brow furrows in concentration. “Yes, there would have been. Minutes were always taken. But they would have been considered sensitive documents. Not something you’d find in the public library.”

You lean forward, excitement building. “So where would they be kept?”

“There’s an archive room,” Charles says slowly. “Hidden behind the throne room. It’s where the most confidential state papers were stored.”

You’re already on your feet, shoving books back onto shelves. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Charles holds up a ghostly hand. “Not so fast, Y/N. That room has been sealed for decades. It’s not somewhere a tourist can just wander into.”

You deflate slightly, but your determination doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll have to find a way in after hours. You can get me there, right?”

Charles looks conflicted. “I could, but Y/N, if you were caught ...”

“I won’t be,” you insist. “Please, Charles. This might be our only chance to find out what really happened to you.”

For a long moment, Charles studies your face. Then he sighs, a sound tinged with both resignation and admiration. “Very well. Meet me here at midnight. I’ll show you the way.”

The hours crawl by as you wait for night to fall. You make a show of going to bed early, claiming a headache to avoid your friends’ plans for a night out. As the clock strikes twelve, you slip out of your room and make your way to the library.

Charles is waiting for you, his form glowing faintly in the moonlight. “Are you sure about this?” He asks one last time.

You nod firmly. “Let’s do it.”

Charles leads you through a maze of corridors and hidden passages. Your heart races with every creak of the floorboards, every shadow that might be a security guard. Finally, you arrive at an ornate door hidden behind a tapestry.

“This is it,” Charles whispers. “The archive room.”

You reach for the handle, but it’s locked. “Damn,” you mutter. “Any ideas?”

Charles frowns, concentrating. “There used to be a spare key ... ah!” He points to a small crevice in the intricate woodwork. “Try there.”

You feel around and, to your amazement, your fingers close around a small key. With trembling hands, you insert it into the lock. It turns with a satisfying click.

The door swings open, revealing a room packed floor to ceiling with shelves of documents. The air is thick with dust and the smell of old paper.

“Where do we even start?” You whisper, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information.

Charles moves to a section near the back. “The council records from my time should be here. Look for anything dated 1894.”

You begin sifting through stacks of yellowed papers, careful not to damage the fragile documents. Minutes pass in tense silence as you search.

Suddenly, Charles’ voice cuts through the quiet. “Y/N, over here. I think I’ve found something.”

You hurry to his side. He’s pointing at a leather-bound ledger. You carefully open it, coughing slightly at the dust it raises.

As you scan the pages, your eyes widen. “Charles, this ... this is incredible. It’s a record of council meetings leading up to your death. Look at this entry from two weeks before: ‘Prince Charles continues to push for radical reforms. Concerns raised about stability of the principality if plans proceed.’”

Charles leans in, his face a mix of emotions. “I remember that meeting. It was ... heated. Keep reading.”

You flip through more pages, your heart pounding as the story unfolds. “There’s more. ‘Prince’s proposed changes to casino regulations deemed unacceptable. Alternative measures must be considered.’ Charles, this sounds like ...”

“A conspiracy,” Charles finishes, his voice hollow. “They were plotting against me.”

You reach the final entry, dated the day before Charles’ death. Your blood runs cold as you read it aloud. “Situation untenable. Drastic action required to preserve Monaco’s interests. God forgive us.”

A heavy silence falls over the room as the implications sink in. Charles turns away, his form flickering with agitation.

“They killed me,” he says softly. “My own council ... they murdered me to stop my reforms.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes. “Charles, I’m so sorry. This is ... it’s unthinkable.”

Charles is quiet for a long moment, then turns back to you with a determined expression. “We need to take this ledger. The truth needs to come out, even after all this time.”

You nod, carefully closing the book and tucking it into your bag. As you do, something catches your eye. “Wait, there’s something else here.”

Behind where the ledger was sitting, you spot a small leather pouch. You open it carefully, gasping as several folded papers and a small object fall out.

“What is it?” Charles asks, moving closer.

You unfold one of the papers with trembling hands. “It’s ... it’s a letter. From you.” You begin to read aloud:

“To whoever finds this, I fear my time may be short. I write this in haste, knowing that forces within Monaco seek to silence me. My efforts to modernize our beloved principality and free us from our dependence on gambling have made me enemies in powerful places. If anything should happen to me, know that it was not an accident. The proof of their treachery is contained within these documents and the vial of poison they intend to use. I pray this never sees the light of day, but if it does, may it bring justice and push Monaco towards the future I envisioned.”

You look up at Charles, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. “You knew. You tried to protect yourself.”

Charles nods slowly, his own eyes shimmering with ghostly tears. “I ... I remember now. I wrote this the night before ... before it happened. I must have hidden it here, hoping someone would find it.”

You carefully gather up the documents and the small vial, adding them to your bag with the ledger. “We have to make this public, Charles. Your murder, the cover-up ... people need to know the truth.”

Charles looks at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “You’re right, of course. But Y/N, you must understand what this means. If the truth comes out, if justice is served ...”

“You might be able to move on,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. The thought sends a dagger through your heart, but you force yourself to continue. “That’s ... that’s a good thing, right? It’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering near your cheek as if he could wipe away your tears. “It is. But I find myself reluctant to leave, now that I’ve found something — someone — worth staying for.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles, I ...”

Before you can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Behind that cabinet.”

You scramble to hide, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it must be audible. The door to the archive room creaks open, and a beam of light sweeps across the space.

“Hello?” A gruff voice calls out. “Is someone in here?”

You hold your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging from your hiding spot, legs shaky with adrenaline.

“That was too close,” Charles says, his form flickering with agitation. “We need to get you out of here.”

You nod, clutching your bag with its precious cargo close to your chest. “How do we get back?”

Charles leads you to a hidden panel in the wall. “This passage will take you directly to the guest wing. Hurry, before the guard comes back.”

As you step into the secret corridor, you turn back to look at Charles. “What happens now?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression is a complex mix of emotions — hope, fear, sadness, and something that looks a lot like love. “Now, mon chérie, we bring the truth to light. Whatever comes after ... we’ll face it together.”

You nod, your throat tight with unshed tears. As you make your way back to your room, your mind races with the implications of what you’ve discovered. You’ve found the key to setting Charles free, to bringing him the peace he’s been denied for over a century.

But as you clutch the bag containing the proof of his murder, you can’t help but wonder: at what cost? The thought of losing Charles, of never seeing his smile or hearing his laugh again, fills you with a grief so profound it takes your breath away.

As you slip back into your bed, the first rays of dawn peeking through the curtains, you know that the hardest part of your journey is yet to come. You’ve uncovered the truth, but now you face an impossible choice: keep Charles with you in this half-life or set him free and lose him forever.

***

The golden light of a Monaco sunset streams through the windows of your hotel suite, casting long shadows across the room. You stand before the mirror, adjusting the elaborate 19th-century gown you’ve rented for the evening’s ball. Your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten a delicate necklace, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Charles’ voice comes from behind you. You turn to see him materializing near the balcony, his eyes wide with admiration.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your heart aching at the sight of him. “I wish you could really be there tonight, dancing with me.”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering in the fading sunlight. “As do I, ma chérie. But I’ll be with you in spirit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as tears prick at your eyes. “Always with the jokes, even now.”

“Well, one must maintain one’s sense of humor, even in the face of ... impending departure,” Charles says, his light tone belied by the sadness in his eyes.

The word hangs heavy between you. Departure. In just two days, you’ll be leaving Monaco, returning to your life back home. The thought fills you with a grief so profound it’s almost physical.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you blurt out, the words escaping before you can stop them. “I could stay. I could find a job here, an apartment. We could-”

“Y/N,” Charles interrupts gently, “we’ve discussed this. You can’t put your life on hold for a ghost.”

You turn away, blinking back tears. “But what if I want to? What if being here, with you, is the life I want?”

Charles is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. “My dearest Y/N, you cannot imagine how much I wish things could be different. But I am tied to this place, to this half-existence. You have a whole life ahead of you, full of possibilities and adventures. I won’t let you sacrifice that for me.”

You whirl back to face him, frustration bubbling up. “Shouldn’t that be my choice to make?”

“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. “But it is also my choice to refuse to be the anchor that holds you back. You deserve so much more than stolen moments with a specter.”

The truth of his words cuts deep, even as you want to rail against them. You slump onto the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of your elaborate costume.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

Charles moves to sit beside you, the mattress not even dipping under his non-existent weight. “Nor I you. But perhaps ... perhaps this is why we found each other. Not for a lifetime, but for this moment. To bring truth to light, to right an old wrong, and to experience a love that transcends time itself.”

You look up at him, struck by the depth of emotion in his ghostly eyes. “When did you get so wise?”

Charles grins, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “Well, I have had over a century to work on my philosophical musings.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as a tear escapes down your cheek. Charles reaches out, his hand hovering just above your skin in a gesture of comfort.

“Come now,” he says gently. “Let’s not waste our last evening together in sorrow. You have a ball to attend, and I, for one, am eager to see how the modern world interprets the grandeur of my era.”

You nod, standing and giving yourself one last look in the mirror. “You’re right. Let’s make tonight a night to remember.”

As you make your way down to the grand ballroom, you can feel Charles’ presence beside you, a comforting coolness in the warm evening air. The sounds of music and laughter grow louder as you approach.

You pause at the entrance, taking in the transformed space. The ballroom has been decorated to recreate its 19th-century splendor, with crystal chandeliers, elaborate floral arrangements, and guests in period costumes whirling across the dance floor.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Indeed,” Charles agrees, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Though I must say, some of these costumes are rather ... creative interpretations of the fashion of my time.”

You stifle a giggle as you spot a guest in what appears to be a mash-up of Victorian and Edwardian styles. “Well, not everyone can have a ghostly fashion consultant.”

You make your way into the crowd, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your friends spot you and wave enthusiastically.

“Y/N! Over here!” Mia calls out. “You look amazing!”

You join them, smiling as you take in their costumes. “You all look great too. Are you enjoying the ball?”

Zoe nods enthusiastically. “It’s like stepping back in time. Can you imagine living in an era like this?”

You feel Charles’ amusement radiating beside you. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “I think it might have its charms.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourself swept up in the festivities. You dance with several partners, all the while acutely aware of Charles’ presence, watching from the sidelines.

During a lull in the music, you manage to slip away from the crowd, finding a secluded alcove near one of the large windows.

“Having fun?” Charles asks, materializing beside you.

You nod, a bit breathless from dancing. “It’s wonderful. But I wish ...”

“You wish I could truly be here,” Charles finishes for you. He holds out his hand in an old-fashioned gesture. “Well, my lady, may I have this dance?”

You glance around, making sure no one is watching, then place your hand over his incorporeal one. As the music starts up again, a slow, romantic waltz, you begin to move together.

It’s a strange sensation, dancing with a ghost. You can’t feel Charles’ hand on your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, but somehow, you move in perfect synchronization. For a few precious moments, it’s as if the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you, swaying to the music.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Charles’ eyes widen, then soften with an emotion so deep it takes your breath away. “And I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible.”

As you gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in the moment, a sudden chill sweeps through the room. The lights flicker, and a murmur of confusion ripples through the crowd.

Charles stiffens, his form becoming more translucent. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters, looking around warily.

Before you can ask what he means, a commotion breaks out near the center of the ballroom. Guests are backing away from a spot on the dance floor, pointing and gasping in shock.

You push your way through the crowd, Charles right behind you. As you reach the cleared space, your blood runs cold. Three ghostly figures have appeared, dressed in outdated formal wear, their faces contorted with rage and fear.

“Impossible,” Charles breathes beside you. “It’s them. The council members who ... who murdered me.”

As if hearing his words, the three ghosts turn towards you. Their eyes widen in recognition as they spot Charles.

“You!” One of them snarls, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stunned silence of the ballroom. “How are you here?”

Charles steps forward, his own form becoming more visible to the shocked onlookers. “I could ask you the same question, Lord Beaumont. Or should I say, murderer?”

A collective gasp runs through the crowd. Hotel staff are rushing about, trying to maintain order, but everyone’s attention is fixed on the supernatural drama unfolding before them.

“We did what was necessary,” another ghost, a portly man with a walrus mustache, blusters. “You would have ruined Monaco with your radical ideas!”

“Ruined?” Charles’ voice rises in indignation. “I was trying to save our principality, to secure its future beyond the whims of fortune and gambling!”

The third ghost, a thin man with a pinched face, sneers. “And in doing so, you would have destroyed the very thing that made Monaco unique. We couldn’t allow it.”

You find your voice, anger overcoming your fear. “So you murdered him? Your own prince?”

The ghosts turn their baleful gazes on you. “And who are you to question the affairs of state from a century past?” Lord Beaumont demands.

“She,” Charles says, moving to stand beside you, “is the one who uncovered your treachery. The proof of your crimes has been found.”

A murmur runs through the crowd. You see hotel management huddled in a corner, speaking urgently into phones. In the distance, you can hear police sirens approaching.

“It doesn’t matter now,” the portly ghost says dismissively. “We’re long dead, beyond the reach of earthly justice.”

“Perhaps,” you counter, your voice stronger than you feel. “But the truth will be known. History will remember Prince Charles as the visionary he was, and you as the small-minded murderers who cut his life short.”

As you speak, a strange energy begins to build in the room. The three ghosts start to flicker, their forms becoming less substantial.

“What’s happening?” The thin ghost cries out, panic in his voice.

Charles steps forward, his expression a mix of pity and righteousness. “You’re facing judgment at last, gentlemen. Your unfinished business is complete. The truth is out.”

With a howl of despair, the three ghosts begin to fade away. In moments, they’ve vanished completely, leaving behind a stunned silence.

As the implications of what’s just happened sink in, chaos erupts in the ballroom. People are shouting, phones are out recording, and security is trying desperately to maintain order.

But you only have eyes for Charles. His form is starting to shimmer, becoming more translucent by the second.

“Charles,” you gasp, reaching for him. “What’s happening? Are you ...”

He looks down at his fading hands, then back up at you with a sad smile. “It seems my unfinished business is complete as well. The truth is out, justice, in some form, has been served.”

“No,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering just above your cheek. “My dearest Y/N, meeting you has been the greatest gift. You’ve brought light to my long darkness, and given me peace I never thought I’d find.”

“I don’t want you to go,” you sob, your heart breaking.

“Nor do I wish to leave you,” Charles says softly. “But perhaps this isn’t truly goodbye. I don’t know what lies beyond, but I do know this — a love like ours transcends time and death itself. Somehow, someway, I believe we’ll find each other again.”

You manage a watery smile. “You promise?”

“I swear it,” Charles vows. He leans in, and for the briefest moment, you swear you can feel the ghost of a kiss on your lips. “Until we meet again, mon amour.”

And with that, Charles fades away completely, leaving behind nothing but a lingering chill in the air and the memory of a love that defied all boundaries.

As the commotion swirls around you, police and hotel management trying to make sense of what’s happened, you stand still in the center of it all. Your heart is breaking, but there’s also a sense of peace, of completion.

You touch your lips, still feeling the echo of that impossible kiss, and whisper to the empty air, “Until we meet again, Charles.”

In that moment, surrounded by the trappings of a bygone era and the chaos of the present, you know that your life has been forever changed. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it with the strength and love Charles gave you, carrying his memory in your heart until, somehow, someway, you find each other once more.

***

The Mediterranean sun bathes Monaco in a warm glow as you climb the steps to the Palais Grimaldi. Five years have passed since that fateful summer, but your heart still quickens as you approach the familiar facade. You adjust the strap of your messenger bag, filled with research materials for your graduate thesis on 19th-century Monégasque politics.

As you enter the palace, now partly converted into a museum, you’re struck by how much has changed. Plaques and displays line the halls, detailing the history of the Grimaldi family. But your eyes are drawn to a new addition: a whole wing dedicated to Prince Charles and his progressive vision for Monaco.

You pause before a large portrait of Charles, your breath catching in your throat. The artist has captured his piercing green eyes perfectly, that hint of mischief in his smile that you remember so well.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” A voice beside you says, startling you from your reverie. “How much history these walls have seen.”

You turn, a polite response on your lips, but the words die in your throat. Standing next to you is a young man who could be Charles’ twin. The same wavy dark hair, the same chiseled jawline, and most strikingly, those same intense green eyes.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. “Charles?” You whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

The young man looks at you curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, yes, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”

You blink rapidly, reality reasserting itself. Of course this isn’t your Charles. It can’t be. You clear your throat, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, you just ... you look remarkably like someone I used to know. I’m Y/N.”

The young man’s smile widens, and he holds out his hand. “Charles Leclerc. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

You shake his hand, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs through you at his touch. “Leclerc? As in the Formula 1 driver?”

Charles nods, looking slightly sheepish. “The very same. Though today I’m just a tourist like anyone else, enjoying a bit of home between races.”

“Home?” You ask, intrigued despite yourself.

“Born and raised in Monaco,” Charles explains. “Though I admit, I haven’t spent as much time in the palace as I perhaps should have. It’s quite fascinating, especially this new exhibit.”

You nod, turning back to the portrait of Prince Charles. “It really is. The prince was quite a remarkable figure. His ideas were so ahead of their time.”

Charles steps closer, studying the portrait. “You seem to know a lot about him. Are you a historian?”

“A graduate student,” you explain. “I’m here on a research grant, studying 19th-century Monégasque politics at the International University of Monaco.”

Charles’ eyes light up with interest. “Really? That sounds fascinating. I’ve always been interested in history, especially the history of Monaco. It’s a small place, but it’s played such an outsized role in European affairs.”

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “It really has. Prince Charles, in particular, had some revolutionary ideas about diversifying Monaco’s economy beyond just gambling. If he hadn’t died so young, who knows how things might have turned out?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “Yes, his death was quite tragic. And mysterious, from what I understand. Wasn’t there some recent discovery about the circumstances?”

You nod, your heart racing as you remember that night five years ago. “Yes, documents were found that suggested he was actually assassinated by members of his own council who opposed his reforms.”

Charles shakes his head, looking troubled. “How terrible. To be betrayed by those closest to you, all for wanting to make positive changes.”

“It was a different time,” you say softly. “Change is always frightening to those in power.”

Charles nods thoughtfully. “True, but it’s also necessary for growth. Monaco has come a long way since then, but I sometimes wonder if we couldn’t be doing more to realize Prince Charles’ vision.”

You look at him in surprise. “That’s ... that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking in my research. The prince had ideas about sustainable development and diversifying the economy that are still relevant today.”

Charles grins, and for a moment, the resemblance to your Charles is so strong it takes your breath away. “Great minds think alike, it seems. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to use my platform as an athlete to promote positive change in Monaco. Perhaps we could compare notes sometime?”

Your heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m always happy to discuss history with someone who’s genuinely interested.”

“Excellent,” Charles says, pulling out his phone. “Why don’t we exchange numbers? We could meet for coffee and continue this conversation.”

As you input your number into his phone, you can’t help but notice a small charm dangling from it — a miniature racing helmet. “That’s cute,” you comment.

Charles looks at it and chuckles. “Ah, yes. It was a gift from my mother. She says it’s for luck, but I think she just worries about me on the track.”

The casual mention of his mother sends a pang through your heart. This Charles is very much alive, with a family and a life of his own. You have to remind yourself that he’s not the same person you knew, no matter how similar he might seem.

“Well, it seems to be working,” you say lightly. “You’ve had quite a successful season so far. Won your home race, if I’m not mistaken.”

Charles looks pleased. “You follow Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not really, but it’s hard to miss the news when you’re living in Monaco. The Grand Prix is quite an event.”

“That it is,” Charles agrees. “You know, if you’re interested, I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour of the circuit sometime. It’s quite fascinating from a historical perspective as well. The race has been run on essentially the same streets since 1929.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Are you always this charming with strangers you meet in museums?”

Charles grins, a mischievous glint in his eye that’s achingly familiar. “Only the ones who can discuss 19th-century political reform with such passion.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, in that case, how can I refuse? A tour sounds lovely.”

As you continue to chat, moving through the exhibit, you’re struck by how easy it is to talk to Charles. He’s knowledgeable and curious, asking insightful questions about your research and offering his own perspectives on Monaco’s history and future.

At one point, you pause before a display showcasing some of Prince Charles’ personal effects. Among them is a small, ornate pocket watch.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Charles comments, leaning in for a closer look.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat as you remember your Charles checking a similar watch during your midnight explorations. “It’s a shame it’s not working anymore.”

Charles tilts his head, studying the watch intently. “Actually, I think it is. Look closely at the second hand.”

You peer into the display case, and to your amazement, you see the tiny hand ticking away steadily. “You’re right! How did you notice that?”

Charles shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve always had a thing for timepieces. Comes with the racing territory, I suppose. Hundreths of a second are everything on the track.”

You shake your head in wonder. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I try to keep things interesting,” Charles says with a wink. Then his expression turns more serious. “You know, it’s strange. Being here, learning about Prince Charles ... I feel an odd connection to him. Almost as if I knew him somehow.”

Your heart races at his words. Could it be possible? You push the thought away, reminding yourself that such things only happen in fairy tales. “Well, he is your ancestor, in a way. All Monégasques are connected to the Grimaldi family, aren’t they?”

Charles nods slowly. “True, but this feels different. When I look at his portrait, it’s almost like looking in a mirror. And his ideas, his passion for progress ... it resonates with me in a way I can’t quite explain.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Maybe some things are just meant to be. Some connections transcend time.”

Charles looks at you intently, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? That the past isn’t really gone, just ... waiting to be rediscovered.”

You’re saved from having to respond by the chiming of the palace clock, signaling the approach of closing time.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “I should probably get going. I have a meeting with my advisor in the morning.”

Charles nods, looking slightly disappointed. “Of course. But we’re still on for that coffee and circuit tour, right?”

You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Charles touches your arm lightly. “Y/N, I know this might sound strange, but ... I feel like we were meant to meet today. Like some force in the universe brought us together.”

You look into his eyes, so familiar and yet new, and feel a spark of hope ignite in your heart. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He smiles, and in that moment, you see not just the Charles of the present, but echoes of the Charles you knew and loved. “Until we meet again, then?”

The phrase, so similar to your Charles’ last words, sends a shiver down your spine. “Until then,” you agree softly.

As you walk out of the palace and into the warm Monaco evening, your mind is whirling. You can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary has happened, that a promise made long ago is somehow being fulfilled.

You pause at the top of the steps, looking back at the palace that has played such a pivotal role in your life. As the setting sun gilds the stone facade, you allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, some loves really are strong enough to transcend time and death itself.

With a smile on your face and hope in your heart, you descend the steps, ready to embrace whatever new adventure awaits. After all, in a world where ghosts can fall in love and centuries-old mysteries can be solved, anything seems possible.

And, as the promise of a new beginning beckons, you can’t help but feel that the best chapters of your story are yet to be written.

***

The sun-drenched streets of Monaco buzz with excitement as Sofia, a die-hard Scuderia Ferrari fan, makes her way towards the Palais Grimaldi. Her red Ferrari cap and matching team shirt make her stand out among the tourists, but she doesn’t mind. She’s here on a mission: to soak up every bit of Monaco’s rich racing history.

As Sofia enters the palace-turned-museum, her eyes widen in awe at the opulent surroundings. “Wow,” she breathes, spinning slowly to take it all in. “Talk about living like royalty.”

She wanders through the exhibits, pausing occasionally to read plaques or admire artifacts. But her mind keeps drifting to thoughts of sleek racing cars and the roar of engines. That is, until she rounds a corner and comes face to face with a large portrait that stops her in her tracks.

“No way,” Sofia mutters, stepping closer to the painting. Her brow furrows as she studies the face of the young prince depicted. “That’s ... that’s impossible.”

Just then, a tour group passes by, led by an enthusiastic guide. Sofia catches snippets of the commentary.

“... Prince Charles, one of Monaco’s most progressive rulers ...”

“... tragically died young under mysterious circumstances ...”

“... recent discoveries suggest he may have been assassinated ...”

Sofia’s head is spinning. She pulls out her phone, quickly pulling up a photo of Charles Leclerc, her favorite driver. She holds it up next to the portrait, her jaw dropping at the uncanny resemblance.

“Excuse me,” she says, tapping the tour guide on the shoulder. “This Prince Charles, when exactly did he live?”

The guide smiles, always happy to share historical tidbits. “Prince Charles ruled briefly in the late 19th century. He died in 1894 at the young age of 26.”

Sofia’s mind races. “And has anyone ever noticed how much he looks like Charles Leclerc? The F1 driver?”

The guide’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Ah, you’re not the first to notice that similarity. It’s become quite a popular topic of discussion lately. Some even joke that Leclerc is the prince reincarnated.”

Sofia laughs nervously. “Right, of course. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

As the tour moves on, Sofia remains rooted to the spot, her eyes darting between her phone and the portrait. It’s more than just a passing resemblance. The shape of the eyes, the curve of the jaw, even the hint of a mischievous smile — it’s all pure Leclerc.

Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice someone approaching until a voice beside her says, “Fascinating portrait, isn’t it?”

Sofia jumps, turning to see a young woman standing next to her. The newcomer is dressed casually in a flowing sundress, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, um, yes,” Sofia stammers. “It’s quite ... striking.”

The woman smiles knowingly. “Let me guess. You couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to a certain Formula 1 driver?”

Sofia’s eyes widen. “You see it too? I thought I was going crazy!”

The woman laughs, a warm, genuine sound. “Trust me, you’re not crazy. I’m Y/N, by the way. I’m doing some research here for my graduate thesis.”

“Sofia,” she replies, shaking your hand. “So, what’s the deal? Is Leclerc secretly a time-traveling prince or something?”

You chuckle, but there’s a strange look in your eyes that Sofia can’t quite decipher. “I’m afraid the explanation is probably much more mundane. Many Monégasques have some connection to the Grimaldi family. It’s likely just a case of strong genes persisting through the generations.”

Sofia nods, but she’s not entirely convinced. There’s something about the way you’re looking at the portrait, a mix of fondness and melancholy, that piques her curiosity.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Sofia probes gently. “Are you a big history buff?”

You smile, turning away from the portrait. “You could say that. I’ve been studying Prince Charles and his era for my thesis. It’s a fascinating period in Monaco’s history.”

Sofia’s about to ask more when she notices someone approaching over your shoulder. Her eyes go wide, and she has to stifle a gasp.

You turn to see what’s caught her attention, and your face lights up. “Charles! I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

Sofia’s jaw drops as Charles Leclerc himself joins you, greeting you with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He’s dressed casually in jeans and an oversized hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that face — especially not when it’s right next to the portrait of his doppelganger.

“I had some free time between meetings and thought I’d stop by,” Charles explains. “How’s the research going?”

You launch into an explanation of your latest findings, and Sofia watches in fascination as Charles listens intently, asking insightful questions and offering his own thoughts. It’s clear this is far from the first time they’ve discussed the topic.

Finally, Charles seems to notice Sofia’s presence. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Sofia manages to close her mouth, which had been hanging open in shock. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m Sofia. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Leclerc.”

Charles grins, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Charles. Always nice to meet a tifosa.”

Sofia gestures weakly to the portrait. “I was just ... I mean ... has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like ...”

Charles and you exchange a look that Sofia can’t quite interpret. Then Charles turns back to her with a wry smile. “Once or twice, yes. It’s quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Sofia nods, still feeling like she’s stepped into some kind of twilight zone. “Coincidence. Right.”

You clear your throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “So, Sofia, are you here on vacation?”

Grateful for the change of topic, Sofia launches into an enthusiastic description of her plans for the next week. As they chat, she can’t help but notice the way Charles and you interact — the casual touches, the inside jokes, the way your eyes continually find each other. There’s clearly a deep connection there.

At one point, Charles excuses himself to take a phone call. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sofia turns to you with wide eyes. “Okay, you have to tell me. What’s the real story here? How long have you two been together?”

You laugh, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. “Is it that obvious? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. We met right here, actually, in front of this very portrait.”

Sofia’s romantic heart melts a little at that. “That’s so sweet! But come on, you have to admit, the resemblance is freaky. And the way you two were talking about history ... it’s like he lived it or something.”

You get that strange look in your eyes again, a mix of secrecy and wonder. “Charles has always had a deep connection to Monaco’s past. It’s one of the things that drew us together.”

Sofia’s about to press for more details when Charles returns, slipping his arm around your waist with casual familiarity.

“I hate to cut this short,” he says apologetically, “but I’ve got to run to a sponsor meeting. Y/N, we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

You nod, smiling up at him. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you at eight.”

As Charles says his goodbyes and leaves, Sofia watches him go with a mix of admiration and lingering confusion. She turns back to you, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy,” Sofia starts, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but is there any chance ... I mean, has anyone ever considered the possibility that Charles might be, I don’t know, the reincarnation of Prince Charles or something?”

You pause for a long moment, and Sofia holds her breath, half-expecting you to laugh in her face. But instead, you give her a small, enigmatic smile.

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” you say softly. “Sometimes, the past has a way of coming back to us in forms we least expect. Who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t?”

Sofia’s mind reels at the implications. “So you’re saying ...”

You hold up a hand, your expression turning more serious. “I’m not saying anything definitively. But I will say this: getting to know Charles — the Charles of today — has been like rediscovering a part of history I thought was lost forever. Whether that’s due to reincarnation, cosmic coincidence, or just the magic of human connection, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it feels like a second chance at something extraordinary.”

Sofia listens, enthralled. It’s like something out of a movie or a romance novel. “That’s ... wow. I don’t even know what to say.”

You laugh, the sound tinged with wonder. “Trust me, I know the feeling. Life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.”

As you chat a bit more, Sofia can’t help but feel like she’s been let in on some grand secret. The way you talk about Charles, about history, about the strange twists of fate — it’s all so fantastical and yet, standing here in the shadow of that eerily familiar portrait, she can’t quite bring herself to disbelieve it entirely.

Finally, you glance at your watch and sigh. “I should get going. I’ve got to prepare for dinner soon. It was lovely meeting you, Sofia.”

Sofia nods, still feeling slightly dazed. “You too. And ... thanks. For sharing all of that. It’s given me a lot to think about.”

You smile warmly. “Just keep an open mind. You never know what kind of magic you might encounter, especially in a place like Monaco.”

As you leave, Sofia turns back to the portrait of Prince Charles. She studies it intently, trying to reconcile the historical figure with the modern-day race driver she admires so much.

“Second chances,” she murmurs to herself. “Who’d have thought?”

With one last look at the portrait, Sofia continues her tour of the museum. But now, every artifact seems to pulse with new significance. The weight of history feels more present than ever, intertwining with the present in ways she never could have imagined.

As she steps out of the museum and into the bright Monaco sunshine, Sofia finds herself looking at the city with new eyes. The sleek modern buildings and ancient narrow streets no longer seem at odds, but part of a continuous, living history.

She thinks of Charles Leclerc, of the mysterious Y/N, of a long-dead prince whose legacy seems to echo through time. And as she makes her way towards the harbor, where she knows the Monaco circuit snakes through the city streets, Sofia can’t help but feel that she’s stumbled upon a story far greater and more magical than any single victory.

With a smile on her face and a newfound appreciation for the mysteries of the universe, Sofia sets off to explore more of Monaco. After all, in a place where princes can become race drivers and love can transcend time itself, who knows what other wonders she might discover?

[globalrebrand]

When you Deny Them Staff Edition: Crowley and Crewel

Warnings: Light not sfw

Crowley

It's inelegant to say the least. Crowley likes his feathers ruffled at least thrice a week during the school year and even more on vacation. He's never had a problem getting you into his bed before. Whether you've been together 10 years or 100 years nothing has stopped this regular pattern of intimacy except for grave emergencies.

There are several key ways you and Crowley like to like to initiate your sessions. Usually a mutual coming together at the end of a long day, or when you walk into his private office in your shared home and he turns around with a wide smile to greet you patting his lap affectionately. A kiss or two quickly ends up with the two of you tangled in each other in the bed, on his office sofa, or even on the desk.

So imagine his surprise when all of the usual warmth and affection he's used to receiving from you becomes only chaste pecks and stoic caresses. He loses it. Breaks down instantly, but he tries to keep a brave front but he can't stomach not having your full affection.

His first impulse is to consult his teaching staff. Trein advises that this is a matter entirely inappropriate to discuss with the school's teachers, but as a veteran of marriage suggests that Crowley try to engage in affection with you where sex isn't the exclusive result. Just some cuddling or snuggling without pressure for more. Trein also advises Crowley to just talk to you about the changes in your intimacy levels but Crowley in all of his infinite wisdom thinks that would come off as a bit desperate. "As if you didn't reek of desperation already, Dire" (Trein's words not mine.)

Crowley sees the sense in that but would prefer faster results so he goes to Crewel who plainly tells him that he dresses like an Edgar Allen Poe inspired 19th century brothel owner and suggests that he dress a bit more modern and less garish. (admittedly this is rich coming from Crewel) This Crowley does try, he walks in one day after work in a beautifully tailored midnight colored suit and like a moth to a flame you come over and press your hands to his chest and lapels, telling him how handsome he looks, but then if you end up liking it too much his feelings are hurt and he reverts back to his old sense of dress. You liked it before! (cockblocks himself)

Vargas tells him that he needs to bulk up. He's too spindly and that you're probably creeped out by his spider like physique. Crowley considers building some muscle, but when Vargas says it will probably take about 3 months to see any meaningful gains Crowley doesn't even let him finish talking before moving on.

Naturally Sam suggests gifts and this really resonates with Crowley, so soon you'll wake up to a cadre of silver and gold glittering gifts on your vanity in the morning and a cheesy grin from your husband encouraging you to try things on. You like the presents well enough but are incredibly offended by the assumption that because of these gifts you should want to immediately jump his bones as repayment. He understands the optics look bad but that's not what he meant!

If none of these questionably implemented strategies work it takes maybe a month of cold interactions and failed seduction attempts before he's coming to you in your shared bed, already sniffling as he tries to get to the bottom of the situation.

"Please tell me what's the matter my love. I know you wouldn't withhold yourself from me for anything less than being in complete and utter despair. As your husband it is my job to shoulder these burdens with you."

Crowley is absolutely shocked when you say nothing is the matter and that you're just not in the mood. Insists you need to get to the doctor, because obviously something is medically wrong even if you feel fine. If you insist you're ok, he starts full on sobbing asks if there's someone else. He promises he'll forgive you just tell him the fucker's name.

The good news is that as long as you're honest and open with him there's really no reason for there to be an extended period of abstinence. Crowley is using all of the creative problem solving skills he doesn't use at his job to solve the problem of why you don't want to rail him anymore.

If you want to try something new, he'll do whatever you ask. If you're tired and stressed he's trying to figure out how to take things off your plate. This silly little birdman will do anything for you. He can't tolerate even 10% less of his normal daily dose of intimacy and affection from you. Now with that understanding out of the way, go to him. He needs you desperately.

"Darling there's no need to let anything come between us. I will always do my best to please you, there is no one for me but you. Now, spread your legs."

Crewel

Indignant, but demure. He's really not used to you saying no to him. Of course he respects your right to say no, to him, but you really seldom do. Crewel honestly doesn't know how to react when he draws his hand up your thigh and you stop him in his tracks and tell him not right now. What do you mean? Are you going somewhere? Doing something? If you're not busy and not sick, what gives? The occasional no is tolerable if a smidgen disappointing, but a habit of rejection however, that won't do at all.

Of course Crewel doesn't externalize those thoughts he just respects your wishes, but he's not exaggerating when he estimates that you both have sex nearly everyday. You both might tell the another not now, but more certainly there will be a later. Normally you and Crewel can't keep your hands off of each other. You both thought it was a honeymoon phase, but its been years at this point and you two just don't...stop... going at it.

Your relationship isn't only physical of course. Crewel loves you body and mind, so he's more than willing to adhere to your boundaries. He promised to love you in sickness and health, through thick and thin.

Early into the change he'll ask you if anything is wrong, and if there's anything he can do to help, make you feel more comfortable or reengage with you physically. If you open up to him and have a discussion about what's bothering you so much that you're withdrawing from him then you two can quickly get to the bottom of things together and resume intimacy with little issue, however, if you wave off his concerns all he'll say is that you're a "stubborn pet," but that he's there for you no matter what.

But he does actively try to seduce you in the mean time, and admittedly he gets really into the task. He's really unused to rejection so the opportunity to prove himself is a welcome challenge, to deliberately attract your gaze and demand your attention kinda turns him on. It's been years since you've played hard to get with him and he's more than up to the task or turning your head. He's too proud to beg so simple seduction is just what it is.

Crewel starts off simple, he walks around the house shirtless, maybe unbuttons the top few buttons of his dress shirts after he's home from school. He'll make sure to wear the clothes and sleepwear you find him the most irresistible in. But then he ups the ante by cooking you meals whenever he gets a chance.

Imagine Crewel in your kitchen, you sitting at the island, both of you splitting a bottle of wine while he works over the stove, his shirt a bit unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms and an apron tied at his waist. Then he comes to you cradling spoonful of sumptuous sauce and putting it to your lips asking you to tell him how it tastes. Now I personally would just have to give him head right then and there but if you're still not swayed he has a few more tricks up his sleeves.

(It's important to note while he tries his hand at seduction, Crewel has no expectations. He's just doing his best to make you want him and he's an alchemy expert so he's very good at trusting the process and not rushing results, even if his instincts his brain's internal nonstop directive to jump your bones and make you submit are telling him otherwise.)

Now maybe Crewel perceives that the reason you're not connecting with him physically is because your burdened with either your job or housework. Managing the latter is no problem, either he hires a maid or sets up some magical systems that help to tidy the house. Sure it's tedious but absolutely worth it when you ask him about how everything go so spotless and he tells you that he's handled it. The look of gratitude and awe on your features is so alluring to him. Oh he just wants you so bad! He's impatient to have your again but tries to remember good things come to those who wait.

He finds other activities to fill up your time together, maybe you start going to the gym, or reading together just things to make sure that if you aren't having sex, at least there's other form of connection and intimacy happening. And of course he looks insanely hot in gym clothes, which doesn't fail to make you blush and seeing other people eye him makes you want to stake your claim. And coincidentally, the books Crewel wants to read with you are all vaguely or intensely erotic in nature which has certainly gotten you hot and bothered on occasion.

And you'll honestly be so surprised as his willingness to give you space sexually that it's likely you who comes up to him about the missing intimacy in your relationship.

Honestly your knowledge of his playboy past has you thinking he might have found someone else. You see how often he gets hit on by perfect strangers when you're literally right next to him. It wouldn't be hard in the slightest for him to find someone else to meet his needs. But then you realize that he's hardly away from you, if anything the two of you are continuing to connect with each other.

When you apologize to him about not being more in the mood and not initiating sex he's genuinely taken aback. It hasn't been more than a few weeks. He'll tell you that you have nothing to apologize for, though he appreciates your awareness. He understands that everyday is a bit much but is happy to work with you to find middle ground.

"Oh puppy its my fault for tiring you out. Nearly everyday for years...perhaps we were due for a reset. How about you tell me how you'd like things to go from here on out? Speak now or forever hold your peace pet. You know I'm seldom willing to make changes, but for you and this beautiful body, I do just about anything."

[vestaignis]

"Рускеальский экспресс" это регулярный пассажирский ретропоезд курсирующий ежедневно на паровозной тяге. Последний регулярный пассажирский поезд на паровозной тяге курсировал в конце 70-х годов XX века. "Рускеальский экспресс" состоит из семи вагонов включая вагон-ресторан. В первый рейс поезд отправился 1 июня 2019 года. Больше 50 тысяч туристов побывали в вагонах Рускеальского экспресса за первый же год работы.

 Поезд «Рускеальский экспресс» связал берег Ладожского озера и рускеальское месторождение, а внутреннее убранство поезда оформлено в стилистике Николаевского экспресса, так распространенной на рубеже XIX–XX веков. Светильники, отделка, обои и мебель воссоздают атмосферу тех вагонов, пассажирами которых были последний российский император и его семья. В купе – большой стол и удобные диванчики с пуфиками, проводники одеты в стилизованную под старину форму. Особенностью поезда служит оригинальное фотокупе, где оборудована специальная система для моментального фотоснимка.

Кстати, современная железная дорога от платформы Сортавала до горного парка «Рускеала» полностью повторяет маршрут, по которому 200 лет назад везли к берегу Ладожского озера рускеальский мрамор для Исаакиевского собора.

"Ruskeala Express" is a regular retro passenger train running daily on a steam locomotive. The last regular passenger train on a steam locomotive ran in the late 70s of the 20th century. "Ruskeala Express" consists of seven cars including a restaurant car. The train departed on its maiden voyage on June 1, 2019. More than 50 thousand tourists visited the cars of the Ruskeala Express during the first year of operation.

The train "Ruskeala Express" connected the shore of Lake Ladoga and the Ruskeala deposit, and the interior of the train is decorated in the style of the Nikolaevsky Express, so common at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries. Lamps, decoration, wallpaper and furniture recreate the atmosphere of those cars, the passengers of which were the last Russian emperor and his family. In the compartment there is a large table and comfortable sofas with ottomans, the conductors are dressed in a stylized antique uniform. The train's special feature is its original photo compartment, which is equipped with a special system for instant photography.

By the way, the modern railway from the Sortavala platform to the Ruskeala Mountain Park completely repeats the route along which Ruskeala marble for St. Isaac's Cathedral was transported to the shore of Lake Ladoga 200 years ago.

Источник://t.me/krasota_zemli, //pikabu.ru/tag/Рускеальский% 20 экспресс/h, //naparovoze.ru/zima-ruskeala-iz-spb, //35photo.pro/ tags/Рускеала/, /35photo.pro/photo_7531702/#author/7531702, //vk.com/ruskealexpress?to=L3J1c2tlYWxleHByZXNzPw, //www. sputnik8.com/ru/st-petersburg/sights/ruskealskiy-ekspress /info.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

No Sugar Tonight 5

Character: Brock Rumlow

Summary: A regular customer becomes more than just a familiar face.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The townhouse is big compared to your apartment, though most places are. Brock keeps his hand tight on yours as he brings you up the front steps. He punches a code into the lock, the numbers blocked out by his large figure. You teeter on your feet as he pushes down the lever and shoves the door inward.  

He points you in ahead of him and adjusts the straps of the duffel bag hooked over his shoulder. Those are your things, parsed down to a single bag. He follows you in as your eyes skimp the walls. Despite your muddled fear, you can’t help but stand in awe of the antique panel and brick. 

“You seem like the old-style type,” he plops the bag down on the wooden bench against the wall, “shoes.” 

You look down and nod. You kneel to unlace your work sneakers and put them on the rack. He sits beside the duffel as he works at loosening his boots. 

You tear your attention from the tear drop bulbs of the chandelier light above and look at him. Like really look at him. He’s in all black like always. His hair is a similarly dark hue and a shadow of stubble never leaves his square jaw. His shoulders are broad and straight and even sitting, he looks huge. He looks up and narrows his eyes as he catches your gaze. 

“Sir, er, Brock,” you twist your palms together. 

“Yes, baby,” he sits up, his shoulders squaring. The pet name tweaks in your stomach. 

“Erm...” you peer around. “I... I don’t know.” 

“You don’t like it?” He stands and you take a step back. “We can update it.” 

“Um, no, it’s... pretty but... what... what am I doing here?” 

He snorts. It’s as close to laughter as he’s come. 

“Whatever you want, baby.” He nears and reaches for you. You wince as he cradles the back of your head and draws you close. “It’s our home, we make the rules.” 

He bends and kisses your forehead. You gulp as the heavy scent of his cologne strangles you. His fingers curl into your scalp and he hums. He hesitates for just a moment before he pulls back. 

You suck your lip in under your teeth and turn away. You’re buzzing from his proximity. The way he crowds you is unnerving. Everything about him is. 

You sense him watching you as you tiptoe around the bottom of the staircase and stop to stare at the framed painting of a woman in 19th century garb. She seems familiar as she sits on a stool in flowing ivory and pets a lamb, her stomach swollen with child. 

“Like I said, you can change it,” he grits as he comes closer. “Have a look around. Explore. It’s all yours.” 

You flinch and bat your eyes at the picture. This is real. You peek over at the duffle bag as the horror rolls up your spine. You don’t think you’re ever going back to your old life. This man won’t let you. 

You continue down the hallway next to the stairs if only to get space from him and your looming fear. You turn to look into the den. A long sofa and cushy armchairs, bookcases on either side of the vintage fire stove and a rustic rug across the aged wooden floor. You can’t deny that it’s cozy. 

He lurks like a shadow but allows you enough space to make your own way through the place. The kitchen is wrought in walnut and iron. A gas stove, a black fridge, and a dishwasher to boot. The walk-in pantry is stocked to the ceiling. You back out as he leans in the crook of the counter. 

“There’s more upstairs, baby.” 

You take his subtle directive and retrace your path. The dining room on the other side of the stairs gets only a quick glance before you climb to the next floor. Another hallway with several doors. A bathroom with a clawfoot tub and separate shower booth, a linen closet, and office, and the main bedroom. You stop in the last and stare at the four-postered bed. 

You retreat and pass Brock as he stands against the wall, halfway up the stairs. There’s another door but it doesn’t open. You don’t try to get past the lock. You go back to look down at him. 

“It’s nice, er... Brock.” 

“All for you,” he turns and climbs up patiently. 

“I--” your wring your hands, “really?” You look one way then the other, “thanks, but...” 

“You shouldn't chew your lip. It’s already chapped.” He grabs your hands and pulls them apart, “stop picking at your nails.” 

“Sorry, I--” 

“Don’t be. I’ll take care of ya until you take care of yourself,” he brings your hands up between his, grazing his calloused skin over yours. He turns your palms to his and pushes his fingers between yours. His cheek dimples and he guides your hands to his chest. “You’ll be safe here.” 

You nod and stay silent. His warmth seep through his shirt into your hands. It adds to the sheen of sweat speckling over your body. That fiery heat of fear, the nip of the inevitable. You still can’t wrap your head around it all but you know deep down, you’re not going back to your boxy apartment. 

[artschoolglasses]

Sofa, unknown maker, American, 1805-10

From the Philadelphia Museum of Art

[galleryofart]

Old Timers

Artist: Philip B. Hahs (American, 1853-1882)

Date: 1892

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Philadelphia Museum of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia, PA, United States

[portrait-paintings]

Madame Charles Maurice de Talleyrand Périgord (1761–1835)

Artist: François Gérard (French, 1770–1837)

Date: c. 1804

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: The Met Fifth Avenue, New York City, NY, United States

Description

Gérard, a student of Jacques Louis David, was official painter to Empress Joséphine; the sitter was a celebrated beauty, captured in Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun’s youthful portrait from 1783, also at The Met. In 1802, her affair with the statesman Talleyrand was so scandalous that Napoleon demanded they marry; neither was particularly faithful, however, and, by the time this portrait was painted, they had separated. Thus, this is not a pendant to either of the two portraits of Talleyrand at The Met. Gérard’s brush revels in details of the highly fashionable interior: contrasting sun and fire light from the novel chimney installed beneath a window, the diaphanous dress, and the paisley shawl - a modish accessory, but also a nod to the sitter’s birth near Pondicherry, in colonial India.

[smolvenger]

One Bed (Professor! Tom Hiddleston x Student! Fem! Reader)

Summary: You're on a trip for a research project with your sexy professor...and the Air BNB has only one bed.

Warnings: SMUT ! SMUT! This is one of my mostly smuttier pieces! (loss of virginity, use or professor/student relationship as a kink kind of, some oral sex and p in v sex, a bit of dirty talk and it's unprotected, whoopsies). A mild plot in this one but some sweet, fluffy moments.

Word Count: >2 K. A blurb/smaller oneshot (Prof! Tom just does something to me, okay?!)

Dick-tionary: Smut starts at "Take me. Take me good,” you said" and ends at "Here…let me hold you, YN, please…”.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @jijilaufeyson @steasstuff @anukulee @kimi01985 @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @giona45-5 @goddessgirl43

There had been a mistake.

There was your special trip. School funded. To research the historical context and life of 19th-century romantic authors. One you would take with Professor Hiddleston. The days would consist of visiting old houses and attending lectures in between stuffing yourself silly with sandwiches in tea shops. 

All while trying not to secretly oogle the Professor in his suit.

The first day, after a long day of traveling, you attended the first series of lectures. You fought to keep your head from drooping. Both of you ambled down the cobblestoned streets and checked into your stay for the week.

 But there was a mishap in the Air BNB. But the location, no- it was still a cozy, comfortable cottage. One of those in England that seemed like a country house that plopped into a city. 

The problem was that there was only one bed in that room.

The cottage itself was furnished moderately. The chairs were wooden and rickety. The living room had no sofa.

Professor Hiddleston was going to be a gentleman and try to sleep on the floor or the chairs. The picture of his tall body trying to curl himself up to sleep on one made you almost burst into laughter. He was going to find the host and talk to them. 

“It’s big enough! We can just roll away, give each other some space!” you encouraged, gesturing to it.

Before you knew it, you were both in your night clothes. In the bed. A blanket over you.

The beat of your heart raced too fast for sleep. Not to mention your mind for having him near. Seeing him so relaxed. His long curls freed. His glasses were folded in the case on the desk. How his long legs just brushed yours. It was everything in you not to bump your feet flirtatiously to him. Or to even just feel his skin.

It shouldn’t feel this….this…this wrong.

Wrong, wait, you thought, what was wrong?

You both were of age. He was single. You were single. You got along well, incredibly well in fact. He was funny, incredibly kind, wise, and smart as a whip. Not to mention, he was delectable. The way he read Shakespeare out loud would make you wet in a 10 am class. You’d be squirming in his seat as he adjusted his glasses.

When you sat at that lecture, you could see him, Secretly taking glances at you. Your hands just brushed as you took notes. The heat in you jolted you awake and the content of the speech, the reason you were brought here in the first place, seemed like distant white noise compared to his presence close to you.

His breathing was hitching. You heard a rustling. His voice made low and husky, whispering your name.

You turned around.

Before you could process anything, he at once adjusted himself on top of you. Heart beating even harder, feeling his weight pinning you, you began to tremble.

“Pro-Professor?” you asked.

“I don’t care anymore-” he rasped.

He pressed your lips to his. A sound came out of you- you could taste the mint of his toothpaste. He pressed further onto you. Your arms wrapping around to deepen it. He released it, his breath heavy.

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he asked.

You swallowed back the snarky comment that you could feel exactly the effect you had on him brushing against your stomach. Though he was still clothed in his loose white shirt and shorts for sleep. His curls over you. His beard scratches against your skin. Heat rising all over you.

You felt his hands touch you. Tracing down from your breasts to your stomach. And further down. You began to tremble and the pooling sensation was happening between your legs. He reached your neck and pressed a kiss there. An involuntary moan flew out of you. His cock in his pants seemed even more pressed.

“I’ve held back, back for so long, darling, please-” he whispered.

His hand stopped when it reached the hem of your shorts. It released and you nearly whined.

“What…what is it?” you asked.

“I’m waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you,” he whispered.

You were a mess of lust now. You wanted him so badly, and here he was. But yet there was the unknown. The precipice.  

“I’ve never…never been with a..a..a…I’ve never-never done this, professor” you stuttered.

He kissed your cheek. His eyes were soft, a smile on his face.

“I’ll make be gentle, my dear,” he promised.

You were shaking and wet and ready. 

“Take me. Take me good,” you said.

He kissed your neck again, and you let out another moan.

“No one’s here-you can make a sound, darling. It’s only you. And me…don’t be afraid, I’ll make you ready,” he rasped.

His kiss traveled to your chest. Then his hand worked each front button of your shirt. Ceremoniously. Sacredly. He pushed it slowly away to show your breasts. He kissed down your chest and onto one. His lips traveled your stomach and then his hands slif off both your shorts and drenched underwear.

He kissed you and swung you over. Already you felt yourself arch at him.

“Beautiful….you’re fucking beautiful…” he whispered, seeing your bare form. The moonlight slipped through the curtains giving a silver sliver in the room.

The clothes were thrown aside. You were naked. But he was still donned. He held up your leg, arching your back, grinding air. Your arms dangled before the bed and making sure he heard your whimpers, knew how badly you wanted him. He began kissing the inside of your thigh, held up in his large hand. His eyes shone at what lay between your legs.

“Hear my soul speak…” he murmured, reciting Shakespeare.

His lips traveled up. Closer, and closer. 

“The very instant that I did saw you…”

You felt his hot breath right before your soaked entrance.

“My heart did fly into your service…” 

 His tongue gave a lap. You writhed against him. You couldn’t remember being this turned on. His mouth gave little licks. You held onto the bedrail for life. You were going to burst- but you needed him. It was not enough. You wanted more.

“Please…Please, fuck me, Professor…I need your cock…” you began to beg.

He took off his shirt and you were in near shock at his lean, muscular body.

Your heart jumped at his erect, large cock dripping already. You would make it fit. You wanted it to. 

He leaned down, positioning himself right at your entrance. He held a forehead to yours.

“Tell me now you want this…tell me now…and I’ll be slow…”

“I want this…” you confirmed.

You lay down, and his hand flew over yours, holding you in place. He groaned as he entered. He slowly slid in, you were gasping.

“Professor…professor-I…I-oh! Oh god!” you cried out.

The pain came to you and fizzled out. You were gasping aloud. Somehow… you adjusted. 

“I’m going to move,” he announced.

He then thrust in and out of you. A slow pace. His breathing was hard. His cock hitting the right spot. You put your hands up onto his chest. One hand of his left yours and lifted your leg to feel the deeper position.

“God-god, yes-yes..” you were groaning.

“Tell me-Tell me, darling, if I- I need to-to be slow- you’re so-so good, doing so good-” he rasped in between them.

But you were craving it. The release. The ravishment.

“Professor-please-harder- faster- fuck me- fuck me-more-please!” you were begging. Already new and you were his whore and you wanted him. In every way possible.

He complied. He brought up the pace. The board of the bed hits the wall gently, and it creaks beneath your weight. His grunts above you, his curls undone. No more Shakespeare now. He went faster, going deeper.

His hand reached down. He found your clit and began to circle it. You leaned back and moaned.

“Yes- professor-there-”

“That noise- that look- you’re going to make me- make me- you’re going to-”

He traced faster. You felt the spinning rise up. He kept murmuring filth to you.

“God, you’re going to make me-make me cum- look-look in my eyes- so you see me- cum, go on-cum darling, yes-fuck, cum- already- cume for me-”

You were spinning, reaching there-

“Yes-fuck, darling- be a good girl- cum for me- I’m going to-I’m-cum for me-I want-want my little student to-to cum- yes-cum for me, cum for me-I’m cumming, darling, I-”

Heaven entered that little cottage as you cried out his name, oblivion breaking on you between those sheets. He arrived there too, flushed and panting hard with his last groan.

“Here…let me hold you, YN, please…” he offered.

You cuddled onto him, feeling his seed drip somewhat on your skin. And your own release pouring out too. He was warm, sweating, and yet soft, comforting as you cuddled him.

“I…I didn’t know…you just…you’re the type to quote poetry during sex…” you breathed out in a joke, your haze.

“You’re poetry itself,” he said with a last kiss on your forehead.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

I MISSED YOUUU AND YOUR WRITING :(

SO GLAD TO HAVE YOU BACK!!!!

When, or if you’re comfortable with sharing fics from your stash again, could you please revive these? (or perhaps secure them at ao3?):

The one where Matt was growing (but then failing to) some type of melon in cold dreary rainy England sometime in the late 18th / early 19th century

19th century Baby fight: Wee Jack standing up for baby Zee and punching Wee Ludwig , Matt swooping them up later to deescalate

Mid-19th century fight: Teen jack vs Angry livid Arthur because of a broken statue? Then he drops deceased because Zee and Laudanum 

21st century London: Drunk Matt involved in a bar fight cuz he flirted with a girl, and her boyfriend was not having it lol - Jack came to pick him up afterwards

I’m not sure if these were head canons or if you just briefly mentioned these, but they’re in my memory, and I can’t find them anymore from reblogs of your older/deactivated blogs and I still think about them to this day :(((((

Thank you! and Ah! Yes! I can get those written out or back on the blog in some form. Though, unfortunately the first three are what I've kind of started to call 'pseudo-short stories' because they're definitely getting detailed enough to be fics but have not been written out in any true narrative. I've put the ao3 link to the 4th in the comments and below the cut as its a 'real' short story in that its at least a narrative lol.

Whiskey, no so neat.

The woman before Matthew spread herself out on the barstool and looked at him like he was the first apple of autumn in his red toque and brown jacket. He liked it when they did that. There were coloured lights all around the door, a crowd of people, and house music everywhere. A good lager only cost 3 pounds, polished sterling, and he'd had a lot of them. The used glasses on the bar top behind them reflected pretty party lights until they looked like the aurora borealis in his smudged-up vision.

One-night stands made Matthew feel like something had just been invented, something brand new and worth a look at across the bar—valuable, even if only as an ephemeral novelty. Even if it was only because he was pretty.

She swung her arms around him and wound a loose bit of his hair around her fingers. Matthew kissed her and slid himself between her short skirt and black tights and the bar, kissing her again until he was panting and his heart was throbbing to the music at all the pulse points. He looked up at them in the mirror behind the bar, him and the woman. A man stood behind him, glaring murderously from under a ball cap.

"Problem?" Matt asked, looking over his shoulder, arms still slung around the woman's shoulders. He was drunk. He was far too fucking drunk.

"That's my girl."

Matt looked back at the woman.

She shrugged. "An ex,"

"You heard her," Matt laughed. That would have been the end of it at home.

"Get off her!"

"No, thank you," Matthew said, and the woman nudged him closer. They ignored the man. He swung himself around and hitched her up. It was the smoothest floor he'd ever been on, or he was wasted, and he slipped, had to keep adjusting and pushing forward to keep his arms around her and his mouth on her neck. Her moans drew up, and he sighed into her jaw. It's another twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. They get more drinks. Matt drinks whiskey neat. His fourteenth glass or so. Time doesn't mean much. It clumps up like chunks of ice, making a whole solid in a glass. He's about to ask if she wants to return to her place or his when he's clocked in the face. He's still thinking about how he hopes it's her place because his place is his father's 19th-century sofa and a few quilts half the city over when he pushes her out of the way, hopefully to safety. He cracks an elbow into the glaring bastard's jaw, the way that makes even Alfred fucking hurt and is about to drag the asshole who hit him outside and high stick a few ribs until they're good and dented when Jack's in front of him. He'd forgotten this was a family outing.

"All right, mate, that's enough," He said, gripping Matt's shoulders and steering him towards the door.

The cold night air hit their faces, and they shivered. Matt's baby brother had been in his sunshine-drenched desert continent home until a week ago, and he felt terrible. He curled an elbow around Jack's neck, suddenly wobbly.

"I wasn't finished!" He hiccoughed. "And you should have worn a jacket,"

"Yeah, nah, you're done," Jack said, sounding beyond annoyed.

"I told you to wear a jacket, bud," Matt proclaimed, not responding to Jack but, like all of London, needing to hear him if his brother didn't.

"You're munted," Jack said, grinning. He tossed Matt's arm off and dragged the other over his shoulders like he didn't trust Matthew to stand up. "Just have fucken look at you,"

"But I'm right," Matt said, swerving and thrusting one hand out before him. He forgot to reach a finger out to make the point, lecture, and be the elder sibling. Shit. He hiccoughed.

"Let's find another pub," Matt said, turning around twice before he realized Jack was still to his left.

"You'll find someone to get in trouble over, you goddamn root rat," Jack said, tugging him down the sidewalk.

"Promise I won't,"

"Mate you just arc'd up at some random bloke," Jack said.

"Fucker hit me first!"

"Yeah, I'm sure Dad will love that explanation for why you almost took someone's head off over someone you've never met," Jack said, hailing a cab.

"But she was hot,"

Jack scowled at him.

"D'you even like girls?" Matt asked. He couldn't remember. "Tits are great,"

"Matt, how much did you drink?"

He blinked.

"Heh, too much." Curiosity crept up on him all of a sudden. "Do marsupials not have tits? Is that why you don't like tits?"

"Jesus Christ, mate," Jack was glowing in a street lamp halo of piss-coloured light.

"Come on, if we're out too late you'll still be hurling for that Honore Balzac lecture you wanted to see,"

"I wanted to honour my ballsack on that girl," Matt returned, giggling. Like a child. Like a girl. Except Zee never giggled. She was loud. She laughed as loud as she wanted. Good for her. Matt thought and wondered why his brain wasn't working anymore.

"The writer,"

He blinked. "Oh yeah, I knoooooow," He hadn't, but Matt pulled out the word and was very glad his baby brother held him fast by the waist and shoulder. Baby brother. Bouncy baby Jack hopped up the curb. He was tall. Jesus Christ, he was so tall. Matt grinned down at him as Jack tugged him along.

"I'm so proud of you,"

"How is it you are exactly the same drunk as you are sober?" Jack said, adjusting Matt's arm over his neck, but Matt could hear how pleased he sounded.

"What'stha mean?" Matt slurred.

"Means you're fucken gone, mate, doesn't it? Jesus but it does,"

"You sound," Matt hiccoughed and tried again. The last five shots were kicking in hard, apparently. "You sound Irish,"

"I am Irish you knob, c'mon Matt, make your bloody legs work would ya?"

He must have blacked out a little after that because they stepped off the curb and got into a car. But when the hell had Jack hailed a cab? No, not a cab. Dad's car. Hadn't that been left at the house? Shit.

"If I hurl—

"Do it out the window and I'll hose it off in the morning," A familiar voice said. Father. Dad.

"You called Dad?" Matt asked. His father raised a brow. "Shit! Shit! I didn't kill anyone!"

His father cocked an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, when did Matthew find himself in the car? He was stashed in the back on his side, unbuckled. The car was moving.

"You picked us up?" he said, astonished. The soft seat felt absolutely delicious, and he propped his cheek on it, but his stomach was sour—with anxiety, not his bar tab.

"I called him," Jack supplied.

"Why?" Matt said.

"Because you got wasted, horked on the curb and I didn't feel like hauling you all the way home,"

"You didn't have to call Dad!" The world tilted. His guts lurched. He might have been sick all over the car, but then he sat up, and gravity was happier with him. Or was he happier with gravity? His head spun. Had he been this drunk in the bar? He clawed his way towards the other side of the car and leaned between the front seats, holding the center console. "I'm really sorry,"

"It's fine," his father said. At the next stop sign, his eyes flicked up in the mirror, and Matt thought he meant it but still felt terrible.

"I was irresponsible," He said quietly. "Sorry,"

"Really, it's fine,"

"Sorry,"

"Sit back down,"

"Dad,"

"Sit your sorry arse down and buckle up or we will be having words about it!" Arthur snapped. "I mean honestly, Matthew Williams! How irresponsible can you be?"

"Yes, sir," He hated when Arthur whipped out his name like that. Jack and Zee have long since chosen their own, but they'd been given one at least. It was a firm, concrete reminder whenever Arthur said his name in that tone. You're like this because you're not mine. Not really. Secondhand son. Oxfam offspring.

He was beyond drunk if he was thinking like that. He fastened the buckle and remained silent. Jack tried a couple of times to start a conversation, but it got nowhere. Eventually, they sat in sullen silence.

Matthew was quiet but wanted to cry a bit when Arthur glowered in the mirror at him. He averted his gaze and stared at his boots, ashamed of himself for indulging in the drink or the girl. When they got to the house, Jack heaved him up, dragging him out of the car, arm over his shoulder, even when he got his sea legs. This is why he never drank as much as he could actually tolerate. He looked everywhere but at Dad, humiliated enough to stare at his feet. Or he was just so drunk he had to watch his feet move. He'd fall flat on his face even with Jack's balancing

He must blackout again because the next he knew, he was awake in a dark room, convinced he was falling, half-folded onto a chair.

"You with me, mate?" Jack was holding a basin, damp inside. He must have just rinsed it out because his mouth tasted like puke.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I threw up?"

"Yup," Jack said and gave him a pat.

"I suck,"

Jack smiled sympathetically. "Just a bit. You think you're done puking?"

"Nothing left,"

Jack guided him through their father's dark house, somehow steering them both through without breaking anything or falling over. He shoved Matt into the shower, and Matt clumsily washed his hair, hosed off sweat and puke, brushed his teeth, and somehow found himself competently toweling himself off. Jack had found their father's stash of clothes in all their sizes and threw them at him.

"Here, joggers and a jumper for your gangly arse," Jack slapped him gently on the back and Matt snorted.

"Jumper," Matt rolled the word around his mouth. "You're the kangaroo,"

"Jesus Christ you're still hammered. It's like dragging dad off the docks." Jack shook his head, and they somehow managed not to die crossing the hall to the spare bedroom. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Matt's face-planted into the bed and thought the flannel pillowcase was a thousand times better than any tits he would have otherwise fallen face into that night. Jack had said he was like Dad out of annoyance but Matt had the small, and embarassing, flicker of joy. He wanted to blurt out thanks but instead he just laid there in a better mood than he'd been since the car.

"Sit up," Jack kicked him gently on the leg, and Matt rolled over, dizzy.

"Don't want to,"

"Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you got this drunk," Jack gave him another nudge, and Matt did as he was told. Jack held out a glass of water and a handful of tablets. "Take those, and drink all of that,"

Matt knocked the pills back and drank it all. Jack took the glass from him and filled it again, putting it on the bedside table.

"You're not going to go and choke to death in your sleep, right?" Jack asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked funny, and Matt felt terrible. His spiky hair was wilted, and Matt thought he should put him in the sun. But his head hurt, and light would make it hurt more, so he settled for flopping over and hugging his baby brother.

"I've literally never done that,"

Jack squeezed his shoulder and let go. "Dad has," Jack said, starfishing on the bed and shoving Matt onto the far edge.

"I'm not Dad," Matt said, sipping more at the water.

"You mind if I stay in here and make sure you don't?" Jack said. "You hammered is weird,"

"Sorry,"

"You're allowed," Jack said. "It's just weird,"

"Tell that to Dad, he hates me,"

"He wasn't happy, that's for bloody sure," Jack said. "But he wouldn't pop down to the shops at two in the morning to round up the full fry up if he hated you,"

Matt gagged.

"Sorry," Jack pat him on the shoulder.

"Saint Bibiana have mercy upon my soul," Matt groaned.

Jack snorted and gently shoved him onto his side. "Come on, get some sleep, you'll feel less like shit in the morning."

"You and I both know that's bullshit," Matt said, eyes shut against the spinning. "I deserve it,"

"You do not," Jack looked ready to smack him upside the head. "Don't be stupid. You're fine,"

"I'm sorry for being a prick,"

"You had fun for once, it wasn't your fault that whacker wanted a fight,"

"Still, I'm sorry,"

"Stop apologizing," Jack said again. "I puked on you plenty when I was little,"

Matt chuckled. "God, that's true. You vomited all the way to England like four times,"

"You're the one who never believed me when I said I wasn't done being sick!" Jack shot back, smiling.

"You'd been puking for ten hours straight that time, I didn't know how there could even be anything left in you," Matt's guts flipped. "Hgnn, no more puke talk,"

"All right, all right, mate, sleep time," Jack held the covers up, and Matt rolled under, burrowing under the duvet.

"Al right, all right. When did you get a brain cell?"

"Kiwi lets me have custody of it when she's off being the family shame," He snorted and flopped onto the mattress next to Matt. "Promise you won't puke on me, asshole,"

"Jackass,"

"Please, Jackass is my father. Call me Jack,"

Matt was snorting as he fell asleep.

[bratzkoo]

into you | kim seokjin pt. 2

Author: bratzkoo | navi Banner made by: @shadowkoo Pairing: actor! seokjin x journalist! reader Word Count: 4.5k~ Genre: fluff, more fluff, angst, more angst Rating: PG-15 Possible Warnings/Note: enemies to lovers seokjin is *chef's kiss*

Summary: Kim Seokjin finds himself entangled in a complex web of emotions when he meets the journalist covering his new series, challenging everything he is.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @aretha170 , @jinniegenie , @mooniyooni .@we8joon​ , @njrwifey​, @woncheecks, @armycarat2612

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | bts masterlist

Jin was staring at his reflection in his trailer's mirror, adjusting his cravat for what had to be the fifteenth time that morning. The period costume was immaculate – it had been for the past hour – but he couldn't seem to stop fidgeting with it.

"If you keep fussing with that tie, you're going to wrinkle it," Kyrie observed from her spot on his trailer's sofa, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"It's a cravat," Jin corrected automatically, hands finally dropping from the fabric. "And I'm not fussing. I'm ensuring historical accuracy."

"Mhmm." Kyrie's tone was knowing. "And I suppose that has nothing to do with a certain journalist starting her behind-the-scenes coverage today?"

The tips of Jin's ears turned pink, a telltale sign that Kyrie had hit the mark. He chose to ignore her, instead pulling out his phone to check the time. And if he happened to glance at the saved tab of Y/N's article about him – well, that was purely for professional reference.

A knock at the trailer door made him nearly drop his phone. "Mr. Kim? Y/N from Spotlight has arrived."

Jin's heart did a complicated little flip that he steadfastly ignored. "Coming," he called out, shooting one last glance at his reflection.

"Just remember," Kyrie said, her teasing tone shifting to something more serious, "we have a lot riding on this show."

The unspoken reminder of their complicated situation hung in the air. Jin nodded, squaring his shoulders. He was an actor. He could handle this.

That confidence lasted approximately three seconds after stepping out of his trailer, because Y/N standing in the morning sunlight was somehow even more devastating than he'd prepared for. She was dressed professionally in tailored slacks and a blouse, her hair pulled back in a neat bun – though a few stubborn strands had already escaped to frame her face. Jin's fingers itched with the inexplicable urge to tuck them behind her ear.

"Mr. Kim," she greeted, her tone perfectly professional. The same tone that had dissected his career in her article, seeing through his carefully constructed image with unnerving accuracy.

"Ms. Y/N." He managed to keep his voice steady. "Welcome to the 19th century."

Something flickered in her eyes – amusement? skepticism? – before she checked her notebook. "Shall we begin with the scheduled interview?"

And so began what Jin would later refer to as his own personal form of torture. Because Y/N, it turned out, was even more perceptive in person than in print. She had this way of looking at him when he gave one of his practiced answers, one eyebrow slightly raised as if to say 'really? that's what you're going with?'

It was infuriating. It was fascinating. It was definitely not making his heart race.

"You still haven't answered how you're approaching Lord Hawthorne's emotional complexity," she pressed during their third interview session. "Your previous roles have been quite different."

Jin resisted the urge to loosen his cravat. The period costume suddenly felt stifling under her direct gaze. "Every role requires finding the character's truth," he replied smoothly, falling back on his media training.

"That sounds rehearsed," Y/N said bluntly.

The honesty caught him off guard, making him forget his carefully crafted persona for a moment. He looked at her – really looked at her – and found genuine interest beneath her professional exterior. She wasn't trying to trip him up or catch him in a scandal. She actually wanted to understand.

It was terrifying.

"Perhaps we should move on to discussing the costume department?" he suggested instead of admitting how much her observation had affected him.

Later, during a break in filming, Jin found himself drawn to the library set where Y/N was examining the book collection. She was so absorbed in a leather-bound volume that she didn't notice his approach.

"Jane Eyre?" he asked, recognizing the edition in her hands.

Y/N startled slightly, nearly dropping the book. "You know it?"

"Rochester's a bit of an ass, if you ask me," Jin said before he could stop himself. "The whole 'hiding my wife in the attic' thing? Major red flag."

The laugh that escaped Y/N was bright and unguarded, so different from her usual professional demeanor that it made Jin's chest tight. He wanted to hear that laugh again. Wanted to be the cause of it.

The thought sent a jolt of panic through him.

- The ballroom scene that afternoon proved to be Jin's undoing. Every time he turned Kyrie in their practiced dance steps, his eyes would involuntarily find Y/N in the corner. She was taking notes, but her body swayed subtly to the period music, an unconscious movement that made her seem softer somehow, more approachable.

"That's the third time you've missed your cue," Kyrie murmured during their fifth take, quiet enough that only Jin could hear.

"Sorry," he muttered, forcing his attention back to the choreography.

"You're not exactly being subtle, you know."

Jin's step faltered slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Cut!" the director called out, frustration evident in his voice. "Jin, can we talk for a moment?"

As Jin made his way over to the director, he caught Y/N hastily scribbling something in her notebook. Probably noting his repeated mistakes. Great. Just what he needed – more ammunition for her to see through his professional facade.

The afternoon dragged on, each scene requiring multiple takes. Not because of any particular difficulty with the choreography, but because Jin's focus kept betraying him. He'd catch a glimpse of Y/N biting her lip in concentration, or tucking those stubborn loose strands behind her ear, and suddenly his carefully maintained Regency manners would slip.

His phone buzzed in his pocket during a break:

Jungkook: "Saw the behind-the-scenes photos the crew's been sharing. Subtle as a brick, hyung 😏"

Jin groaned internally, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Was he really being that obvious?

"Here."

He looked up to find Y/N holding out a cup of coffee – his exact order from the cafe cart that had been set up for the crew.

"You seemed like you could use it," she explained, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

Jin took the cup, trying to ignore how his fingers tingled where they brushed against hers. "How did you know my coffee order?"

A faint blush colored Y/N's cheeks. "I'm observant. It's part of my job."

"Right. Your job." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, a reminder of why he needed to maintain his distance.

Y/N lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say more. The late afternoon sun streaming through the set windows caught her face just so, making her eyes seem impossibly bright. Jin found himself holding his breath, caught in the moment.

"Y/N! Got a minute?" One of the crew members called out, breaking the spell.

"I should..." Y/N gestured vaguely in the crew member's direction.

"Right, yes. Of course." Jin straightened, rebuilding his walls. "Thank you for the coffee."

He watched her walk away, the coffee warming his hands but doing nothing for the cold knot in his chest.

"You know," Kyrie said, appearing beside him with her uncanny timing, "for someone who's supposed to be keeping his distance, you're doing a spectacularly bad job."

"Not now, Kyrie."

"I'm just saying." She leaned against the wall next to him. "Maybe if you told her the truth—"

"The truth?" Jin let out a hollow laugh. "Which truth would that be? That I'm involved in covering your secret relationship with Jungkook? That I'm supposed to be focusing on maintaining our public image but instead I can't stop thinking about—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"About her?" Kyrie finished softly.

Jin's silence was answer enough.

Later that evening, after most of the crew had left, Jin found himself lingering in his trailer. Through the window, he could see Y/N in her temporary office, illuminated by her laptop screen as she worked on her article. She looked tired, but determined, occasionally pausing to reference her notes or check something on her phone.

His own phone buzzed with a series of messages:

Kyrie: "Stop brooding and go home."

Jungkook: "Everything okay? Kyrie says you're being extra moody today."

Kyrie: "He's not moody, he's pining."

Jungkook: "Ah. The journalist again?"

Kyrie: "You should see him when she's around. It's actually kind of adorable."

Jin: "I can see these messages. This is a group chat."

Jungkook: "We know 😉"

Jin was about to type out a retort when movement caught his eye. Y/N was packing up her things, but seemed to be struggling with her laptop bag. Before he could think better of it, he was out of his trailer and halfway to her office.

"Let me help," he offered, reaching for the bag just as she turned around.

They ended up unnecessarily close, the bag trapped between them. Jin could smell her perfume – something light and floral that made his head spin.

"Oh! Mr. Kim—"

"Jin," he corrected automatically, then immediately regretted it. First names were dangerous territory.

"Jin," she repeated softly, and god, he was not prepared for how his name would sound in her voice. "I... actually wanted to ask you something."

His heart rate picked up. "Oh?"

"Yesterday, in the costume department... that phone call seemed intense." She hesitated, studying his reaction. "Is everything okay?"

The genuine concern in her voice made his chest ache. For a moment – one dangerous, tempting moment – he considered telling her everything. About the pressure of maintaining appearances, about the complicated relationship he shared with Kyrie and Jungkook, about how her presence was simultaneously the best and most terrifying thing to happen to him in years.

Instead, he took a careful step back. "Everything's fine. Just business." His voice came out colder than intended.

The hurt that flashed across Y/N's face felt like a physical blow. "Right. Of course. Well, good night... Mr. Kim."

The return to formality stung, but isn't this what he wanted? What he needed?

Back in his apartment that night, Jin lay awake staring at his phone. Y/N's contact information glowed on the screen – obtained for "professional purposes" only. His thumb hovered over the message field.

He wanted to apologize for being cold.

He wanted to ask what she thought of Jane Eyre.

He wanted to tell her that her coffee order was one sugar, no cream.

He wanted...

A text from Jungkook interrupted his thoughts: "Meeting tomorrow about the album rollout. Also, hyung? She looks at you too."

Jin pressed his face into his pillow with a groan. He was so, so screwed.

- The next few days on set became an elaborate dance of avoidance and inevitable collision. Every time Jin tried to maintain his professional distance, he'd find himself gravitating towards Y/N like she had her own magnetic field. And she wasn't making it any easier – not with the way she'd watch him during scenes with those analytical eyes that seemed to see right through him.

"You're doing it again," Kyrie whispered during another take of their ballroom scene.

"What?" Jin muttered, trying to focus on the steps.

"Looking at her like she's the only person in the room."

Jin nearly missed his next turn. "I am not—"

"Cut!" The director's voice rang out. "Jin, what's going on? You nailed this scene yesterday."

From her corner, Y/N glanced up from her notebook, her expression unreadable. Jin caught her eye for a brief moment before she quickly looked away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. The simple reaction sent his heart into overdrive.

"Sorry," he called out to the director. "Let's go again."

During their break, Jin overheard two crew members talking:

"Have you noticed how the journalist looks at him when she thinks no one's watching?"

"Please, have you seen how he looks at her? The sexual tension is insane."

Jin's hand tightened around his coffee cup. He shouldn't care about their gossip. He shouldn't feel this flutter in his stomach at the thought of Y/N watching him. He definitely shouldn't want to know exactly how she looks at him when he's not looking back.

His phone buzzed:

Jungkook: "The album's almost ready. We need to be extra careful now." Kyrie: "Jin's a bit distracted lately..." Jungkook: "I noticed. The photos from set are... telling." Jin: "Can we focus on the actual issue here?" Kyrie: "Your crushing on the journalist IS an issue, babe." Jin: "I'm not crushing on anyone." Jungkook: "Sure, hyung. And I'm not the most successful soloist of the year 😏"

Jin shoved his phone away in frustration, only to look up and find Y/N approaching his spot by the refreshment table. She hesitated a few feet away, and he could see her mentally debating whether to continue forward or retreat.

"Ms. Y/N," he acknowledged, hating how formal it sounded.

"I was wondering if we could discuss the emotional progression of your character," she said, all professional despite the uncertainty in her eyes. "For the article."

Always for the article. The reminder was like a bucket of cold water.

"Of course," Jin replied, gesturing to a quiet corner of the set. As they walked, he noticed she kept a careful distance between them, as if afraid to get too close. He tried to ignore how much that hurt.

"Your scene today," she began, consulting her notes. "It seemed... different from yesterday's take."

"Different how?" He knew exactly how, but he wanted – needed – to hear her perspective.

Y/N bit her lip, a habit Jin had noticed she had when choosing her words carefully. "Less... controlled. More authentic, maybe? Like you were letting real emotions bleed through."

The accuracy of her observation made him want to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both.

"Method acting," he deflected, offering his media-ready smile.

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't do method acting. You said so yourself in your interview with Vogue last month."

Of course she'd remember that. Of course she'd done her research. Of course she'd see right through his excuse.

"People change," he said weakly.

"Do they?" Her voice was soft, almost vulnerable. For a moment, neither of them was talking about acting anymore.

The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken words and carefully maintained boundaries threatening to crumble. Jin found himself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the question in her eyes.

"Y/N..." His voice came out rougher than intended.

Her phone rang, shattering the moment. It was her editor, Yannie, requiring her immediate attention. Y/N practically fled, leaving Jin standing there with all the words he couldn't say stuck in his throat.

"That was painful to watch," Kyrie commented, appearing beside him with a sympathetic expression.

"Don't," Jin warned.

"You know, this would all be simpler if you just—"

"Nothing about this is simple," he cut her off. "Nothing about us – about any of this – is simple."

Kyrie's expression softened. "Maybe that's okay. Maybe it doesn't have to be simple to be right."

Before Jin could respond, a commotion near the costume department caught their attention. Someone had dropped a box of accessories, sending period-appropriate jewelry scattering across the floor. Without thinking, Jin moved to help, only to find himself reaching for the same necklace as Y/N.

Their hands brushed, sending electricity up his arm. Y/N jerked back as if burned, the necklace falling between them.

"Sorry," they both said simultaneously.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Jin turned to find one of the crew members holding up their phone, having clearly captured the moment on camera.

"Just for the behind-the-scenes documentation," they said with a knowing smile.

Jin felt the blood drain from his face. Y/N was already backing away, her professional mask firmly in place but her eyes betraying her panic.

His phone buzzed again:

Jungkook: "We might have a problem. Some photos are circulating..."

Jin looked at Y/N's retreating form, then at the message from Jungkook, then at Kyrie's concerned face. Everything was spinning out of control, and he had no idea how to stop it.

-

The headlines that morning were particularly nauseating:

"BRIDGERTON'S GOLDEN COUPLE: JIN AND KYRIE'S CHEMISTRY SIZZLES ON AND OFF SCREEN" "FROM PAGE TO PASSION: ARE JIN AND KYRIE BRINGING ROMANCE TO LIFE?" "COSTARS TO LOVERS? INSIDE JIN AND KYRIE'S INTIMATE SCENES"

Jin scrolled through his phone with growing unease, hyper-aware of Y/N's presence across the set. She was interviewing one of the costume designers, but he caught her glancing at the entertainment news headlines on her laptop. Each time she looked his way, her expression would become carefully blank – a journalist's poker face that made his chest ache.

"We need to play this up more," his manager informed him during their morning meeting. "The publicity is perfect for the show. I want you and Kyrie to be seen having lunch together. Maybe take a walk in the park where paparazzi just happen to be."

Jin's jaw clenched. "More staged photos?"

"Whatever it takes. The networks love this narrative."

Meanwhile, Kyrie was dealing with her own storm of emotions. Jin watched as she checked her phone for what had to be the hundredth time that morning, no doubt looking for messages from Jungkook that she couldn't publicly acknowledge.

"He understands," she whispered to Jin between takes. "But it's still hard."

"I know," Jin replied, equally quiet. They both watched as Y/N made notes in her journal, probably documenting their apparent closeness for her article.

The irony wasn't lost on him – everyone watching them, thinking they were witnessing a romance blooming, while the real story was completely different. Kyrie's heart belonged to Jungkook, and Jin's... well, his kept betraying him every time Y/N walked into a room.

"Ready for the love scene?" the director called out.

Jin felt rather than saw Y/N's head snap up at those words. He desperately wanted to look her way, to explain somehow that this wasn't what she might think, but he couldn't. Instead, he took his position with Kyrie, both of them professionals playing their parts.

"Big smile," Kyrie muttered through her teeth as cameras flashed from the approved behind-the-scenes photographers. "We're madly in love, remember?"

Jin smiled on cue, all too aware of Y/N watching them with those perceptive eyes of hers. He wondered what she saw – did she buy into the publicity narrative? Or did she sense something off, the way she seemed to sense everything about him?

His phone vibrated in his pocket:

Jungkook: "The photos of you two are everywhere. You're trending again." Kyrie: "I miss you." Jungkook: "Soon. Once the album drops..." Jin: "...This is the gc, little flirts"

But focusing became increasingly difficult as the day wore on. Every staged intimate moment with Kyrie felt like a betrayal – not just of Y/N, who kept her professional distance but couldn't quite hide the hurt in her eyes, but of the truth itself.

During their lunch break, which they were required to take together at a visible table, Kyrie sighed. "This is exhausting."

"Which part?" Jin asked, though he knew. All of it was exhausting – the pretense, the secrets, the careful dance of public perception.

"Jungkook saw the new photos," she said quietly. "The ones where we're 'gazing lovingly' at each other. He laughed it off, but..." She trailed off, staring at her untouched salad.

Jin understood. It was one thing to agree to this arrangement, another to watch the person you love being paired with someone else in the public eye.

"Y/N's watching us again," Kyrie noted, changing the subject. "She looks like she's trying to solve a puzzle."

"She's good at that," Jin muttered. "Too good."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing?" Kyrie suggested carefully. "If she figures it out—"

"She can't," Jin cut her off, even as his heart protested. "There's too much at stake. Your career, Jungkook's album launch, the show..."

"Your feelings for her?"

Jin didn't answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

Later, during a scene break, Jin overheard Y/N interviewing Kyrie:

"Your chemistry with Jin seems very natural," Y/N said, her professional tone perfectly maintained despite the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Oh, you know how it is," Kyrie replied with a practiced laugh. "When you spend so much time with someone..." She let the implication hang in the air, playing her part perfectly.

Jin wanted to scream. Wanted to tell Y/N that none of it was real, that the person Kyrie's heart raced for was currently in a recording studio across town, that his own heart was currently doing somersaults just watching Y/N tuck her hair behind her ear as she took notes.

Instead, he walked over and placed a gentle hand on Kyrie's shoulder, just as they'd been instructed to do whenever cameras were around. "Ready for the next scene?"

He felt Y/N's eyes on them, saw the way she pressed her pen a little too hard against her notebook. The urge to explain himself was overwhelming.

His phone buzzed again:

Jungkook: "The album teaser drops next week. Everything has to be perfect until then." Kyrie: "I hate this." Jin: "Just a little longer. We can do this."

But looking at Y/N's carefully composed expression as she watched them play their parts, Jin wasn't so sure he could.

-

The next morning brought fresh hell in the form of a gossip column featuring candid shots from the garden scene. The photos were artfully arranged to tell a story of blooming romance between costars, complete with "inside source" quotes about Jin and Kyrie's off-screen chemistry.

Jin found Y/N in her makeshift office, the article prominently displayed on her laptop screen. She quickly switched tabs when she noticed him, but not before he caught sight of her browser history – she'd been researching his previous projects, interviews where he'd talked about dating, articles about method acting and on-screen chemistry.

"Good morning," she said, her voice carefully neutral. Professional. Distant.

"The articles are exaggerated," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Y/N's eyebrows rose slightly. "I wasn't aware you owed me any explanations, Mr. Kim."

The formal address felt like a slap. "I don't," he agreed, hating how everything he said came out wrong. "I just..."

"Places, everyone!" The director's voice saved him from fumbling further. "Jin, we need you in costume!"

He lingered for a moment too long, watching Y/N return to her laptop, her shoulders tense. His phone buzzed:

Jungkook: "Music video filming starts next week. Everything needs to stay under wraps until then." Kyrie: "Just saw the gossip columns. 🙄 You okay?" Jin: "Define okay." Kyrie: "That bad, huh?"

The morning's scene was particularly challenging – a quiet moment between his character and Kyrie's, full of loaded glances and unspoken feelings. The irony wasn't lost on him that while everyone thought they were watching two actors falling in love, they were actually watching two friends trying to protect someone else's romance while his own heart was being pulled in a completely different direction.

"Cut!" The director called out. "Jin, you're supposed to be looking at Kyrie like she's your whole world, not glancing off-camera every five seconds!"

Jin's ears burned, knowing exactly who he'd been unconsciously looking for. Y/N was studiously taking notes, but he caught the slight flush on her cheeks. She'd noticed too.

During their break, Kyrie cornered him behind a set piece. "This is getting messier by the minute," she muttered.

"I'm handling it," Jin insisted.

"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're about five minutes away from either kissing that journalist or having a complete breakdown."

"I'm not—" Jin started to protest, but Kyrie cut him off.

"You literally brought her coffee this morning. Her exact order. And yesterday you snapped at a crew member for interrupting her interview. And don't even get me started on how you keep finding excuses to walk past her office."

"...Is it that obvious?"

"Only to everyone with eyes." Kyrie's expression softened. "Look, I get it. Trust me, I understand complicated feelings. But we need to be careful right now. Jungkook's album—"

"I know," Jin cut in. "I know, okay? The album, the show, our careers. I know what's at stake."

"Do you? Because every time she looks at you with those big questioning eyes of hers, you look about ready to spill every secret we have."

Before Jin could respond, they heard voices approaching:

"—just think there might be more to the story," Y/N was saying.

"Like what?" Another journalist's voice. "It's obvious they're together. The chemistry—"

"Seems practiced," Y/N cut in. "Almost... choreographed."

Jin's heart stopped. Beside him, Kyrie tensed.

"You're too cynical," the other journalist laughed. "Next you'll tell me you think it's all for publicity."

"I just think..." Y/N paused, and Jin could picture her biting her lip the way she did when choosing her words carefully. "I think there are layers here we're not seeing."

The voices faded as they passed, but the damage was done. She was getting too close to the truth.

Later that afternoon, following their manager's instructions, Jin and Kyrie had to do a "candid" walk through the set's garden, knowing photographers were stationed nearby. As they strolled, arm in arm, Jin caught sight of Y/N watching from her office window. Her expression was carefully blank, but he saw her hand tighten around her pen until her knuckles turned white.

"She's hurting," Kyrie whispered.

"So am I," Jin admitted quietly.

That evening, as most of the crew was packing up, Jin found himself drawn to Y/N's office again. She was alone, staring at her screen with unfocused eyes.

"The article's not going well?" he asked, trying for casual.

Y/N jumped slightly, then composed herself. "Actually, I'm looking at your old interviews. Trying to understand..."

"What?"

She turned to face him fully. "How someone so supposedly transparent in interviews can be hiding so much."

Jin felt the blood drain from his face. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't," she cut him off softly. "Please don't lie to me. Not again."

The plea in her voice undid him. For a moment, he wanted to tell her everything – about Jungkook and Kyrie's secret relationship, about the album collaboration, about how every staged romantic moment with Kyrie felt like a betrayal of not just the truth but of his growing feelings for Y/N.

Instead, he took a step back. "I should go."

"Jin," she called after him, dropping the formal address. He froze. "Whatever you're protecting... I hope it's worth all this."

He didn't turn around. Couldn't. If he looked at her now, he might break.

His phone buzzed one last time as he fled:Jungkook: "One more week. Just hold on for one more week." Kyrie: "We're losing him..." Jin: "I'm fine." Kyrie: "No, you're not. And neither is she."

[cookiesandbiscuits]

Two Left Feet

Pairing: Lucifer x GN!Reader (can be read as platonic)

Genre: Fluff

Summary: You just received your invitation for RAD's annual Acquaintance Ball, but there's a problem: you can't dance. So you turn to the eldest Avatar of the Seven Deadly Sins for help.

A/N: I based this fic on the balls from several historical fantasy webcomics I've been reading. This is basically just Luci tutoring the reader how to waltz (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

Also, if you ask me why a ball, I've always imagined the Devildom as a place inspired by the late 19th-early 20th century, sprinkled with 21st-century things :3 (I'm just obsessed with the era)

Anyways, enjoy!! =w=

Warning: NOT PROOFREAD!!! The reader is referred to as MC

MASTERLIST

Now Playing: Waltz No. 2 by Dmitri Shostakovich

"Ack! Sorry!"

You winced as you felt Lucifer's foot under yours for the umpteenth time today.

"I told you, just relax."

"Right, right... sorry."

You tiredly huffed as you make another turn. The two of you have been practicing waltz for a few days now, yet you still kept on stepping on Lucifer's foot while dancing.

You thought about the moment that started all of this.

.

.

.

"Lucifer? Are you here?"

You knocked on the door of his office, hoping that he'd be inside. Luckily for you, he was.

"MC? Come in."

Hearing his voice, you pushed the door open. There, you saw Lucifer who sat on his leather desk chair, holding a cup of coffee. His table was full of paper stacked on top of each other, which was typical. Although you've noticed that the pile was larger than it was before.

"Did I disturb you? I can come back later if you want."

The eldest shook his head, placing the cup on the table. "No, I was just in the middle of my break. Is something the matter?"

He beckoned you to sit down on the sofa, which you did.

"Well... I'd like to ask you something about the upcoming Acquaintance Ball," you spoke while looking down at the invitation that you brought with you.

"Ah, right. I take it you've already received your invitation?"

"Yes, I did. The teacher gave them to the class earlier."

Lucifer hummed. "So? What is it that you'd like to ask?"

"Umm..." you fidgeted in your seat. "When the invitation said "ball", does it mean the balls like those in historical fantasy stories?"

"If you mean the balls similar to the ones held at the castle, rest assured. It is nothing like that at all, although I understand the confusion."

You sighed in relief at Lucifer's words. "Thank goodness–"

"Although there will be dancing involved."

You froze. "D-dance? What... kind of dancing?"

There was a small pause before Lucifer answered. "Since it's a social event, I'd say the popular kinds of dances but ballroom dances like waltz may also be included in the program."

Waltz?! You felt your jaw drop which caused Lucifer to raise his eyebrow.

"Umm... That sounds fun, but I think I'll have to pass."

"Unfortunately for you, since you're a part of the exchange program, you must attend the ball," the eldest replies, instantly shooting down your hopes of bailing out.

"May I ask why you wish to not attend after asking me questions about the ball?" he gave you a questioning look as he took his cup for a sip.

His gaze on you made you squirm in your seat.

"...ance."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I can't... dance. I don't know how to dance the waltz," you said, averting your gaze from Lucifer's. You can feel the heat spread to your cheeks as he continues to look at you.

"...The decision to add waltz to the program isn't final yet."

"But still...!" You returned your eyes to the demon, your eyebrows furrowed due to anxiety.

"If you're so worried about the waltz, shall I give you lessons to ease your concerns?"

You look at Lucifer, bewildered at his suggestion.

"You're giving me waltz lessons? But... aren't you like, super busy at the moment because of the ball?"

You watched as Lucifer took another sip from his cup.

"Yes, but apart from the program itself, the preparations are almost complete and will be finished after a few more days. Since the night of the ball is still three weeks away, there will be ample time for you to learn the basics."

You can only blink at what he said.

.

.

.

And that's how you got yourself into your current situation.

"MC, focus!"

You flinched at the sound of Lucifer's voice, making you return your attention to what you were doing. Another apology threatened to spill from your lips.

He was, unsurprisingly, a strict teacher. But despite that, he also was caring in his way. And the strict lessons were quite helpful for you to understand the steps. But...

"...Shall we take a break?" he asks, looking at you with concern. He probably noticed that you were tired, you thought.

You nodded and went to sit on one of the chairs in the room.

"Here."

You look up to Lucifer holding out a bottle of water to you.

"Thanks."

You take the bottle from his hand and scoot over to give him space to sit on.

......

......

"...Hey, Lucifer?"

You were the first to break the silence.

"What is it?"

"I really appreciate you making time for my request."

He hummed. "...Of course. It's my duty to assist you exchange students during your stay here, but I also want you to enjoy the Acquaintance Ball to the fullest."

You fiddled with the bottle in your hands. He was a busy man, you were aware of that, yet he still helped you with your small problem.

"I meant it, you know? I'm grateful you're helping me out with my problem, even though your schedule is packed. And you're still helping me out even though I'm a slow learner. I mean, how many times have I stepped on your foot while we're dancing?"

You let out an embarrassed chuckle as you remembered the times you'd stepped on Lucifer's foot while dancing.

"I've taught worse. And you've improved a lot since the first day."

"Really?"

You turned your head in his direction, your eyes scanning the eldest's face for hints of deception. You found none.

"Yes. You've stepped on my feet significantly less than you did in our first lesson."

Oh.

You pouted at the demon's words, making him laugh in amusement. He then gingerly patted your head, ruffling your hair in the process which caused you to pout even more.

"You'll be fine, don't worry."

A gentle smile formed on Lucifer's lips and you can't help but return it as you relished in the comforting warmth of the sight.

.

.

.

Days passed and tonight was the night of the Acquaintance Ball. Taking a deep breath, you entered the hall where the ball was being held.

"MC, over here!"

You look in the direction where the voice came from. In the corner near the entrance were Luke, Simeon, and Solomon. All of them were wearing their formal attire.

"Wow, you guys look great tonight!" you said when you were near enough for them to hear you.

Luke beamed at the compliment. "Hehe, thanks. You look great in your outfit too!"

"Luke's right. Your outfit suits you well, MC," Simeon added.

"Aww, you guys are going to make me blush. Asmo helped me pick my outfit though," you say as you look down to check your outfit.

"Well, Asmodeus did have an eye for these kinds of things. Anyway, I think the program's about to start," Solomon remarked, noticing that people had started to walk toward the center of the hall.

Holding out his hand to you, he spoke, "Shall we get going?"

You replied with a grin as you took his hand and followed the people's direction.

"Welcome, our dear students, to the annual Acquaintance Ball of the Royal Academy of Diavolo! This is a night most special indeed, as tonight, we are joined by our very first exchange students from the Celestial Realm and the Human World! We hope that you will enjoy tonight's ball as we form new bonds and meet new acquaintances!"

.

.

.

Now that the opening ceremony is finished, people began dancing on the dance floor.

You watched as couples pair up and dance to the rhythm of the music.

"May I have this dance?"

An outstretched hand suddenly appeared in front of you. You looked at the person asking you and smiled.

"It's my pleasure, Lord Diavolo."

The demon prince returned the gesture with a smile of his own.

"Please, there's no need for formalities. Just call me as you do," he says as the two of you walked towards the dance floor.

"In this situation? I could never. Besides, I might get an earful if a certain someone overhears me calling the prince so casually during a formal event," you replied, already imagining the lecture you'll get if Lucifer or Mephisto knew you called Diavolo with the nickname you gave him during this formal event.

"Hahaha... Well, we can't have that, can we?" The prince grinned as he twirled you in time with the music.

"Speaking of which, I've heard that Lucifer taught you how to waltz."

"Oh, yes. He's a wonderful teacher. I still can't believe how he managed to teach someone with two left feet like me how to dance like this at all, especially since he's also busy handling the preparations for this ball."

"Well, it is Lucifer, after all. He always does things perfectly. But it's not only because of him, but also because you're determined to learn." Diavolo smiled once again and bows as the music reaches its end.

You curtsied in return. "Thank you for the wonderful dance and compliment, My Lord."

You got a few more dance requests after that. Some were the brothers, some were your fellow exchange students, while the others were demons eager to make your acquaintance.

By the time you were done, your body was basically screaming for rest. So you politely declined later requests and went to the balcony for some fresh air.

The cool Devildom breeze gently caressed your skin, making your body relax instantly. You took in the serene scenery of the night, watching the twinkling stars of the night sky and the soft lights of the town below merge into one picturesque sight.

"Taking a break?"

You turned to the door where to voice came from. There stood Lucifer, donning his demon form in all of its glory.

"Oh, yes. How about you?"

"Same as you," says the Avatar of Pride as he joined you in the balcony.

The space between you was filled in comfortable silence before Lucifer spoke once again.

"How's your night going for you?"

"It's fun. Tiring, but fun."

"I see. That's good then."

.....

"Hey, Lucifer?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks a lot for the dance lessons. I really couldn't have enjoyed this night without your help."

"...You're welcome."

The two of you looked at each other with knowing looks before turning back to watch the night pass by.