#the dream has its rules

[densewentz]

more dreamling dad au bc thats just what i do now apparently i like lazy afternoon naps and so do our boys

[rat-rosemary]

Silly headcannon:

There is no rule against flying in the dsmp. The end is just closed

What this actually does is that hybrids who already couldn't fly on their own (Quackity) can't get an elytra to help them fly

What this does not mean is that people who can fly on their own are not allowed to fly.

Philza however, who cannot fucking read, misunderstood and trimmed his flight feathers for genuinely no reason

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

okay wait laughingstock concept Incoming: so im imagining some of the neighbors (maybe Julie & Frank) noticing that Barnaby & Howdy are a lil fruity, yk yk. and Julie's like damn, i guess we have to play matchmaker here.

so naturally they wind up getting the whole neighborhood involved. everybody's a wingman here. Poppy's dropping hints when Howdy drops off groceries, Wally is constantly asking Barnaby to go get him things from the bodega, etc etc. Howdy and Barnaby are facing this sudden change in town-wide behavior with slight concern and bemusement

eventually - lets say Julie, Sally, and Wally - get Barnaby into the bodega and then abruptly leave like "don't have too much fun without us you two *wink wink nudge nudge*". once they're gone (read: very obviously hiding outside & watching through the window) Barnaby & Howdy turn to each other like:

Barnaby: you think we should tell them we're already married?

Howdy: let them have their fun - they'll figure it out eventually

[bmpmp3]

ive already mentioned before my disdain for "cozy game" style marketing despite how much i end up enjoying a lot of games that are described that way, but I'm really gonna need promotion and journalism to stop describing any game that's not like a running and gunning fighty game a "cozy game" because they're gonna imply that horror puzzle platformer game is like, low stakes and chill despite it very much being not the case. i also dont care for implication that game genres that typically require less fast reflexes and fine motor skills like puzzles, text adventures, walking sims, etc gotta be "cozy" automatically. long time fans of hidden object games etc do NOT want a low stakes story about finding a lost cat or some bullshit they are adults and they want DRAMA and MURDER. the term cozy in games marketing has tooooo much baggage and i feel like im being patronized. i need the games industry to STOP

[dingbatnix]

Deity

Rest (part 2)

I was vibin hard with some DreamXD is actually Dream, so this kinda just spawned :D

It was supposed to be shorter, but somehow it just...exploded into a very long word monster.

Anyway, have some sketchy reference art for Dream and Karl’s god forms. (pending till when I feel like it ;D)

Oh yeah thanks to @local-squishmallow for proofreading! : )

Word Count: 8,164

Warnings: Alludations to Fatal Vore, Fearplay, Ect. Pretty mild on the violence this time, actually :D

Also, y’know, my autocorrect says that ‘alludations’ isn’t a word. But it also says ‘vore’ isn’t a word, so screw grammar, I make my own words and rules >:}

Dream was trapped in an incredibly boring gathering. Again. For what seemed to be the millionth time for this century, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Dream hated gatherings. Now, don’t get him wrong, he was a people person, and he actually liked catching up with old friends and meeting the newly-formed gods and goddesses, but in a gathering like this, everything was too formal. He didn’t want to be stuck in a stiff, fancy environment with little to no humor and no fun. He couldn’t even crack a joke without breaking some social rule or something equally stupid.

Now, as both the God of the End and the Overworld, he was one of the most powerful gods to exist (below the Gods of Prime, of course.) As such, it was his duty to keep the peace between the others by hosting such events, but Prime, if it wasn't the most dry, soul-sucking kind of event he'd ever had to participate in. He couldn’t even chat with any of his friends because he was stuck at the head of the room in a gilded seat in case anybody needed to speak to him, or if any of the new godlings needed to meet him. It was so boring.

If he could, he’d ditch the gathering and go hang out with the two mortals he had recently befriended, but for one, the Gods of Prime would chew him out for ‘abandoning his ever-so-important post’ at such an big event, and two, if they found out he was in contact with mortals, the humans would be killed, and he would be stripped of his powers and position for interacting with them.

He stretched his secondary pair of wings out absently, iridescent white feathers glittering beautifully in the amber light of the magicked sconces. A few appreciative humms purred through the room, but he didn't much care for what the others thought of his wings. He would love to be flying right now, or even sprinting through the trees in the overworld, but no, he had to stay here and look important. He held down an irritated scoff and leaned back in his fancy, slightly uncomfortable, seat.

One of the other gods, (and Dream knew their name, he definitely did, absolutely) sidled up to his side and snapped their fingers, a small, fancy cage appearing in the air next to them. Dream perked up a little at the sight, knowing what it meant. Usually, whenever this particular god approached someone (they were a courier of sorts, for between the worlds), it meant that the mortals of the overworld or netherworld had sacrificed an animal or another mortal in that god's name.

Dream’s currently nonexistent mouth watered. Sacrifices and offerings, particularly human sacrifices and offerings, were delicious. There wasn’t another taste quite like it, at least, not that anybody had found. Dream greeted the other god warmly and leaned forward in his seat.

"You've been given two mortal sacrifices, End." They murmured, letting the small enclosure drift into two of Dream’s awaiting hands. He quietly thanked the god, who nodded and moved away, then looked down through the bars to inspect the two mortals that he had been offered. Being the God of the Overworld and the End did have its benefits, he supposed.

And there, smack dab in the center of the cage, cowering down against one another, were the two human mortals Dream had befriended. His stomach dropped, and if he didn’t have such an excellent grasp over his appearance, his body would have fizzled out in shock.

They were terrified, that much he could tell from how they were pressed up against each other, tiny eyes darting from the large, gilded gathering hall around them to the mingling mass of inhumanely-shaped gods to Dream himself. The dual-colored eyes of the older mortal, George, the one Dream often gave pretty gifts and anything else he asked for, eyed him suspiciously. The one with dark hair and fiery bright irises, Sapnap, who Dream enjoyed fighting and competing with, glared at everything, a dark, angry scowl plastered over his fanged lips. Their hands were twined together, and they had their backs pressed against one another in a horribly defensive position.

The probability that they knew why they were there was very, very unlikely, as the language of the gods, the one they had all been speaking, was indecipherable to mortals. The most they probably knew was that they had been left at an altar, and were then brought to someplace that was too bright, stuffed in a cage, and given to some random giant creature.

The two wouldn't recognize Dream, of course, not when he was in his true body. The size, for one, would make it impossible for him to be the Dream they knew. The true forms of the gods were always massive in comparison to humans and mortal creatures. It was a difference that Dream had never truly thought about until just now, when he was presently aware of how tiny his two human friends were compared to himself. His fingers were longer than they were tall.

Then the white mask over his face, one with an 'XD' marked delicately onto the surface. It was a small shorthand for who he was, as the End and Overworld god, though the distinction was hardly needed. Anyone who could feel his aura would know who he was. The mask was similar to the one he wore in his human body, but there was no way they would know it was him. That, plus the dual halos that orbited over his head to form a spherical 'X.'

The four arms his body hosted, two to each of his shoulders, separated him further from the supposed ‘mortal’ they knew, and the six great white wings that sprouted out from his shoulder blades, an eye of ender floating near the wrist of each, threw that distinction even further.

Dream had always taken his human form when he visited them out in the overworld, unwilling to reveal his godly status to them lest they grow afraid and leave him, and to shield his own actions from the Gods of Prime. He didn’t want word of his mortal interaction to get back to them, lest he be cast out and his two friends killed.

It was customary to consume human sacrifices when you received them, but Dream didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to kill his two human friends! He valued them too much, he was too close to them. He liked hanging out with them and joking with them, and he liked doing the little chase game the three of them had devised, the one they dubbed ‘Manhunts.’

Dream fluffed up the primary pair of his wings, expertly hiding his discomfort, and frowned. He didn’t want to lose that relationship. Not even to have the ambrosiac treat of a mortal.

There was, of course, a way he could safely consume them, but…but that would be terrifying for them. As a God who had the ability to shapeshift, he could do whatever he wanted with his current body. That meant he could form a safe little pocket within himself, to store them for an indefinite amount of time. The best way to get them there, though, would be to act as though he was actually going to eat them, and he didn’t want to be the cause of such fear and panic that they would surely experience.

He decided to leave the cage floating by his side, planning to discreetly release George and Sapnap back to the overworld once the gathering was over, and hoping that nobody would look too closely at the occupied cage, but not too long after he had received the ‘offerings,’ one of the other gods approached him.

The God of Time neared, eyeing the cage curiously. At least, Dream figured he was looking at the cage. Time wore a blindfold around his eyes, a cool lilac-grey that changed color depending on his emotions, that had a dark lemniscate, the symbol for infinity, stitched into the soft-looking fabric.

Dream muttered a small greeting to Time, who returned it absently. He seemed more focused on the two mortals in the cage than anything else, which worried Dream to no end. What was he wanting…?

“Are you going to…?” Time finally asked, gesturing towards the cage in an obvious question. The two tiny mortals flinched away from his hand. Dream thought fast, knowing it would seem suspicious if he outright refused to eat them.

"I'm not in the mood," He grumbled, leaning against his high-backed seat. "The last sacrifice I had gave me indigestion for days." The other god gave him a small, absent nod, fingers tangling in the multitude of chains, trinkets, and time-keeping instruments strung around his neck and shoulders.

"If you don't want them, I'll take them," the God of Time offered, hidden eyes nearly glued to the two humans as he fidgeted with his bangles and watches.

Dream immediately bristled. Oh hell no! Did he want George and Sapnap for himself? Did he want to eat them for keeps?! Dream knew that Time rarely got sacrifices, as most of the mortals didn’t see him as an actual deity. Dream could sympathize for the other god, but like hell would he give his two fragile human friends to someone else to kill.

A few of the eyes that floated about his wings swiveled to glare at Time, and Dream let a low rumble emanate from his chest. It was too quiet for anyone but himself and Time to hear, which was what Dream wanted. He didn’t need to create a spectacle over this, especially not when George and Sapnap were at risk.

"No. They weren't sacrificed to you, now were they?" Dream grouched, maybe a bit too sharply.

The God of Time averted his gaze and raised his long arms in surrender, splaying his hands out apologetically. One of the many ribbons of golden sand that flowed around his body flickered and twisted strangely under Dream's harsh gaze before stabilizing itself.

“What are you going to do with them, then?” He queried, an odd tone bleeding into his voice. He bit at his lip, seemingly nervous, and shifted his footing.

“I don’t know, feed them to the dragon or something?” Dream flared his secondary wings up in a facsimile of a shrug, feigning indifference. He wouldn’t actually feed them to the ender dragon, but it would be a good excuse for why they had suddenly disappeared, and it would back up his unwillingness to eat them.

“That’s such a waste, though!” Time exclaimed, blindfold shifting colors from lilac to a pale fuchsia. “I’ll gladly take them off your hands, End. You wouldn’t have to make the trip to see the dragon if you gave them to me.” The other god pressed, inching closer to the floating container.

Dream hooked a clawed finger through the cage bars and pulled it away from Time, slightly concerned that the other god would snatch it and bolt. He raised his tertiary wings defensively, leaning forward and staring Time down.

“What if I like visiting the dragon? She always enjoys it when I bring her gifts, and she loves the attention. What is with you, Time? You're not usually like this.” Dream snapped defensively, primary wings fluffing up to twice their size.

Time’s shoulders shrunk in, but he pressed on, strangely persistent. Dream was more than a little annoyed and concerned, now. “Please, End? I hardly ever get offerings! None of the mortals really believe in me,” he pushed, seemingly more desperate. Dream brought one of his tertiary wings between them, and, more importantly, between the other god and the two mortals, growing slightly uncomfortable at the God of Time’s intensity.

He realized that Time probably wouldn’t give up on pestering him for the two mortals anytime soon. With a small internal sigh, he came to the conclusion that he would have to take care of the problem in the best way he could think of; ‘eating’ Sapnap and George. Maybe then Time would get off his back about it.

“Actually,” Dream said slowly, tugging the cage in front of him and further away from the other god. “I think I will eat them. I suddenly have an appetite.” The color of Time’s blindfold drained to a pale greenish-yellow, and his fingers tightened in his pendant chains. He tried to protest, but Dream ignored him in favor of focusing on his two mortal friends.

He'd have to do Sapnap first, and get him over with. The fireborn-mortal would fight the most, and probably be the most difficult to get down.

Dream let a jagged black maw form and split the lower half of his mask, testing it a few times by opening and closing his jaw. He didn’t form any teeth, as he didn’t want to accidentally bite either of his fragile friends, but he did shape a soft, pliant tongue, to make the landing into his mouth not as harsh, and allowed saliva to pool over and underneath it so that he could slicken them up and make the journey down easier on all of them. For the faux stomach, he simply opened up a small pocket of flesh between his lungs, just below his heart, and attached it to his esophagus via a small opening near the top of this new space. He supplied air through small connections to his lungs, knowing that his two mortal friends couldn't last as long as he could without breathing.

Fake stomach prepared, he braced the cage with two of his hands and reached into it with a third hand, intent on grabbing the dark-haired human. The bars yielded to his touch, automatically bending around his wrist as he stuck his hand through them.

He moved quickly, surrounding Sapnap in his fist before the tiny mortal could scramble away, pulling him from George’s desperately grabbing hands, and lifting him from the solid metal floor, then up through the bars, out of the cage.

Dream did his best to ignore both of their cries of fear, as well as Time's strangled gasp, as he lightly tossed Sapnap into his newly-formed mouth and closed it. The tiny mortal cursed, shoving at the roof of Dream’s mouth and kicking violently at his tongue. He held his wince and squashed the human against the roof of his mouth, soaking his clothes in saliva. He then pushed Sapnap to the entrance of his throat and swallowed, ignoring the clawed fingers that drew blood and the furious shriek Sapnap let loose.

The sound of tiny screaming drew a few curious glances from the other gods, but they soon looked away. The consuming of mortal sacrifices was normal for them all, so the screeching humans were nothing interesting to watch.

As Sapnap slid down to the safe stomach, Dream turned his gaze down to his brunette friend. George had actual tears in his eyes, and his breath was coming in such short, harsh pants that it was a small miracle that he hadn’t passed out already. Dream felt a pang of regret ring through his chest, but he pushed it down. He had already made his decision. It would look incredibly suspicious if he backed out now.

Holding back another sigh, he stuck his hand back through the cage bars and moved to grab the little mortal. George pressed against the bars of the cage, chest heaving, then tried to lunge underneath Dream's clawed hand as it approached. Instinctively, Dream slapped his hand down on top of the human, slamming him to the floor of the cage and trapping him underneath his palm. Dream winced at George's strangled cry of pain, and resolved to apologize for that later. As well as for everything else. Profusely.

Carefully, he scooped the struggling man up and pressed him between his fingers and palm, negating his struggling. “Fuck off, you monster!” George screeched as Dream brought him out of the cage. The spoken English was a jarring difference from the language spoken in the godly realm, and usually Dream enjoyed hearing it. Now, though? It hurt.

Gently, he shoved the now definitely crying, cursing mortal into his mouth and closed it. Dream ignored the saltine taste of the human’s tears as he ran his tongue over George’s body, and when he finally swallowed, it was a relief to no longer have to endure the flavor of his fear and anguish.

They both tasted amazing, aside from the fact that it was his two closest friends he was eating. Of course, mortals always were like the sweetest ambrosia, and usually Dream really would enjoy it. Not now though. Not this time, not when it was George and Sapnap. He held back a shudder and straightened his shoulders. Now he just needed to wait for the end of the gathering, so that he could explain everything and let them go.

Through everything, Time's gaze never left him. He couldn’t see the other god’s eyes, but something about his aura felt desperate, felt heart-broken. Dream forced himself to brush it off. If Time wanted human sacrifices that bad, he could work harder to make himself known to the mortals. These two, he could not have.

Dream could hear them crying from inside of him, and though the sound never left his body, it haunted him. It tore at his heart, and he wanted to reassure them so badly, but he couldn’t. If any of the other gods knew that he was friends with mortals…

Something sharp spiked into his flesh from the inside, but the wound healed almost immediately. Dream held his winces, and eventually, the two mortals gave up and stopped stabbing at his guts.

Eventually, Time wandered away, a sickening green wash coloring his blindfold. Dream didn’t watch him for too long after he left. He was more focused on the no-longer struggling contents of his gut. They were scared, that was for certain, but maybe it had been long enough that they had realized they weren’t going to die?

Death shot him a knowing look near the end of the gathering. Dream held back a wince. Of course she'd know that he didn't actually eat the two mortals...their lives were her domain, after all.

He raised his primary set of wings at her, daring her to say anything, but she only quirked her lips in a serene smile and turned away. Uncertainly, Dream folded his wings back down and settled back into his chair. Death wasn’t one to call someone out on something, and she was actually quite nice. Maybe she wouldn’t report him to the Prime Gods? He hoped not. He’d have to talk to her when he next got the chance, as soon as he could. He didn’t want to risk anything, even if she didn’t plan to turn him in for breaking one of the Gods of Prime’s laws.

After the gathering, Dream swept from the hall, regally declining any sort of accompaniment from all of his godly friends. He couldn't run through the halls of the citadel without arousing confusion and concern, but he damn sure wished he could. His two mortal friends had spent too much time already being scared for their lives, and he wanted to reassure them as soon as he could.

Before he could enter his chambers, the God of Time intercepted him, stepping out from behind one of the thick, decorative sconces that bordered the door. Dream stopped, reflexively puffing up his feathers and crossing all of his arms. What did Time want now…?

Usually, he and Time were on pretty good terms. They weren't close enough to know each other’s chosen names, but they got along very well. He liked Time, but right now, his behavior was starting to freak Dream out.

"The mortals, you didn't kill them, did you?" Time blurted before Dream could say anything. Dream froze for half a second before forcing himself to look composed. How did he know…? Should he be worried? He didn’t think Time would turn him over to the Gods of Prime over such a small thing as refusing to give him his sacrifices, but…

Dream looked over Time. The other god’s shoulders were pushed out bravely, but his hands were shaking. His multitude of necklaces and pendants jingled with the movement, and his blindfold was still that same sickening shade of greenish-yellow as before. The golden streams of sand that drifted around his body, usually quite smooth and tranquil, seemed more scattered, frantic, even, and were swirling much faster than usual. His face was pale, and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing at his bottom lip.

Dream cocked his head and flared out his secondary wings. "What would make you say that?" His mind was racing, already coming up with possible excuses to toss out at the slightest hint of suspicion. If that didn’t work, he was already mapping out ways to subdue Time, maybe knock him unconscious, and after that…well, the God of Memory still owed him that favor…

"I asked Death, if–if I could have their souls back from her. She said that she didn't have them. So that means you still have them.” The other god blurted, shoulders hitching down just the slightest bit. “That means that they’re still alive…" Time’s chin dipped down briefly, and quickly rose up again. Dream realized with an unsettled jolt that the other god had glanced at his abdomen, where the two mortals currently were.

Dream froze for a moment, then mentally shook himself. He was on equal ground with Time, as they were just about the same in power, so he couldn’t just attack him straight out. He’d either have to bluff his way out of this, or distract Time long enough to catch him unawares.

"What if I do? What does it matter to you?" Dream blustered, straightening up to his full height. The fact that Time was pretty much as tall as he was gave him little pause, but he pushed past it and stared the other god down. “I already told you before, I’m not going to give them to you. They’re mine.”

The God of Time flinched back at the intensity in Dream’s voice, and he seemed internally conflicted. He opened his mouth to say something, blindfold flushing to a pale blue-green, then closed his jaw. The sand around his body fluctuated as his internal debate raged, but finally, he managed to speak.

"I–" Time wavered for a moment longer, then sighed a long, resigned sigh, hands tangling up in his clock chains again. "I know the black-haired one. I–he–. We're good fr-…acquaintances. I don't want him dead." He mumbled, casting his head down and away from Dream.

He perked up suddenly, a fierce hardness solidifying in his aura. The sands around his body condensed into more solid trails, and the color of the cloth around his eyes twisted up into a violent reddish-orange.

"I know I broke the rules, but I don't care. The Prime Gods can stuff it. I’ll even fight you over this, End, I will. Just give them to me, and I’ll leave you alone, okay?” Despite his strong words, his hands were still distinctly trembling. Between Time’s fingers, Dream could feel the unmistakable pressure of the other god’s magic coalescing. He was obviously ready for a fight, even with his visible anxiety.

Dream himself was left speechless at this new revelation. Time knew the black-haired one, knew Sapnap…? He was thrown off-balance by this information, and didn’t know how to react. That, and the fact that Time had basically just insulted the Gods of Prime! He was lucky there was no one else in the corridor. He could be excommunicated for that!

His higher thinking finally kicked up into gear. If Time already knew Sapnap…that meant that Time was in the same boat as Dream was. That meant that he could tell time of his own involvement, and, more importantly, avoid a fight while he still had his fragile mortal friends inside of him.

Dream sagged inwardly at this final thought, and made up his mind. He would, could tell Time, and this whole unfortunate mess would be resolved.

Outwardly, he showed no emotion other than his wings folding down against his back and his feathers smoothing down once more. "Come on, then," he finally said, beckoning the God of Time towards his chamber door. Time faltered, blindfold melting into a strained brown, and a befuddled twist curled over his lips. He didn’t immediately move to follow Dream, so the End God flicked a tertiary wing out and waved him forward again. “We…we have to talk, and I don’t want to do it out here.”

Cautiously, the other god followed him as he pushed open the heavy chamber door and entered his rooms proper. Dream could feel Time’s suspicious yet hopeful gaze on the backs of his wings, but he ignored it for the moment.

Once the varnished door was closed and firmly barred, Dream slumped and let all six of his wings droop down until most of his primary feathers brushed the polished floor. Normally, he wouldn't be one to let the other gods see him be anything but strong and in control, but…well. This wasn't a normal situation. Plus, he and Time were already fairly good acquaintances, so he didn’t much care.

Quietly, he flicked out a wing and cast a privacy ward over the room. No word of the upcoming conversation would ever reach any ears other than the occupants of his chambers.

Time looked at him oddly as he set up another charm to warn if someone was approaching the entrance of Dream’s chambers, but otherwise said not a word. He was waiting for Dream to speak first, it seemed.

"I know them both." Dream finally sighed, making his way to the doorway that led to his, in mortal terms, ‘living room.’ Time made a strangled, surprised noise as he followed Dream into the room. “You–ah–what? You know them?” Out of the corner of his vision, Dream saw Time’s blindfold flush up to a bright, startled yellow, and his sand seemed to poof out in a spastic burst.

“Yeah.” Dream wearily eased himself down onto one of the low-backed burgundy chesterfields surrounding a short, gilded glass table, mindful of jostling his tiny passengers, and gestured for Time to do the same. The other god sank down onto the cushions opposite of Dream, confusion still twisting up on his features.

“I…I hang out with them, in a human form, when I don’t have any duties to attend to.” He started to explain, leaning forward to clasp two of his hands together. “I thought…I thought you just wanted to actually eat them. Sorry.” He gave Time a small, apologetic smile with his still-present mouth, and waited for the other god to reply.

Time stared at him for a long moment, before letting loose a long, heavy breath. He ran a hand through his curled hair and glanced at the baroque-styled ceiling. “Ohhh, thank Prime. Thank Prime. Ohhh, you have no idea how scared I was, that you had actually…actually killed him.” He looked back at Dream, then tilted his head down towards the End God’s abdomen. “So…Sapnap’s okay? Err, they both are?” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’ll admit, I don’t know the other one.”

Dream nodded, straightening up a little and glancing down at where the two mortals were. “They’re both fine. I formed a separate, safe pocket of air to hold them in for the time being.” He jolted, then, at a sudden realization that flooded his body with guilt.

“They don’t know that it’s safe!” He blurted, six wings flaring up in alarm. “I…I didn’t tell them.” Time’s lips creased in concern as well, at his words, and he leaned towards Dream. “You can get them out, right? Or at least tell them?”

Dream sucked in a short breath with another nod. “Yeah, but they probably won’t trust my words. I’m gonna let them out.”

Gently, he touched at the area of the faux stomach, readying to push at it and squish its contents up, but paused. He had to prepare himself for whatever confrontation came in the next few seconds. Whatever happened, he knew it was not going to be pretty. Neither human was someone to be trifled with when they were upset.

Finally ready, he dug his fingers into his abdomen, squashing the bottom of the faux stomach flat and forcing the two small bodies up into the tube that connected to his esophagus. They cried out, startled, as Dream’s muscles tugged them upwards towards the outside world.

He closed the flesh up behind them as they rose, no longer needing the faux stomach, and not wanting them to fall back down into it.

They passed up into his throat, and slid into his mouth. One, and then two small weights rested on his tongue once more. He could feel them clinging to one another, the flavor of their desperation and fear absolutely pooling against his taste buds, and it made him feel awful.

He cupped two of his hands together and brought them up to his mouth. Very gently, he opened his jaw and slid the two trembling bodies onto his palms with his tongue. Saliva clung to his skin wherever the two mortals touched, but it was fine. He could clean everything up later.

When he lowered his hands to get a good look at them, George let loose a small cry, scrambling back in his palm and pressing up against the barrier his curled fingers made, while Sapnap lunged in front of the other man, trying to block him from Dream's view.

Dream shot a small, worried glance towards Time, then looked back down at the two soggy mortals he held in his hands. He…He was unsure of what to say, of where to start. Seeing them here, now, in the godly realm, in his hands, it really hit him, how much power he had over them, how truly insignificant they were to the grand scheme of the Prime Gods.

Dream pushed that thought away with a special kind of dislike and settled on apologizing, first and foremost.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn't mean to scare you guys.” He apologized, speaking in English, the most common language down in the overworld. The two of them wouldn’t understand the speech of the gods. Time leaned forward, probably trying to catch a glimpse of them, so Dream lowered his hands down even more and waited for the two mortals to say something.

At the sound of his voice, George had frozen. His bi-colored eyes were wide with shock and a large dose of fear, and his lips were slightly parted. Sapnap, meanwhile, jolted out of his frightened stupor and exploded.

“Who the fuck do you think you are–what even are you, you bastard? What kind of jackass decides it’s okay to–to fucking eat somebody?! What’s fucking wrong with you?!” Dream could feel the human’s ire in the form of heat as he snarled forward over his palms, and it was only George’s restraining hand on the fireborn’s bicep that kept him from trying to lunge for something vital on Dream’s immense body. “Fucking—why are we even here?! Let us go, before I shred you into pieces, who the fuck even are you–”

One of Time’s hands was covering his mouth. Dream couldn’t tell if he was shocked at the mortal’s outburst, or amused. From the way Time’s blindfold had shifted to a pale grey-green, he’d say surprised and worried. Dream himself didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t bother trying to shut the mortal up. Once Sapnap got started, there was no stopping him. He’d have to work himself out first, before Dream would be able to get a word in edgewise.

A thought drifted into Dream’s head, and he decided to follow it. If it could get Sapnap to stop ranting…

Without a word, Dream let his godly form start melting away. His wings shivered and sank into his back with the slightest sound of shifting of feathers, eyes of ender popping quietly out of existence, while his two free arms merged into the ones holding George and Sapnap. He let the little jewelry and bangles he wore disperse, as well as the dual halos orbiting his skull, and he even went so far as to change his long, flowing robes into the usual attire he wore in his human form. A cropped, bright green hoodie over a tight black undershirt, and baggy, tan cargo pants. Finally, the markings on his mask changed from an ‘XD” to a simple dot-eyed smiley face.

Despite the immense size his body still held, Dream looked, for all intents and purposes, human. He even used his shoulder to push his mask up to the side, finally allowing him to see the two tiny mortals eye-to-eye.

Sapnap’s rant faltered at the sudden sight before him. “—and…Dream…?” The man’s mouth went slack in shock. George, meanwhile, had tightened his grip on the other man’s arm, and had gone as white as a sheet.

“Hey,” Dream greeted hesitantly, keeping his voice low, only now realizing that speaking at full volume around their weak human ears may be a bad idea.

“What the fuck,” Sapnap hissed, stumbling away the few steps he had taken and pressing his back up against George, who wrapped an arm around Sapnap’s chest and stared agape over the fireborn’s shoulder. Dream could feel both of their heartbeats hike up significantly against his fingertips, and he winced. He didn’t know if that had helped at all, but at least it had gotten Sapnap to stop cussing him out.

“I…” He started, then paused, slowly gathering what he wanted to say. Time had leaned forward so far that he was practically on top of the glass center table so that he could see the two humans, but neither of them had noticed the other god. Their eyes were focused on Dream, and Dream alone. “I guess I have a lot of explaining to do,” he finally mumbled, glancing away to look at Time. The other god met his gaze and gave a small noise of uncertainty, one that Dream definitely felt. What did one say, when you had lied to your best friends about your humanity, and especially when the truth had come out in such a way as this? Dream didn’t know.

At the noise Time had made, George had whipped around and let out a small cry of alarm when he caught sight of the other god, tumbling away to press against the heels of Dream’s palms. He dragged Sapnap with him, who only now caught sight of how close Time was. He let loose his own startled cry and shoved George back behind himself, now facing the God of Time with a violent, apprehensive expression on his face. It made Dream feel a little better, to know that they’d rather have him at their backs instead of Time, who was their current unknown, but he knew it was only because of circumstance. He didn’t know if they’d want to associate with either of them after this.

“Who–who’s that? Who are you?” George demanded, voice shaking. His minuscule fingers tightened in Sapnap’s shirt, and Dream was hit with the distinct desire to bundle them both up against his chest and hide them both away from the world, from everything. This was awful, seeing them so terrified of everything.

“It–it’s me,” Time blurted, directing his gaze at Sapnap. The fireborn’s eyes widened, shock coloring his features once more, and his tiny hands scrambled to grasp at George’s for support.

As if just the sound of his voice wasn’t confirmation enough, Time spoke again, more insistently. “It’s Karl,” he nearly pleaded, leaning back over the table just the slightest bit. His blindfold flared to a bright, hopeful-looking blue, and he bit at his lip nervously.

Dream jolted at the sudden drop of Time’s chosen name, and watched in mild shock as Time's form twisted and wavered until a human body emerged from the shifting sands. His wavy brown hair was the same, though now adorned with thick brass goggles, and now Dream could see his eyes, a warm amber in shade, blindfold gone. The majority of his clocks and pendants were gone as well, only a small golden hourglass with a delicate chain looped around his neck. Instead of deeply violet robes, he had a cropped multicolored hoodie, much like Dream's own green one, with a dark undershirt and simple dark cargo pants. Multiple thick belts were looped around his hips, and a simple brown book bag was strapped over his chest and hanging from his side.

A strangled croaking noise escaped from Sapnap’s throat, and he dropped most of his weight against George as his legs weakened on him. Dream moved a thumb to try and help steady him, but the way both of them flinched back stilled his movement. He retracted his silent offer of support. “What the fuck,” Sapnap whispered once more, reaching up to cover his mouth with a trembling hand. George grunted in concurrence, glancing uncertainly between the looming forms of both Dream and Time–Karl? Was he allowed to call him that? Since he hadn’t expressly given Dream his chosen name? Dream didn’t know.

“What…What are you two?” Sapnap muttered, looking up at the two of them and clutching at the pale arms wrapped around his chest. “Where the…where the hell are we?”

There was a long moment where neither he nor Ti–Karl, he decided, answered. “We’re…gods.” Dream finally stilted, killing the sudden silence that dropped over them all. “We–you’re uh, in the Void. The, the Realm of the Gods. You got…sacrificed.”

Another strangled noise came from them both this time, and Dream could see George’s legs shaking now, as well. Oh, End, how badly did they hate him now? Hate Karl?

“Can you—” George started suddenly, then stopped, swallowing to clear his throat. “Dream. Put us down. Please.” Dream nodded hurriedly, lowering his hands down to the surface of the glass table that Karl was rapidly scrambling off of, and flattened his fingers to allow for a ramp to the clear surface.

The two stumbled off of his hands onto the glass, supporting each other even as they sank down to the ground on account of their shaking legs. They eyed the translucent ground warily, and beyond that, the dark rug covering the smooth stone floor beneath them.

Later, Dream would have to clean the footprint-shaped spit trail from the glass, as well as the puddle where they were sitting, but for now it could wait.

For now, he wiped his saliva-sticky hands off on his pants and decided to apologize to them again.

"S-sorry. For scaring you guys. And–and slapping you so hard George." Dream cringed at the mention of the memory, and George winced. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, the brunette nodded, dual colored eyes glittering in the light of the enchanted sconces lining the room. "It's…it's fine. Just a few bruises, nothing that won't heal quickly."

Though he knew that the mortal was probably lying about the severity of the bruises (he had slammed him down pretty hard) Dream breathed a breath of relief. If George was in severe pain, he'd be tearing into Dream about stupidity and for hurting him.

“Why—why the hell did you eat us?” Sapnap suddenly demanded, sitting up straight and glaring over George's shoulder. "What the fuck was that about?!"

“I…” Dream faltered, glancing up at Karl for help. The other god’s eyes darted between the three of them, and he sucked in a heavy, preparatory breath before speaking. “He thought I wanted you two. To, um, to eat.”

Dream joined in, thoughts gathered enough to know what to say. “I…I thought that I only had three options. Err, keep, keep refusing and have somebody get suspicious and probably report me to the Prime Gods, give you to him,” Dream jerked his head at Karl, “to be, what I thought, actually eaten, or,” he paused again, sucking in a steadying breath. “Or just do it myself, where I knew you’d be safe.”

"It's also tradition," Karl butted in, face twisted in a way that made it seem like he wanted to be anywhere other than there. “Nobody–nobody’s ever rejected a sacrifice. There would be an upheaval if someone did.”

Dream noticed that he didn't mention that humans, especially those that had been sacrificed to the gods, were delicious. It was a tactful move, one that Dream would follow along with. There was no need to make the two mortals hate them both even more.

"It also breaks a lot of rules, one of us interacting with mortals." Dream added. "If the other gods had found out, you both would be dead, and Karl and I would probably lose our positions, or at the very least be cast out of the void."

He noticed Karl glance at him at the use of his chosen name, but he said nothing about it. Dream dipped his head at him, indicating that the other god could use his name as well, if he so chose.

"If it had been someone else, if somebody else had been sacrificed, would—would you have killed them?" George asked.

Dream fell silent and turned his head down. He…He did not want to admit to anything, even if it was true. The dead silence was deafening, other than the sound of Karl nervously shifting on the sofa opposite him.

"Have you–" Sapnap started, then stopped. He was silent for an incredibly long moment, and then said decisively, "Nevermind."

Neither Dream nor Karl needed to ask what his question was. Have you had sacrifices before? Have you killed before?

The answer was obvious. But they weren’t willing to say it.

"So…"George started, clear hesitance coloring his tone. "What's going to happen to us now?"

They were shivering. Dream didn't know if it was from fear, or from the saliva still soaking their clothes and the fact that the room was a little chilled.

"Do you guys–do you wanna wash off, or something…?" Dream ventured, pointing carefully at the slick dampness still dripping from their clothes. The two looked down in disgust, but shook their heads regardless. “Maybe later,” George muttered, reaching down to try and wring out his shirt a little bit. “I don’t know about Sapnap, but I really don’t want to be touched right now.” The by either of you went completely unsaid, but both Dream and Karl could read between the lines.

Sapnap was nodding, and it really, really did hurt, how neither of them seemed to be able to trust the gods, but after what had just been said…Dream didn’t blame them. He couldn’t blame them. He’d be scared, too.

"We'll take you two back to the overworld, then, when you’re ready,” Karl broke the choking quiet by answering George’s previously asked question. He wrung his hands together, biting at his lip as he carefully ventured forth his next words.

"If you ever feel like talking to either of us ever—ever again after this, or–or if you need help, just…just call to the God of Time, or the God of the Overworld, okay?" Karl implored hopefully, leaning forward from the cushions of the chesterfield. "We'll hear you, wherever you are."

"I think…" Sapnap trailed off, bisected orange eyes drifting down to rest on a smudge on the glass table. Dream held his breath, hoping against hope that the fireborn wouldn't reject them outright.

Sapnap looked up, first at Dream, then at Karl, where his gaze lingered. "I think I will. I just…I need time to process. Uh, all of this.” He then turned his eyes to George, who was looking contemplative as he wiped his damp hands on his damp pants. After a long, long beat, he finally glanced up and met Dream’s gaze. A whirlpool of emotions were swimming in his eyes, most indecipherable for the God of the End. What he could see, though, wasn’t promising. Apprehension, wariness, the gleam of calculation, tiny hints of lingering fear…Dream didn’t know if George would ever want to see him again. The human may feel like it was too dangerous, may feel like Dream had betrayed him…Dream wouldn’t argue, if that were the case and George wanted nothing to do with him, but…

Dream would be heartbroken, that was for certain.

“I…I don’t know, Dream.” The brunette finally spoke, turning his eyes away again. “I…you’re a god. How am I supposed to respond to that? You ate me, ate us, what do I say?! I’m going to have nightmares from this whole…everything, and now that I know it was you…” He trailed off, glancing at Dream’s chest, then quickly away. “Maybe in the future, I don’t know, but…not, not right now, okay?”

Dream’s heart pinged painfully at the human’s words, but he wouldn’t let himself be crushed. At least George hadn’t decided to completely cut himself off from Dream? The End God had to hold onto that, and hope that it would keep him afloat.

“Okay,” was all Dream said, even though his brain was screaming at him to plead and beg for George to accept him now, because he was still the same guy he knew, just bigger and more powerful than any mortal could possibly fathom.

A solemn moment imposed itself over them all as the four of them mulled over the events that had transpired. Karl was fairly happy with the outcome. Sapnap would…probably come around, eventually, and it’s not like mortal time would be very long to wait, for a god. As a bonus, he had learned that End, no, Dream, had broken the same rules as he had, and in that, he had found a new kinship with the other god. He did feel bad for Dream, though, because it seemed like his other mortal friend, the brunette, was rejecting him. He hoped that George wouldn’t hate Dream for any of this.

Sapnap was still processing. His…very close friend, Karl, had turned out to be a god, (of either time or of the overworld, he wasn’t sure which) and that scared him, but…he could get over it. Karl was still Karl, after all, no matter how big or scary or powerful. Same with Dream. He would get used to it, he was sure. He was just mostly happy that they weren’t going to die in the gut of some giant deity. Everything else? Piece of cake, a flat breeze. Sapnap could deal.

George…George didn’t want to believe any of this. Dream, his very favorite friend, was a god? Dream, the man who could make him laugh in almost any situation, had eaten him? Had eaten Sapnap? What was George supposed to think? Even if it was for their ‘safety’ or whatever, at least he could’ve given some sign, some warning? George knew that he’d be having night terrors after this awful experience. He’d already had trouble with sleep, but now? Oh, he was so screwed. A small part of him hoped, just maybe, he would be able to force himself to interact with Dream without freaking out, but every time the thought crossed his mind, uncontrollable shivers wracked up his spine, and he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t think he could do it. He didn’t want to. At least he still had Sapnap. At least they were both alive.

Dream wanted to cry. Or smite something. Maybe he could go fry a pillager outpost after this? Maybe. George…he didn’t think George wanted to be around him after this. He really, really hoped George would come around, but he doubted it. He knew the mortal wouldn’t. George was very, very stubborn, which meant that Dream had just lost him. He tried to cheer himself up by telling himself that he may still have Sapnap, and that he had just gained a closer relationship with Karl, but it didn’t help much, not when it was compared with the loss of George.

His thoughts turned to whose fault this all probably was, and a sudden realization that had a snarl crawling over his face passed through his head. He needed to know, so that he could smite them, for causing all of this mess. That, and the indignant anger over the fact that his two humans had been slated to die.

"Who the fuck had the gall to sacrifice you two?!" He abruptly growled, and Sapnap snorted at the sudden outburst. Soon, they were all cackling uncontrollably, and Dream felt just the littlest bit better about it all. Maybe things wouldn’t turn out so bad…maybe.

(End)

~~~~~~~~~~

So, a while later, like, several months or something, George runs into some trouble, alone at night being attacked by a hoard of mobs, and he’s desperate. His armor is gone, his sword is about to break, and he will die if he can’t think of anything. So, he does the only thing he thinks he can do: he screams for Dream, he calls for the overworld god to help him, please, and then suddenly the mobs are being mowed down, one by one, by a (thankfully human-sized) green clad man. Then there’s a terse, heartfelt moment between the two where Dream says that there isn’t much worth doing without George. A bunch of emotions are laid bare that night, but they reconnect, and grow very much closer to each other. 

Sapnap is elated by the news, as well as Karl.)

Taglist that I fucking forgot o~O

@brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu

[project-sekai-facts]

Is there a list out there of what I like to call mixed/main events? Like how Resounding Twilight Parade is considered a Leo/need event despite being mixed, same thing with Exciting Picnic being a N25 event.

Leo/need currently has the most key story mixed events, with 3. Those being Resounding Twilight Parade (which develops the plot with STANDOUT that was started in Honami's event prior), Singing With You In A World Where Sakura Dance (which develops Ichika's side of that plot leading up to Resonate With You), and In the Corner of A Resonant Town (which covers Shiho's feelings before L/n's one-man show in Get Over It.).

MORE MORE JUMP! has none, but have had some in the past. Beyond Prayers, the Tomorrow We Wish For (where MMJ volunteer as shrine maidens featuring a brief segment covering some of Haruka's past) and Operation♡Secret Valentine! (where Airi helps Saki and Emu make Valentine's treats) were marked as key stories for a few months before having their tags removed, while the recent Airi-centric event, Slapstick cafe ●REC!! (which is about MMJ filming a TV spot at a local cafe), had its tag removed after a few weeks because apparently it was added by mistake. Honestly none of them contribute a huge amount to MMJ's overall plot so removing them is fair. Slapstick cafe probably is most plot relevant despite being the one that was marked as key story by mistake, but the tag being removed probably means it's not very important.

Vivid BAD SQUAD only has one: Ringing Sounds at the Summer Festival. This wasn't marked as a key story until long after it was released, and EN still hasn't received the update which adds the tag. The reason it was retroactively tagged is probably due to covering parts of Akito's backstory, specifically how he got into music, that aren't covered in a unit event.

WonderlandsxShowtime also has one: A Brand New Year! Lion Dance Robot's New Year's Show!. Tsukasa decides to take up acting opportunities outside PXL/WxS at the end of the event, which leads directly into Amidst a Dream, Towards the Shining Stars.

25-Ji, Nightcord de. has 2 mixed event key stories currently, those being Tell Me Your Problems! Exciting Picnic and At This Festival Colored By Twilight. The first one carries on from the end of Secret Distance, developing Mizuki and Ena's relationship before My Footprints, Your Destination, and the latter is where Mafuyu starts to rediscover more of her real self when she gets put on first aid duty at Shibuya festival, which is brought up in later events. Intersecting Melodies, Glowing Warmth used to be tagged as key story, but it was later removed, probably because it was more important to Mafuyu's individual character arc than it was to N25 collectively.

[pinkeoni]

This came to me in a dream—

Okay. So you know how when El was being killed by One it triggered a memory from her past and it gave her the strength to fight back?

So WHAT IF Will was in the same position next season, being killed by Vecna in an attempt to take his powers after failing to get Will to join him naturally, but instead of seeing something from his past he sees something from his future. His prophetic powers are activated and he sees something that tells him that he does have a future, and that he should fight for it, and that gives him the strength to fight on.

[batcavescolony]

someone tell me if I'm in the wrong. To understand you'll have to understand what 911 is and what the Rick Riordans books in terms of queer rep. So AITA? ig?

So a person on Tiktok said "Ever think about how shows like 911 congratulate themselves over one Gay character when Rick Riordan has 3" and then they went on to say things about Rick's rep and how Nico was Gay before gay marriage, generally positive things about his rep. But my reply was "I understand but 911 has a lot of queer characters. Hen, Karen, Michael, Josh, then their are some calls with queer people. and Rick's rep took place over YEARS over 5 different series.“ I then said “I don't think it's fair to pit two drastically different medias against each other. 911 is a ABC/Fox show so it more main stream while Rick Riordan is mainstream but for Books that not everyone reads.“ she stitched this with a tangent about how Rick has given us rep even though he's a straight cis guy from Texas and all that. Then she said that they're not impressed by a show on fox has some Gay characters while Pjo has more and is written by a guy from Huston. Then they said that theirs nothing more they could want then the rep in Ricks books.

In the comments of that stich she said “If this series oldest queer character is 16 other media has no excuses." And my response was “911 isn't making an excuse. the show started with a black lesbian main character who has a wife and a kid. it's been queer since the first episode." And they replied with “You realize this is bigger than your show right? Its almost like i’m taking a bigger point about media during pride month. But you’re too busy defending your show to notice."

In another comment I said "911 isn't getting praise because it's finally got a queer character. it's getting praise cus they saw fans hc a character as queer and changed the direction of the show to make that canon" their response was “Yes and i’m saying rick riordan did that years ago. So thats nice but also its pathetic this is the best people can expect"

Their's more but I won't bore you. But like I'm just saying that's 911 isn't getting praise for having one Gay character, it's had Gay characters since day one with Hen, Karen, Michael, ect. To say that it's only getting praise for one Gay character is erasing the rep they gave us in the beginning. They deleted some of my comments and blocked my account but I was also trying to say Rick's rep isn't the best either, and I don't mean that negatively he did well for a Genx? Straight dude from Texas, I wish more authors would at least try. But over all comparing 911 to Rick Riordans work is comparing apples to oranges, they're different mediums so it's not a fair vs.

Just AITA? I think I knew what I was saying but idk?

also don't hunt them down id hate for her to have hate because of me.

[nixotinix]

I don't know if you did this already, but for the Monster High outfit meme, how about Ghouls Rule Jackson and Holt? 👓🎧

I actually tried to do some Ghouls Rule designs for them a while back, but I absolutely hated them so I never posted. So I revamped them!

Jax I wanted to have more of a traditional masquerade vibe with a few punk influences. Holt I originally wanted to have in trad masq also, but I eventually decided fuck it and put him in something you'd see at a rave, it fits him a lot better. Also, to clarify and since there's no colour, the straps on Holt's boots is police tape!! Maybe I'll colour them later, idk.

[theonpilled]

x

[vaugarde]

im going to finish magireco maybe bc its only like a dozen episodes left but ngl i might watch an additional show inbetween this and xy bc. im sorry gamers i cant say i like it all that much

[bmpmp3]

having ur current looped-for-3-hours-straight song being 7+ minutes long is such a struggle. i keep thinking "okay i'll just listen to it one or two more times and then go to bed" and then you've listened to it like 5 times and its half an hour later

[i-tamar]

I WNANANANANANERVERGVTEVEWHBWUHCEBHXUEBUC

I FINALLY FINISHED THE POSTER!!!

I haven't drawn that stinky guy in awhile, so It was a challenge.

I can say that Haunted Attraction will wrap up around the end of this year. I don't have a specific date in mind but I'm hoping to get it released by then!! I'm doing a majority of the work and Man Does It Suck. I'll be posting more updates soon!! Thank you for taking interest in my degenerate dating game.

[sutorus]

THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach. 

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility. 

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do. 

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man. 

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you. 

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—). 

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like. 

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year. 

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it. 

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives. 

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him. 

but you damn well managed to. 

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair. 

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit. 

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately. 

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class. 

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there. 

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours. 

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed. 

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are. 

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know. 

but you knew for a fact that it was personal. 

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance. 

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively. 

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow. 

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply. 

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class. 

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious. 

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test. 

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you. 

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well. 

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak. 

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class. 

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild. 

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another. 

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages. 

you smile, waving at the screen. 

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.” 

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying. 

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had. 

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip. 

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help. 

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.” 

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you. 

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong. 

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself. 

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again. 

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that. 

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this. 

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest. 

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know. 

damn right it’s personal. 

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation. 

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off. 

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over. 

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger. 

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on. 

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair. 

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet. 

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you. 

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums. 

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.” 

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from. 

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo. 

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction. 

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently. 

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you. 

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest. 

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom. 

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue. 

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly. 

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now… 

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun. 

you could so easily forget what you came here for. 

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn. 

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest. 

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together. 

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two. 

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh. 

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief. 

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips. 

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan. 

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core. 

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin. 

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside. 

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips. 

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you. 

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again. 

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat. 

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive. 

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock. 

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds. 

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly. 

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.” 

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of. 

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees. 

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper. 

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face. 

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants. 

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved. 

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside. 

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth. 

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would. 

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones. 

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man. 

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo. 

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time. 

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over. 

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt. 

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core. 

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you. 

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs. 

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else. 

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear. 

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt. 

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn. 

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him. 

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you. 

he notices you looking. 

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk. 

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip. 

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him. 

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head. 

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better. 

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair. 

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized. 

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers. 

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this. 

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth. 

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle. 

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back. 

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening. 

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts. 

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out. 

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. 

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you. 

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade. 

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go. 

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin. 

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt. 

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips. 

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you. 

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom. 

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.” 

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you. 

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts. 

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you. 

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you. 

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer. 

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release. 

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got. 

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“ 

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you. 

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure. 

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you. 

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of. 

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy. 

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows. 

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.  

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips. 

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?” 

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession. 

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles. 

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

[stars-obsession-pit]

John Constantine, floating through the astral realms (like he did when Swamp Thing was borrowing his body), slips through the edges of that dreamlike world and into the Ghost Zone.

Usually, such a mistake could be fatal. Having one’s soul untethered is already dangerous enough, but at least the Astral Realm follows dream-like rules that can be bent to your advantage. The Ghost Zone, though still fluid in its own way, offers far less control to outsiders.

But luckily for Constantine, he happened to emerge right near one of the rare Zone denizens that isn’t immediately hostile. A young man with snow-white hair and glowing green eyes.

All he has to do now is try to convince the ghost kid to help without risking pissing him off and getting himself killed.

…Yeah, he still might be fucked. Though he is a skilled con man, being pleasant was never one of his strong suits.

[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?