#you never know what people are going through but this one thing kind of connects everyone together

[moonlitstoriess]

You Were Mine First- Lucien x fem!reader (1/2)

Summary: For one hundred years, Y/N carried the weight of a bond Lucien never felt. Then, one day, it was gone—severed, rewritten, given to another. She thought she could endure it. Thought she could live unseen, unnoticed. Until the day Lucien walked into her shop… and fate forced them face to face.

See masterlist

Warnings: angst, heartbreak, miscommunication, elain is quite the character in this one😟 also, not proofread but will be soon

The bond had been a quiet thing.

Not gentle, not kind, but quiet—woven into her like the steady hum of the ocean, like the distant whisper of a song she was never meant to hear in full. It had been there for as long as she could remember, a presence just beneath her skin, a pulse separate from her own heartbeat.

She had felt it for a hundred years. Lived with the knowledge that somewhere out there, Lucien Vanserra existed, and he was hers.

Except he wasn’t.

Because one day, the bond was gone.

It wasn’t like cutting a thread. It wasn’t like a slow, fraying unraveling.

It was a severing.

Sharp. Sudden. Irreversible.

One moment, it was there, humming in her chest like it always had, and the next, it collapsed in on itself. The connection that had been a constant presence in her life, the tether that had stretched across time and space, binding her to a male she had never even met—vanished.

And it hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

She had collapsed to the floor of her shop, fingers clutching at her ribs, nails digging into her skin as if she could physically hold in the ache of something that was never tangible to begin with. Her breath had come in sharp, shallow gasps, her vision swimming as she tried to comprehend the loss of something she had never even gotten to have.

It was like being gutted from the inside out. Like some cruel hand had reached into her soul and ripped away a part of her she’d never even touched.

She had thought—he knows.

Lucien must have found out about the bond.

And he cut it off.

She had sat there for hours. Just sat there, staring at the floor, willing herself to breathe through the crushing weight of something she could never prove, never explain.

Because it was his choice.

He must have felt it, realized it, and rejected it.

Maybe he had seen her in a vision. Maybe the Mother herself had whispered it in his ear. Maybe he had sensed the invisible tether and recoiled in disgust.

Maybe—maybe he had simply decided she was not what he wanted.

The thought lodged itself into her ribs like a rusted dagger.

But Y/N had not cried that night.

She had cleaned the broken glass from where she’d knocked over a display, locked up her shop, and gone home to an empty bed.

The next morning, she had continued on.

A hundred years of knowing.

Three years of silence.

Y/N had not spoken a word of it to anyone, had never once whispered her secret into the smoke-filled air of her shop, had never let it become real outside of herself.

It was over.

Lucien Vanserra had made his choice.

And she had made hers: to let him go.

Her life had not changed much in the three years since the bond had disappeared.

She still ran her shop, still worked until her fingers ached, still sold perfumes and oils and delicate trinkets to the people of Velaris without them ever knowing that once, her entire world had unraveled between her ribs.

She told herself that she was fine.

That she had never needed him.

That the pain had dulled, the ache had numbed, that she had sewn herself back together without him.

And maybe she had believed it.

Until—

The door to her shop swung open.

The world had cracked open beneath him.

One moment, he had been standing in that damned throne room in Hybern, his heart hammering in his chest, watching in horror as Elain Archeron was dragged toward the Cauldron. The next—

Mate.

The word slammed into him, rattling through his bones like a death knell.

It was instant. It was overwhelming.

Lucien had felt his soul lurch, had felt something snap into place deep in his chest, an unyielding chain that wrapped around his ribs and locked there. He swayed on his feet, unable to do anything but watch—watch as Elain, wide-eyed and fragile, disappeared beneath that inky black water.

A distant, roaring sound filled his ears. No. No. No.

His instincts had screamed at him to move, to shove past the guards, to do something—but he stood frozen. Because even as his body begged him to lunge forward, another force—a deeper, ancient force—held him back.

The Cauldron. The bond.

It pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.

And gods above, it hurt.

He had known pain before. Had lived through agony that most would crumble under. He had felt flesh burn and bones snap, had known the deep, rotting ache of grief and loss.

But this—

This was something else.

This was a tether being forged in real time, a connection being branded onto his very soul.

Elain surfaced.

Lucien barely breathed.

The world had shrunk down to the space between them, to the droplets clinging to her lashes as she gasped for air, to the tremor in her small hands as she tried to steady herself.

His mate.

His mate.

The pull was instantaneous.

A sharp, visceral need that made his fingers twitch at his sides, that sent fire licking down his spine. He had heard of it—of the way the mating bond could ignite in an instant, how it could take hold of a male so suddenly, so violently, that it rewrote the very fabric of his being.

But knowing it in theory was nothing like feeling it.

Lucien had spent centuries believing he had already been shattered into all the pieces he could possibly break into. That he had already endured the worst of it, that he had already lost everything.

And then the Cauldron had given him this. Her.

It had given him something new to ache for.

He tried to breathe. To think.

The rational part of him, the part that still had some grasp on reality, knew this was not the time. Not the place.

But none of that mattered.

Not when Elain was staring straight ahead, unfocused, dazed. Not when she looked like a baby deer standing on shaking legs, not when that first sharp pang of emotion raked through him—

Protect.

It whispered through his bones, through his blood.

He had to get to her.

Had to take her away from this cursed place, had to make sure she was safe. That was all that had mattered.

Lucien had taken half a step forward—

And then the Cauldron roared again.

His breath punched from his lungs as Nesta was dragged forward, as she thrashed and fought and screamed.

Lucien had felt his own body seize at the sound of it, but his attention remained locked on Elain.

He could barely focus on anything else. The King of Hybern had spoken, someone else had shouted, Cassian was bleeding out on the floor, but Elain.

She was trembling.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to pick her up and carry her far, far away from all of this.

But he couldn’t move.

His muscles were stone, his mind had fogged with a haze he had no hope of piercing through.

Because this bond, this thing now tying him to Elain, was stronger than anything he had ever known.

And it would never go away.

Not now. Not ever.

The thought had nearly brought him to his knees.

Lucien had learned something in these past few years.

A bond could exist. It could pull and ache and whisper in the quiet of the night.

But it meant nothing if it was not accepted.

For three years, he had come and gone from Velaris, carried there on nothing but a fragile, flickering hope. A hope that dulled a little more with every visit, every unanswered offering, every polite but distant gaze.

He had tried.

Tried to be patient. Tried to be gentle. Tried to show her, in every small way he could, that he would never demand anything from her. That he would never ask her to give more than she was willing.

He had brought her gifts—small things, thoughtful things. A book of poetry, its words as soft and delicate as the way she watched the garden in the early morning light. A delicate necklace of woven gold and pearl, handcrafted by a skilled artisan in the Dawn Court, because he thought she might like something beautiful, something made with care.

He had spent hours searching for the perfect flowers before learning, with no small amount of embarrassment, that she preferred to grow them herself. That she took joy in nurturing life rather than simply receiving it.

So he adjusted. Adapted.

He spent time in the greenhouse, learning the names of each bloom, the way their roots intertwined in the soil, the seasons in which they thrived. He let his fingers brush over petals and stems and thought—this. This is what I must do.

Not pluck something whole from the ground and place it in her hands, expecting her to take it with a smile.

But tend to it.

Let it grow. Let it reach for the sunlight at its own pace.

Let her bloom in whatever direction she wished, without trying to steer her toward him.

And yet—

Nothing.

Each time he left Velaris, he did so with nothing but a quiet, polite smile from her and a new weight pressing against his ribs.

She did not reject him.

But she did not accept him, either.

And gods, it was worse.

Lucien could handle rage. He could handle being turned away, shouted at, hated.

But the silence.

The hesitation.

The careful, measured distance she always kept between them.

It killed him.

Because he had seen, once, what an accepted bond looked like.

He had watched as Rhysand and Feyre moved through the world with an ease, a certainty, that left no room for question.

He had seen the way Azriel looked at Mor, the quiet longing buried beneath years of silence, the way he endured and endured because there was nothing else to do.

Lucien had sworn he would not be like that.

That he would never allow himself to become a shadow lingering at the edges of her world.

And yet—

Yet he still came back. Like a fool.

Like a male who still believed in something that had never truly belonged to him.

“Not to pry,” Jurian said one evening, propping his feet up on the edge of the low table between them, “but have you ever considered not torturing yourself?”

Lucien, who had been nursing his drink, sighed. “What are you on about now?”

“I mean,” Jurian gestured vaguely, “the whole tragic pining thing. Really, Lucien, it’s getting embarrassing.”

Lucien gave him a flat look. “Remind me again why I agreed to spend time with you?”

Jurian grinned, unapologetic. “Because I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”

Lucien rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want, Jurian?”

“Nothing.” He took a sip of his drink. “Well. Actually, I was going to mention a shop in Velaris that might be of interest to you. Since, you know, you’re so desperately trying to impress a certain Lady of Flowers.”

Lucien arched a brow. “A shop?”

Jurian nodded. “Y/N’s shop. She sells perfumes, oils, little trinkets. Apparently, every female who sets foot in there leaves raving about how perfect it is. If you’re going to keep throwing gifts at Elain in hopes she’ll finally look at you like you’re not some lost puppy, you might as well get something she’d actually want.”

Lucien exhaled sharply. “Your faith in me is astounding.”

Jurian smirked. “Just looking out for you, Vanserra.”

Lucien shook his head, but something about the name—Y/N—stuck in his mind.

Maybe it was because he had spent years grasping at anything, any small hope, that might help bridge the gap between him and Elain. Maybe it was because he was tired. Tired of trying and failing.

Or maybe it was just that he had nothing else left to lose.

So the next time he found himself in Velaris, before making his way to the Archeron estate, he wandered through the city, searching for that shop.

It was easy enough to find.

Tucked between two larger buildings, Y/N’s shop was small but elegant. The glass windows glowed with warm, golden light, and the scent of something rich and enticing drifted through the cracks of the door. The sign above was simple, written in delicate, swirling letters.

There was something… welcoming about it.

Lucien stood outside for a long moment, staring at the entrance.

Then, with a slow, steadying breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly, its familiar, delicate ring signaling the arrival of a new customer. Y/N barely glanced up from the shelf she was organizing, her fingers deftly adjusting the small glass vials of perfume that lined the wooden display. The scent of jasmine and bergamot filled the air, mingling with the rich undertones of amber and cedar.

She had long since learned to temper her expectations—to stop hoping for something, for someone, who would never come.

But then, a voice, warm and smooth, cut through the quiet hum of the shop.

“Excuse me. Is...is this Y/N's shop?"

Her heart stopped.

That voice—his voice.

She turned, slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment hanging between them. And there he was. Lucien Vanserra.

Standing just inside her shop, his tall frame poised with a careful, easy grace, though there was something slightly hesitant in the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure he belonged here. The golden glow of the lanterns bathed him in soft light, catching the rich red of his hair, the burnished gleam of his eye—his singular russet eye. The other, the golden mechanical one, whirred almost imperceptibly as he scanned the space around him.

Y/N felt the breath she had been holding slip from her lips.

He knows her name?

It had been years since she had seen him up close. Years of watching from afar, of wondering, of aching in silence.

And now, he was here.

She swallowed against the sharp, bitter weight of that realization and forced her voice into something steady, something detached.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Lucien’s gaze landed on her, polite but indifferent, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” he said, offering a small, formal smile. “I was told this shop might have something I need. A gift, actually. A meaningful one.”

Y/N’s breath hitched—just for a moment, just long enough for hope to bloom wild and reckless in her chest.

A gift.

A meaningful gift.

Had he—could he possibly—?

“For my beloved,” he added casually.

Beloved.

And just like that, hope shriveled and died inside her, shrank into something tight and painful that pressed against her ribs like a knife.

Of course.

Of course.

Because he hadn’t come here for her. He had come here for another.

She didn’t let the hurt show. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, feigning a mild, professional interest.

“I see,” she murmured, turning back toward the counter, forcing her limbs to move, forcing herself to breathe past the tightness in her throat. “What kind of female is she?”

Lucien hesitated for only a moment before responding.

“She’s gentle,” he said, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “Quiet, but… not weak. She sees things in a way others don’t. Notices the details others overlook.”

Y/N forced herself to nod, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

“She enjoys nature,” he continued. “Gardens, especially. She likes to grow things, to tend to them. She has a kindness about her that’s—” He exhaled, a small, distant smile curving his lips. “It’s rare.”

Y/N felt something crack deep inside her.

Every word was another stone added to the weight already crushing her chest.

And yet she couldn’t stop looking at him—the way his features softened, the way his expression grew distant, lost in some memory of the girl, as if she were some delicate, untouchable dream.

Y/N swallowed the bitterness creeping up her throat and forced a smile—polished and pretty, an elegant mask.

“Well,” she said, her voice even, smooth. “It sounds like she would appreciate something soft. Something delicate and thoughtful.”

She moved past him, toward the shelves lined with handcrafted items, her fingers brushing over the carved wooden boxes that housed carefully blended oils and perfumes.

“These,” she said, selecting one of the small, glass bottles. “A floral blend—rose, lilac, and a touch of honeysuckle. Light, natural, and not overpowering.”

Lucien reached for it, his long fingers grazing hers as he took the bottle. Y/N ignored the way the touch burned.

He uncorked the bottle, inhaling lightly.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, nodding in approval. “Subtle.”

She forced a small, knowing smile. “She doesn’t like strong scents, does she?”

Lucien blinked, glancing up at her. “No. She doesn’t.”

Y/N turned away before he could see the way her throat constricted. Instead, she gestured toward another shelf.

“There’s also this,” she said, lifting a small, intricately crafted gold locket. “A piece of jewelry—simple, elegant. You can place a pressed flower inside, something personal.”

Lucien ran his fingers over the delicate engraving. “She’d like that,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed past the lump in her throat. Of course she would.

She kept moving, kept showing him options—anything to fill the silence, to drown out the aching hollowness expanding in her chest.

And all the while, she drank in the sight of him—the curve of his lips as he considered each item, the quiet, pensive way he studied every detail. She had never been this close to him before.

She never wanted it to end.

But eventually, he made his choice. The locket.

And then, far too soon, he was standing at the counter, waiting.

Y/N wrapped the gift carefully, precisely, her fingers trembling only slightly as she tied the ribbon. She set it before him, forcing herself to meet his gaze as she murmured, “I hope she likes it.”

Lucien’s polite smile returned, easy and effortless. “Thank you.”

He slid a few coins across the counter, and she took them without a word.

And then—just like that—he turned to leave.

Y/N stood frozen, watching as he reached the door, as his fingers brushed the handle.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then he glanced back at her, offering one last, polite, meaningless smile.

“Have a good evening,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him, the bell chiming its soft, hollow note.

Y/N exhaled shakily, staring at the empty space where he had stood.

The silence in the shop felt suffocating, heavy with something she didn’t have the strength to name.

Her fingers curled against the counter, her breath uneven.

She had spent years imagining what it would be like to finally stand before him.

Never once had she imagined it would feel like this.

It happened two days later.

Y/N was walking home from the market, arms full of bags and bundled goods, weaving through the crowd of busy pedestrians that filled the bustling city street. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the cobblestones, and the energy in the air was high, as if the entire town was preparing for something important. The noise of merchants shouting out their prices, children running past, and carts clattering by made it nearly impossible to focus on anything for too long.

She moved quickly, eager to get home and put her mind at ease after the long day. But just as she rounded a corner, her foot caught on a loose stone, and she stumbled, her bags slipping from her hands.

“Cauldron!” she hissed, barely catching herself before tumbling into the ground.

Her goods scattered everywhere—potatoes rolled away, fabric bundles slid into the street, and small jars tipped over, clinking noisily. She froze for a moment, stunned by her clumsiness, hands scrambling to gather the mess. She was so focused on the spilled items that she didn’t notice the figure approaching.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Ma'm, are you okay?”

Y/N jumped, looking up quickly, ready to apologize for her mishap and scramble for her things—but she stopped short.

It was him.

Lucien.

He was standing just a few feet away, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and recognition. The shock on his face quickly turned into a grin, that wide, infectious smile that always seemed to make her heart skip a beat. She had no idea how he had gotten so close so quickly—there was too much going on in the street, too much chaos for her to have seen him coming.

“Y/N, hey!” he exclaimed, stepping forward as he crouched down beside her without hesitation. “I didn’t see you there, but I’m glad I did. Here, let me help.”

Before she could even process his presence, he was already gathering her spilled goods with a swift motion, his hands moving with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Y/N’s face heated up. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you—” She trailed off, the words feeling weak and useless.

“No need to apologize,” Lucien laughed lightly, his voice full of warmth, and he flashed that smile at her again. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry about it.”

She couldn’t help the small, relieved exhale that left her lips as he placed the last of the items back into her arms. His touch was light but firm, like he knew exactly how much to hold and where to place everything. It wasn’t just practical; it was almost… considerate.

But then, as he helped her stand up, the reality of the situation hit her. She took a step back, quickly readjusting the bags in her arms.

“I—thank you,” she stammered, clearly caught off guard. She glanced at him, a little unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn of events. The warmth of his presence lingered, making her feel like maybe this was more than just a simple accident. “I can take it from here. Really.”

Lucien shook his head, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Not a chance. I’m walking you home. It’s not a far walk, right? I’ll help you carry everything.”

Y/N hesitated, the idea of someone accompanying her home—not to mention Lucien, who made her feel like her emotions were caught in a whirlwind—wasn’t something she had planned for. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him she was fine, that she didn’t need his help. But the words didn’t come.

His smile, persistent and almost childishly happy, was too bright, too eager for her to deny.

“I insist,” he added, without giving her a chance to respond. He didn’t wait for her permission either, already starting to walk beside her, his pace matching hers effortlessly.

As they walked, his excitement didn’t fade. He babbled on, his voice light and full of joy, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve been thinking about the last time I was in your shop. Honestly, it was exactly what I was looking for, Y/N. You’re a true artist. A genius, even. I don’t know how you do it. The way you just know what someone needs? It’s incredible. I’ll be coming back for sure, more than once. My beloved, she...she loved the gift!”

He trailed off for a second, as though realizing how much he was talking, but when he caught her eye, that familiar grin returned. “I guess I just really appreciate what you did. She has finally enjoyed a gift of mine. Truly."

Y/N didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t used to hearing this kind of praise—especially not from someone who looked at her like she was something extraordinary, like she was special. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it. It was just… so much. Too much.

Her mind was a whirl of confusion, a mess of thoughts she couldn’t quite sort out. On one hand, his words were kind, genuine even, but on the other, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being polite. If it was all just a formality, a friendly exchange, one he didn’t mean to be anything more than surface level.

But the way he kept talking, the way he was so genuine about it, made her heart beat a little faster. She felt herself start to soften, to lower the walls she had built around herself.

“I really do mean it,” Lucien continued, oblivious to the internal turmoil she was experiencing. “It’s rare to find someone who actually cares about their work like you do. It’s so rare, and it’s refreshing. My beloved thinks so too, she said how skilled and considerate you are to make such intimate, meaningful gifts."

Y/N swallowed hard, unsure of how to deal with the pain in her heart.

Lucien’s words lingered in the air as they continued their walk through the bustling street, the crowd swirling around them, but somehow, in that moment, Y/N couldn’t focus on anything but him. His voice, light and full of praise, filled her ears, but it was his tone—so earnest, so full of admiration—that made it difficult to breathe properly. Her heart raced faster than she cared to admit, and her palms felt clammy, despite the cool evening air.

She adjusted the bags in her arms, suddenly feeling as if they were too heavy. Not physically, but emotionally. It was as if the weight of the situation had shifted in a way she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s genuine attention. And certainly not from someone like Lucien, who had this way of making everything feel... different.

“I’ll be coming back soon enough,” he said, his voice almost playful, as if the idea was already a certainty. “I want to see what else you’ve got for her. You’ve got a real talent, Y/N. The kind of talent that can make something as simple as a piece of jewelry feel like the most treasured possession in the world. She loved it, I’m telling you. And if I’m honest, I think she’ll want more of what you can do.”

Y/N’s breath caught at his words. There it was again—the mention of his “beloved.” She tried not to flinch, but it was hard. It felt like a cold, sharp dagger in her chest, no matter how gently he said it. Every mention of his relationship with someone else was like a reminder that she was just someone passing by in his life, someone who was only there for his business, for his orders, nothing more.

Yet, despite the ache that echoed in her chest, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. His words—those damn words—had this way of making her feel... seen. They made her feel as though, maybe, for just a moment, she wasn’t just a shopkeeper in the middle of a crowded city. She was someone worth talking to, someone worth valuing.

Her fingers clenched around the handles of her bags, the fabric bunching in her grasp as her pulse raced. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to him without sounding like a fool. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, either. She didn’t even know why his words were affecting her so much. It was just Lucien—just another customer, right? Another male who would leave once his business was done, and she would go back to her quiet life, her work.

“You’ll be back?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, though she hoped he didn’t notice. Her heart felt heavy in her chest as she spoke. “To see more? For more gifts?”

Lucien’s grin widened, that easy, carefree grin that made everything else fade away for a brief second. “Of course,” he replied, almost as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, how could I not? There’s no one else who could do what you do. No one who could make something so... meaningful, so perfect. She’s never received anything like it.”

His words, the praise that seemed to pour out of him without a second thought, made her stomach twist in a mixture of delight and unease. It was hard to tell which emotion was winning.

As they neared the turn that would lead her to her home, the words began to settle on her in a way that almost felt like a weight. The streets around them seemed to grow quieter, the bustle of the city fading into the background as she focused on the way his voice still lingered in her mind.

“I’ll come back soon enough,” Lucien continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere between them. “Maybe next time, we can talk more. I’d like to see what other ideas you have, Y/N. You’ve got a talent for making things that speak to people. Not everyone has that.”

It took everything in Y/N to keep walking, to keep herself composed. But his words—they kept echoing, over and over again, in her mind. He didn’t know it, but the way he said them... the way he made her feel as though what she did mattered, as if she mattered, was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I’d like that,” she managed, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

Lucien turned to her, his smile softening, though the brightness never fully left his face. He was a man who wore his emotions openly, without hesitation, and Y/N couldn’t help but admire him for that. It felt almost... freeing, the way he was so sure of himself, so certain of the path he walked. She wished, in that moment, she could feel as confident as he did.

As they reached her door, Lucien paused, standing a little too close, a little too warm. The air between them felt charged, alive with unsaid words and unsaid feelings.

“Well, here we are,” he said, glancing down at her bags once more. 

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from herself. All she knew was that in that moment, standing on her doorstep with Lucien’s warmth radiating off of him, she didn’t want this feeling to go away.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible as she finally looked up at him.

“Anytime,” Lucien replied, giving her one last smile before turning to leave, the evening sun casting a golden glow over the two of them as he disappeared into the street.

Y/N stood there for a long moment, watching him go, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. She hadn’t realized until he was gone just how much she had wanted him to stay.

Lucien sat across from Elain, the soft glow of the firelight illuminating her features. It had been a quiet day, but one that seemed to stretch on endlessly as the quiet intimacy between them grew more tangible. Elain sat delicately, her fingers brushing the smooth gold chain of the locket he'd given her. She had worn it all day, something he noted with quiet satisfaction.

She lifted the locket, turning it over in her hands, the elegant, subtle design catching the light. It was simple—gold, a slight curve, a soft engraving of leaves on the surface. But its true value, he thought, was in the tiny compartment inside, perfect for a pressed flower, a piece of her soul captured in something as delicate and beautiful as her. His fingers itched with the memory of creating it. It had been carefully crafted, just as his feelings for her had been.

"It’s... it’s perfect," Elain said, her voice soft, but her eyes shining as she looked at him. The locket hung from her neck, resting delicately against her collarbone. "I haven't taken it off since you gave it to me. I know I’ve thanked you a thousand times already, but… thank you. It’s beautiful."

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat. She had thanked him a thousand times, and each time, his smile had grown a little wider. He leaned back in his chair, watching her, the soft light making her appear even more ethereal than she already was.

"Seems you really like it," Lucien said, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think it would win you over so easily.”

Elain laughed softly, her lips curving into a smile that made his heart flutter. "Oh, yes. I haven’t taken it off since the moment you gave it to me." She paused, her fingers lightly brushing the gold, the motion tender. "I wear it every day. I can’t stop thinking about it."

"Good," Lucien said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on her. "It means a lot to me that you like it. I wanted it to be something meaningful, something personal for you."

Elain’s expression softened, her eyes flickering with warmth. "You really do put thought into everything you do, don’t you?" She glanced at him through the strands of her hair, almost shy. "It’s one of the things I like most about you."

Lucien’s chest tightened at her words. "You’re too kind," he murmured, though inwardly, he swelled with pride. To see her finally appreciating his efforts, to see her wear something he’d sought out with such care—it felt like a victory. His happiness wasn’t in the locket itself, but in knowing that she was accepting him, piece by piece.

But then, something flickered in his mind—a shadow, an intrusion of a memory that threatened to pull him away from the moment. It was a flash of Y/N, her face, her eyes. He had spent the entire afternoon helping her, picking up the pieces of her scattered goods. He remembered the small smile she’d given him, but there had been something in her eyes that made his stomach twist.

She had seemed so guarded. Like she was fighting against something, even as she thanked him. Something about the way she had looked at him—it wasn’t warmth or trust. It was as if she was trying to keep herself safe, distant.

He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, like a distant whisper. Had he done something to wrong her? Had he said or done something that made her shut him out?

But no, that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t done anything to her, not really. It was just a fleeting moment.

"Lucien?" Elain’s voice brought him back, the soft sound of his name grounding him.

He blinked and looked up, meeting her eyes. Her gaze was steady, warm, a slight tilt to her lips. "I’m sorry, I was just thinking," he said, a bit embarrassed at how easily he had become lost in his own mind.

Elain tilted her head, the smile on her lips still lingering. "What were you thinking about?"

Lucien hesitated, then shook his head with a small laugh. "Nothing important," he said, brushing it off. "Just... my work. You know, trying to figure out what to do next."

Her eyes softened in understanding. "I can imagine you’ve been busy lately. You always seem to have a thousand things to do."

He chuckled. "It’s true. But I don’t mind. It keeps me distracted."

Elain leaned back in her chair, her hands folded delicately in her lap. "Distracted from what?" she asked gently, her voice soft, but curious.

Lucien paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he answered. "From the thoughts that linger. Things that I can’t always control." His voice was quieter now, more reflective.

She returned his smile, and for a moment, the weight of his thoughts disappeared. There was just the quiet warmth between them, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with being around someone who truly understood.

And yet, in the back of his mind, that small flicker of a thought—the image of Y/N, her guarded smile, and the soft sting of her distance—remained. Why? They had never met until two days earlier anyway, why was she so guarded?

But for now, he would push it aside. He was here with Elain, and he would not let the shadows of other thoughts mar this small, precious moment.

"I’m glad you like the locket," he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. "I want you to have something special, something just for you."

Elain gave him a small smile, "Thank you, Lucien. For being interested enough to learn more about me. I appreciate it."

And for the first time, he truly believed it.

The shop smelled of old paper and cinnamon, the comforting scent wrapping around Y/N like a familiar embrace. The soft hum of the fireplace in the corner crackled in contrast to the steady rain tapping against the windowpanes. It was peaceful—until her grandmother decided to ruin it.

"I told you, I can handle it on my own," Y/N huffed, arms crossed as she watched the older woman sort through a pile of newly arrived books. "You just got over a fever. You should be resting, not coming back here a day after getting out of bed."

Her grandmother, Arlena, snorted, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Oh, please. I had a fever, not one foot in the grave." She adjusted her reading glasses and peered at Y/N over the rim. "Besides, if I leave you alone any longer, you'll turn this place into a monastery with all your brooding. We’d have to start selling candles and prayer books."

Y/N groaned. "Grandma—"

"I bet you've been sighing dramatically all day," Arlena continued, clearly not done tormenting her. "Scaring customers off with that tragic heroine look."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "You are insufferable."

"And you are overly dramatic."

Before Y/N could argue, the bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer. She immediately straightened, smoothing out her expression into something polite and professional. But the second she turned toward the entrance, that careful mask nearly cracked.

Lucien.

Of course.

The comfortable warmth of the shop suddenly felt suffocating as the heaviness settled in her chest. Still, she plastered on the most well-practiced smile she had, the one meant for customers who didn't need to see the turmoil twisting inside her.

Lucien approached with easy confidence, his russet-red hair glinting under the golden light, his sharp features relaxed yet unreadable. He dipped his head slightly in greeting, his golden eye gleaming with its usual sharpness.

"Good evening," he greeted, voice smooth as ever.

"Good evening," Y/N returned, her voice polite but distant. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Lucien’s lips twitched slightly. "Got anything else that might make a good gift?"

Y/N nodded toward the back of the shop. "You can take a look at our collection of specialty items. I’ll be with you in a moment."

Lucien inclined his head in thanks before heading in that direction, the warmth of his presence lingering even as he moved away.

The second he was out of earshot, Arlena let out a low whistle, arms crossed as she watched him disappear behind the shelves. "You know what? Maybe it’s time for you to rest, dearest. I can handle customers like him very well."

Y/N hissed in embarrassment, nudging her grandmother with her elbow. "Grandma!"

Arlena smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "What? He’s got the whole ‘handsome yet brooding’ thing going for him. I could charm a discount out of him in five minutes."

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she reluctantly made her way toward Lucien, who was already examining some of the handcrafted gifts on display.

She folded her hands behind her back, keeping her posture composed. "Anything catch your eye?"

Lucien glanced at her, then back at the delicate selection of items. His fingers brushed over a carved wooden box, then a small silver quill set. "You’ve got an interesting collection here," he murmured. "Everything feels… personal."

"That’s the goal," Y/N said simply.

Lucien hummed in thought before picking up a set of delicately embroidered bookmarks. "These are nice. Who makes them?"

"Local artisans," Y/N replied. "We try to source from people around town. Everything here has a story behind it."

Lucien nodded thoughtfully before moving to another table where an ornate, hand-painted music box sat. He ran his fingers along the smooth surface, his expression unreadable. "And this?"

Y/N kept her hands clasped in front of her, her professionalism unwavering. "It plays a lullaby originally composed for the Spring Court’s faelings," she explained. "The design is inspired by an old legend about firebirds."

Lucien smiled wryly. "Sounds nostalgic."

"It’s meant to be," she replied, tilting her head slightly. "Memories tend to sell well."

Lucien studied her for a moment before finally exhaling and picking up the music box. "I’ll take this one."

"Good choice," Y/N said, though inwardly, she just wanted this whole interaction to be over.

She reached for the music box to take it from him, but Lucien’s fingers tightened around it, holding it in place.

Y/N’s brow lifted in confusion. "Yes?"

He hesitated, his golden eye scanning her face, as if searching for something. Then, quietly, he asked, "Have we met before?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

Lucien exhaled, looking almost… frustrated. "I mean, did I—did I ever do something bad to you?" His voice was careful, uncertain. "I keep getting this feeling, like—like maybe I did something, and I don’t remember."

For a brief moment, Y/N’s mind stilled.

Did he know? Did he sense it?

The years of hurt, of disappointment, of feeling invisible in a way she never quite had the words to describe. Did he really not see it?

But then, Y/N’s lips curved into her most practiced, fake smile. The one she wore when she wanted to shut everything down.

"No," she said smoothly, voice dripping with false lightness. She ripped the music box from his grip, her fingers tightening around it. "Why would I ever be hurt by you? I mean, you and I are strangers, right? So what could you have possibly done to hurt me?"

Lucien stared at her for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. But then he let out a small, hesitant laugh, shaking his head. "Right," he muttered. "Nothing, I suppose. My mind fooled me once more."

Y/N merely turned on her heel, leading him toward the counter for checkout.

As she started wrapping the music box, her grandmother leaned forward on the counter, watching Lucien with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know, for someone who’s only been here twice, you sure have my granddaughter looking like she’s about to combust."

Y/N nearly dropped the music box. "Grandma!"

Lucien let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Arlena grinned. "Oh, you should. I haven’t seen her this flustered in years."

Y/N glared at her grandmother, her jaw tightening. "I am not flustered."

Arlena winked at Lucien. "She’s flustered."

Lucien chuckled as Y/N shoved the wrapped gift into his hands, eager to get him out of here. "Enjoy your music box."

Lucien inclined his head, still amused. "I will. Thank you, Y/N."

And then, with one last knowing glance from Arlena, he left.

The moment the door shut, Y/N turned and tossed the nearest soft object—a small pillow from the chair—directly at her grandmother.

"Grandma! What the hell was that?!"

Arlena cackled, dodging the pillow with ease. "That, dearest, was me making your life a little more interesting."

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. "I cannot believe you."

"Believe it, sweetheart." Arlena patted her on the shoulder before disappearing into the back room.

And Y/N… was left alone.

With her thoughts.

The city streets were quieter now, the late evening washing everything in a muted glow. The lamps lining the cobbled roads flickered in the gentle breeze, their golden light stretching long shadows across the stone. Y/N pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her breath steady as she walked.

She hadn’t left the shop intending to wander, but after the long day—after him—she needed out. Needed space from the shop’s small walls, from the lingering weight of Lucien’s presence and the way his gaze had felt too… probing. Too curious.

Y/N exhaled sharply. It was nothing. It should have been nothing.

Then she turned the corner and saw him.

Lucien stood beneath the glow of a nearby lantern, his copper hair catching the light like embers. But he wasn’t alone.

Elain Archeron.

Y/N stopped walking.

Everyone knew of the Archeron sisters. The human girls who had been Made, their fates forever changed.

Feyre, the youngest, had become High Lady—a force to be reckoned with, a warrior forged through hardship. Y/N had no personal connection to her, but there was a level of respect, even admiration, for what she had endured.

Nesta, the eldest, had been the city’s whispered scandal. Sharp-tongued and untamed, a woman who did not bend, who did not break, no matter how much the world might have tried. Y/N understood that sort of resilience.

But Elain…

Y/N had never given her much thought.

She had seen her in passing before—always soft-spoken, always delicate. A gentle soul, some would say. But Y/N never knew what to make of her. She wasn’t like her sisters.

And yet, she was the one standing with Lucien now.

The realization struck like a physical thing.

Lucien’s beloved.

Y/N didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been her.

Something tightened in her chest, something sharp and unwelcome.

Elain’s fingers absently brushed over the locket around her neck—intricately crafted gold, simple yet elegant. A piece of jewelry that Lucien must have given her.

A gift. The one she helped him pick out.

Y/N swallowed, forcing her expression into something blank, something indifferent, though she doubted either of them had noticed her yet.

Elain spoke softly, her voice barely carrying over the distance, but Lucien—he listened, watching her with that unwavering attentiveness of his. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed. No tension. No hesitation.

Why should there be?

This was his beloved. 

Y/N should not care.

And yet, she lingered.

It wasn’t jealousy—not in the way one might assume. It wasn’t some petty envy or longing for what Elain had.

It was the ache of something unspoken. The reminder of what she had always known.

She was nothing to him.

And that truth shouldn’t sting, but it did.

As if sensing something, Lucien’s gaze suddenly flicked up.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Their eyes met.

His expression didn’t shift. The faintest flicker of surprise, there and gone too quickly to be sure it had even been there at all. He held her gaze, studying her, as if trying to place something—trying to understand something.

But Y/N refused to be the one to look away first.

So she let her lips curve into something polite. Something detached. Then she turned and walked past them, her steps measured, her spine straight.

Lucien didn’t call out.

Didn’t stop her.

But even as she disappeared down the street, she could feel his gaze lingering.

And for some reason, even after she was gone, he found himself glancing around.

As if searching for something.

As if searching for her.

Y/N had grown used to Lucien’s presence in her shop. Too used to it.

It was his third visit in what felt like an insultingly short span of time, and she found herself more irritated than ever as she carefully wrapped another one of his purchases. She had expected—no, hoped—that he wouldn’t return after the second.

And yet, here he was.

"Seems like Lady Elain has truly liked the gifts if you’re already on your third visit," she muttered, voice deliberately flat as she secured the wrapping with a ribbon.

Lucien, lounging against the counter as if he had all the time in the world, let out a low chuckle. "Well, I do aim to please."

She didn’t respond, instead focusing on adjusting the twine around the package.

But Lucien wasn’t done.

"You have no idea how much your meaningful trinkets have gotten her to finally open up to me."

Y/N’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before she forced herself to keep working. She didn’t roll her eyes, didn’t scoff aloud—but inwardly? Cauldron save me from this nonsense.

Meaningful trinkets.

As if her work was merely some tool in his desperate attempts to win over his mate.

She didn’t care. She didn’t.

But something about the way he said it, about the way he sounded so damn pleased with himself, made her fingers tighten around the edge of the package.

She slid it across the counter toward him, waiting for him to take it. But before Lucien could, a voice chimed in from the back of the shop.

"Dear, when will you be taking the package to Day Court again?"

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose. Not now, Grandma.

She flicked her eyes toward the elderly female standing in the doorway, her hands idly dusting off an old book. Then, deliberately, she glanced at Lucien—who was not paying attention, seemingly distracted by something on the shelf behind her.

At least, that’s what she thought.

But the moment she turned back to bagging another order, his voice cut through the air.

"You have a package to deliver to Day Court?"

Y/N stilled, then sighed. "Yes. And?"

Lucien crossed his arms. "Do you know your way around there?"

She didn’t answer at first, simply shook her head slowly as she resumed packing the next order. "No," she admitted. "It’s the first time a customer from there has placed an order."

"And not just any customer," Arlena added cheerfully, much to Y/N’s growing irritation. "It’s Lord Calion, one of High Lord Helion’s closest confidants."

Y/N shot her grandmother a sharp, warning look, but it was too late.

Lucien had already perked up, his amber eye gleaming with recognition. "Oh? Him? I know him very well. Personally,too. He’s close with Helion."

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, surprised despite herself. "Helion, as in High Lord Helion?"

Lucien nodded, a small smile curling on his lips.

She wanted to say something—wanted to press further—but she caught herself, biting her tongue. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business.

Instead, she focused on tying up the next package, gathering Lucien’s order as quickly as possible. When she finally held it out to him, expecting him to take it and leave, he didn’t move.

Instead, he asked, "How will you go there?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "That doesn’t concern you. Have a good day."

She shoved the package toward him, but he still didn’t budge.

His golden eye gleamed as he murmured, "It seems like you can’t winnow, either. Can you?"

Y/N was seconds away from snapping at him, but her grandmother—traitorous as ever—let out a dramatic sigh and announced, "Nope! She can’t."

Y/N shot her a glare, but the old female only grinned before adding, "A shame, really. Guess the gift of winnowing just skips certain generations. Disappointing, isn't it?"

Y/N hissed, "Keep talking, Grandmother, and I’ll start selling your beloved tea set piece by piece."

Lucien only laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "You know, I could help you."

Y/N raised a brow. "What?"

Lucien shrugged, casual as ever. "Well, I did just say I know Calion personally. And I’m close with Helion, too." He gestured vaguely. "Not to mention, I can winnow you there and back. Easy."

She stared at him, completely indifferent. "No thanks."

He blinked. "But—"

"Don't you have a beloved, sir?" she cut in smoothly, tilting her head.

Lucien’s lips parted slightly, his entire body stilling at the remark.

Y/N didn’t give him the chance to respond before continuing, "And besides, you aren’t the only one who can winnow. Plenty of my friends can do so, too. I do not need your help."

Lucien’s jaw flexed, but he forced himself to remain polite, nodding slightly as if to say, Suit yourself.

Y/N didn’t wait for him to come up with a reply. She simply shoved the package into his hands and turned away, effectively dismissing him.

Lucien lingered for half a second before exhaling and stepping toward the door.

Just as he was about to leave, he glanced at her grandmother, who had been watching the whole exchange with a knowing look.

Arlena gave a dramatic sigh and muttered, "Don’t look at me, boy. She’s been like this for the past couple of days."

Lucien huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then, without another word, he slipped out of the shop and into the bustling street beyond.

Y/N barely spared him a glance.

But even after he was long gone, her mind still lingered on the offer she had so easily refused.

Elain had invited him for tea. It had been a quiet afternoon in the gardens of the River House, the sun casting golden hues across the table as the scent of fresh blooms lingered in the air. She had been talking—softly, sweetly, as she always did—about something he should have been paying more attention to. He tried, truly. But his mind was elsewhere.

"—I have to say, you’ve really found my favorite place," Elain mused, twirling the delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. Lucien blinked, snapping back to the present.

Elain gave him a knowing look, then gestured to the gift box resting on the table between them—the latest thing he had brought her. “That little shop you go to,” she continued. “Everything you’ve chosen for me from there has been perfect. I don’t know how you always manage to pick exactly what I love.”

Lucien exhaled a soft laugh, rubbing at his jaw. “Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he admitted. “The shopkeeper knows what she’s doing.”

Elain smiled, but her gaze remained sharp as she studied him. “You seem distracted,” she noted, setting her teacup down.

He hesitated, swirling the tea in his own cup. It wasn’t like him to dwell on things like this. And yet—

“I feel like I’ve done something to her,” he finally admitted, surprising even himself with the words.

Elain frowned, confused. “To whom?”

Lucien sighed. “Y/N.”

Recognition flickered in her expression, but her confusion only deepened. “The shopkeeper?”

He nodded, leaning back against the cushioned chair. “She always acts like I’ve personally offended her in some way. Like I’ve done something unforgivable.”

“Have you?”

“No. Not that I know of,” he said, shaking his head. “At least, not until three days ago when I walked into her shop for the first time and was met with her guards all up around me.”

Elain pursed her lips, thoughtful. “You’re sure you’ve never met her before?”

“Never,” Lucien said with certainty. “Not until then.”

Silence stretched between them as Elain considered this, her brows furrowing slightly. “And you’re sure it’s not just her personality?”

He thought about it. It wasn’t as if Y/N was cruel—she wasn’t outright rude to him. But there was something beneath the surface, something sharp and wary in the way she spoke to him, in the way she barely held his gaze for longer than a second.

“It’s more than that,” he murmured. “It’s like she already had her mind made up about me before I ever said a word.”

Elain hummed, tapping her fingers against the table. “Feelings like that don’t come from nowhere.”

Lucien glanced at her, arching a brow. “You think she has a reason to hate me?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that something about you unsettles her. Whether it’s something you did or just something you remind her of—I don’t know.”

Lucien scoffed, shaking his head. “Great. So my mere presence is an offense.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. But… maybe you should talk to her.”

Lucien huffed a laugh, the very idea of that absurd. “And say what, exactly? ‘Hello, I noticed you look at me like I ruined your life, and I’d really like to know why?’”

Elain laughed, but the sound quickly softened into something more thoughtful. “Maybe she won’t talk to you,” she admitted. “But she might talk to me.”

Lucien stiffened slightly, eyeing her warily. “You want to go there? To talk to her?”

Elain nodded. “She might open up if it’s just the two of us. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to another female about things like this.”

He considered it, tension tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt… ridiculous to pursue an answer over something so small. But also because some part of him wasn’t certain he wanted to know why she had such an obvious grudge against him.

Still, Elain had a point. Feelings like that didn’t come from nowhere. And Y/N’s feelings toward him—whatever they were—had been evident from the start.

Elain reached across the table, touching his hand lightly. “If it bothers you this much,” she said gently, “maybe it’s worth figuring out.”

Lucien exhaled through his nose, considering the weight of that.

Maybe it was.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of chaos.

Between scrambling to find someone to make the delivery to the Day Court on time, handling the usual influx of customers, and him—Lucien—showing up in her shop repeatedly, Y/N felt like her mind was barely clinging to sanity.

Thankfully, she had managed to avoid having to travel to the Day Court herself. One of her employees, a young fae male who owed her a favor, had reluctantly agreed to handle it. A small victory. She hadn’t wanted to leave Velaris, especially not now, when she felt like she had to keep an eye out for a certain red-haired male.

Because for years, she had only ever seen him from a distance. A flicker of movement in a crowd, a presence at gatherings she wasn’t part of, a name she heard in passing but never dared to say aloud. And now? Now he was here, in her space, disrupting the quiet life she had built.

It was unsettling. It was infuriating.

And worse—it was Lucien Vanserra.

Of all the males in the world, he had to be the one tangled up in her life. And not just in any way—but because of her.

Elain.

Y/N’s hands stilled where she was rearranging a small display of trinkets, her jaw clenching. Of all the females he could have been with, it was her. The golden, delicate beauty that fit into his world as if she had been sculpted for it. It wasn’t that Y/N hated her, not really. But something about Elain—about seeing her with him—made her stomach churn unpleasantly.

And maybe, just maybe, that irritation seeped into her interactions with Lucien, whether she meant it to or not.

She sighed, shaking off the thoughts, and resumed sorting the trinkets onto their shelves. The shop was quiet now, save for the occasional rustling of fabric and the soft creaking of wood as she moved.

Until the door opened.

Y/N barely glanced up at first, assuming it was another customer, until her grandmother’s voice called out from the front counter.

“Y/N.”

She turned. “Yes?”

Arlene, perched behind the counter, didn’t bother looking up from the ledger she had been flipping through. But the teasing lilt in her voice was unmistakable.

“You’ve got company,” her grandmother said, dry and amused. “And not the one from the past few days.”

Y/N frowned at that, stepping around a shelf to get a better look—

And then she froze.

Because standing in the shop, bright-eyed and elegant, was Elain Archeron.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Elain, who she had only ever seen from afar. Elain, who was here, standing in her shop, looking like she belonged in a painting of soft pastels and golden light.

Elain smiled, soft and warm as she took a step forward.

“Hello,” she greeted, her voice as sweet as spring.

Y/N’s mind went blank.

Her body locked in place, her thoughts tangling into an incoherent mess.

And she could do nothing—nothing at all—as Elain Archeron closed the space between them.

She was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen.

Elain Archeron was hugging her.

It wasn’t a tight hug, just a light embrace, the kind that barely lasted a second. But it was warm, soft, filled with a kind of unfiltered sweetness that Y/N didn’t know what to do with.

And when Elain pulled back, she was beaming.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the most creative seller out here!” she said, her voice airy and bright. “You have no idea how much I’ve been loving your creations. Lu has been giving me the most wonderful gifts, and when he told me about your shop, I just had to come see it for myself.”

Lu.

Y/N heard the nickname, felt it like a slow, twisting knife to the ribs.

She had always known they were close. It was obvious in the way he looked at Elain, in the way he spoke about her. But hearing it so casually, so effortlessly affectionate—it made something deep inside her curl inward, as if retreating from a battle she had already lost.

Still, Y/N forced herself to breathe, to gather the splintering pieces of herself and piece them back together before they shattered completely.

Distant but polite. She could do that.

“I’m glad you like them,” Y/N said, keeping her voice even, measured. “Lucien is a generous customer.”

Elain smiled even brighter. “Oh, he really is! He always picks out the most beautiful pieces. You’re very talented.”

Y/N barely managed a nod, her thoughts whirling too fast to grasp onto anything solid.

She needed to breathe. She needed to keep herself together.

So, she tilted her head, forcing a small, unreadable smile onto her lips as she asked, “Well, what brings you to our humble shop? Usually, it’s just Lucien who comes by to buy you surprises, but it seems different now.”

Elain laughed softly, as if Y/N had just uncovered some grand secret. “Oh, you know, he talked a lot about you, and I just had to come check this place out myself.”

Y/N’s smile tightened. Oh, how nice.

She wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable—the fact that Lucien had been talking about her, or the fact that Elain, Elain, had gone out of her way to meet her.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Elain turned to her grandmother. “Arlena, is the shop usually busy during these hours?”

Her grandmother barely glanced up from the ledger she was flipping through. “Not particularly. Why?”

Elain’s smile grew as she turned back to Y/N. “Well, I’d love to go out to Velaris Brewhouse—you know the one, right? Just down the road? There are some things I feel like I could talk about with you.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

She barely managed to let out a nervous laugh, her mind racing. What?! What was this girl thinking?! They had just met!

But before she could even attempt to find an excuse, her grandmother—her traitorous grandmother—snorted and waved a hand.

“Oh, please,” Arlena said, far too amused. “Do take her. It’s about time my granddaughter made some friends. I can manage for the next few hours.”

Y/N shot her grandmother a look—a full-bodied death glare that promised a long, long discussion later.

Elain turned back to her, expectant and hopeful. “Great! Would you like to?”

There was no way out.

Y/N barely kept her jaw from clenching as she forced a smile. “Let me grab my cloak. I’ll be right back.”

She turned and strode into the back room before she could betray how fast her heart was racing.

What. The. Hell.

What was happening?

She had merely ever heard of Elain as the Archeron sisters made quite the noise in the immortal lands, and now, suddenly, she was about to go out and have coffee with her like they were friends?

She grabbed her cloak, hands slightly unsteady, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic and frustration.

This was not how she had imagined interacting with Elain Archeron for the first time. And Lucien—Lu—why had he talked about her enough for Elain to seek her out?

Her chest tightened at the thought.

She needed to be careful. Needed to keep her walls up, needed to not let Elain see how deeply this affected her.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed back out.

Because whether she liked it or not, she had no other choice.

She emerged from the back room with her cloak draped over her shoulders, her mind still reeling.

Elain was standing by the door, hands clasped together in front of her, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever. Her soft brown curls framed her delicate face, her hazel eyes filled with warmth and sincerity.

It made Y/N’s stomach twist.

Her grandmother, traitor that she was, gave her an innocent little wave as Y/N hesitated by the counter.

“Go on, dear,” Arlena said, a wicked glint in her eye. “Enjoy yourself.”

Y/N wanted to strangle her. Instead, she forced a tight smile and turned back to Elain. “Shall we?”

Elain beamed, pushing open the door. “Yes!”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped outside.

Y/N walked beside Elain in silence, her mind still scrambling to make sense of what the hell was happening.

It was a short walk to Velaris Brewhouse, the cozy little café that sat nestled between a bookstore and a florist. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeted them as soon as they stepped inside, and Y/N inhaled deeply, as if the familiar aroma might ground her somehow.

Elain led them to a small table by the window, where golden sunlight streamed in, casting everything in a soft glow.

“So,” Elain said as they sat down, her voice light, easy. “Do you come here often?”

Y/N blinked. Really? Small talk?

“I do,” she admitted, settling into her chair. “It’s close to the shop, and the coffee is good.”

Elain didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. She was glancing over the menu, humming softly to herself.

The server came over, and Y/N ordered her usual black coffee, while Elain asked for some floral tea blend that Y/N had never heard of.

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then, Elain set the menu down and leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s just… Lucien has been talking about you quite a bit.”

Y/N’s grip on the edge of the table tightened.

What?

Elain smiled, completely oblivious to the way Y/N’s chest was slowly caving in. “I was curious,” she continued. “He seemed… troubled.”

Y/N forced a breath, forced her lips to curl into something that resembled a smile. “Troubled?”

Elain nodded. “He said he felt like he had done something to offend you, and he couldn’t figure out what. He seemed genuinely bothered by it.”

Y/N’s throat went dry.

She wasn’t sure which part of that sentence made her feel worse—the fact that Lucien had noticed her hostility, or the fact that he cared enough to dwell on it.

Elain watched her closely. “I guess I just wanted to see for myself what kind of a fae you are.”

Y/N swallowed. “And?”

Elain grinned. “I like you.”

Y/N blinked.

The words shouldn’t have affected her, shouldn’t have made her stomach drop like that. But they did.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what she was even about to say, when the server returned with their drinks.

Y/N wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin, trying to steady herself.

Elain took a sip of her tea, then leaned back slightly. “So… why do you dislike him?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee.

She coughed, clearing her throat, before slowly setting her mug down. “Excuse me?”

Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of their conversation.

“I mean,” she continued, stirring her tea, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—guarded around Lucien before. You look at him like he’s personally wronged you in another life.”

Y/N was stunned into silence.

Because the worst part was—Elain was right.

She did look at Lucien that way. She did hold something against him, even if he had no idea why.

But she wasn’t about to tell Elain that.

So, Y/N exhaled slowly and took another sip of her coffee before giving the only response she could think of.

“I don’t dislike him.”

Elain arched a perfectly shaped brow. “You sure about that?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, gripping her mug a little tighter.

She had no idea how she was going to survive this conversation.

The conversation should have been light. Should have been nothing more than polite pleasantries over coffee. But something about the way Elain looked at her—gentle, curious, but just a bit too knowing—made Y/N uneasy.

Elain hadn’t come here just to meet her.

She had come here to study her.

And it wasn’t long before Y/N felt like she was under a microscope.

“So,” Elain said after a sip of her tea, her voice still honeyed but carrying an undertone of something sharper. “How long have you lived in Velaris?”

Y/N took a careful sip of her coffee, as if it might buy her time. “A while.”

Elain hummed. “And your shop? It’s lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Y/N forced a polite smile. “It was my grandmother’s before mine.”

Elain’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup. “It must be nice, having something passed down like that. A piece of your family’s history.”

Y/N gave a short nod. She wasn’t sure where Elain was going with this, but she had a feeling it wasn’t anywhere good.

Elain watched her for a moment before continuing, “I suppose you already know quite a bit about me, then.”

Y/N tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’ve lived here for a while, and if Lucien has been coming to your shop…” Elain trailed off, tilting her head. “I imagine you’ve heard about us.”

There it was.

Y/N kept her expression neutral. “A little.”

Elain smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes. “I take it you know the way me and Nesta were turned into Fae, then?”

Y/N’s grip on her coffee mug tightened.

The Cauldron. The war.

She nodded. “Cruel way, truly.”

Elain sighed, looking down at her tea as if it might hold answers. “Yes. Cruel.”

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N caught a flicker of something raw beneath Elain’s carefully composed exterior.

But then Elain exhaled, shaking off the moment like a bird ruffling its feathers. She looked up again, her usual softness returning. “And you? Have you always been Fae?”

Y/N’s breath caught, just for a second.

A simple question. An easy one to answer.

But her mind lurched back—back to that moment, back to that feeling of something snapping inside her, something she had never wanted, something she had lost.

Lost.

Y/N forced a casual shrug. “More or less.”

Elain’s brows lifted slightly, as if catching on to the vagueness of the response.

But she let it slide, instead stirring her tea slowly. “I suppose it must be different for those born this way.”

Y/N swallowed. “In some ways.”

A quiet moment passed between them.

Then, Elain sighed. “I suppose bonds work differently for you too, then.”

Y/N’s body went rigid.

She almost didn’t react, almost kept her face impassive, but—gods, the word bond still made her flinch, still made her stomach twist.

And Elain noticed.

Y/N saw the way her hazel eyes sharpened just slightly, though she kept her expression smooth.

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to cover up whatever had flickered across her face. “Bonds?” She let out a short, forced laugh. “Not much different, I suppose.”

Too much. That was too much.

But Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed.

Y/N let out a silent breath of relief.

She thought she was in the clear.

What she didn’t notice, however, was the quick flicker of calculation that crossed Elain’s face. The subtle narrowing of her eyes. The slight shift in her posture.

Elain had caught something.

But she didn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward again, resting her chin on her hand. “So, you don’t dislike Lucien?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee again.

The sudden shift in topic threw her off balance.

She hesitated, quickly schooling her expression. “I… don’t know him.”

Elain gave her a small, knowing smile. “But you feel something about him.”

Y/N’s heart pounded.

She forced herself to scoff lightly, shaking her head. “I think he’s just…” She exhaled, waving a hand vaguely. “A bit much.”

Elain’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in her gaze now—something that made Y/N feel exposed.

She knew Elain wasn’t aggressive like Nesta or blunt like Feyre. She wasn’t one to interrogate with sharp edges and harsh words. Atleast that's what she heard.

No.

Elain was different.

Elain’s way of questioning was gentle, subtle—so deceptively kind that people wouldn’t even realize they were being unraveled until it was too late.

And Y/N felt it.

She felt like a thread slowly being pulled apart.

So she drained the last of her coffee and pushed back from the table, eager to end this conversation before she let anything else slip.

“Well,” she said with a tight smile, “this has been… nice.”

Elain studied her for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “It has.”

Y/N stood, and Elain followed. They stepped out of the café, the air cooler now as the sun dipped lower.

As they started back towards the shop, Elain tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I hope we can do this again.”

Y/N nearly tripped.

Absolutely not.

She forced another polite, distant smile. “We’ll see.”

Elain just hummed, seemingly unbothered by the noncommittal answer.

They reached the shop far too quickly, and Y/N couldn’t remember the last time she was so eager to be home.

Elain turned to her one last time, that same bright, sweet smile on her lips. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Y/N nodded stiffly. “Goodnight.”

Then, without another word, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

She exhaled heavily, resting her forehead against the wood.

That had been a mistake.

She had let something slip.

But… Elain hadn’t seemed to catch it, right?

Right?

Y/N shook off the unease and turned away.

She prayed to any god that Elain would never come back.

The shop smelled of cedar and vanilla, the scent of newly stocked candles mixing with the warmth of the evening. Y/N went over and sat on a stool behind the counter, picking at the edge of a ribbon that had come loose from one of the display boxes.

Her grandmother, Arlena, stood by the shelves, carefully rearranging a stack of leather-bound journals. The only sound between them was the rustle of pages, the faint creak of wood settling.

Until Arlena spoke.

“So.” Her voice was casual, but Y/N could hear the knowing lilt in it. “How was your little outing with the Archeron girl?”

Y/N stiffened.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that Arlena would bring it up. The elder was sharper than most gave her credit for.

Still, Y/N didn’t look up. “It was…fine.”

Arlena snorted. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Y/N let out a slow exhale, setting the ribbon down. “It was weird.”

Arlena turned, brows lifting in interest. “Weird how?”

Y/N hesitated. But what was the harm in telling her grandmother?

“She was too friendly,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Like, unnaturally friendly.”

“Some people are just like that, dear.”

Y/N shook her head. “No. Not in that way. It felt… like she was studying me.”

Arlena hummed, crossing her arms. “Maybe she was just curious.”

Y/N let out a short laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe she was looking for something.”

Her grandmother tilted her head. “Like what?”

Y/N hesitated again. She couldn’t tell Arlena about the bond—about what had once tied her to Lucien. That was a secret she had vowed to keep buried.

So she shrugged instead. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Arlena considered her for a long moment before sighing and shaking her head. “I told you before, child. Stay away from complicated people.”

Y/N scoffed. “If only it were that easy.”

Arlena smirked. “It is that easy. You just have to actually do it.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Because wasn’t that what she had been trying to do? To keep her distance, to forget, to pretend none of it had ever happened?

And yet—

For the next few days, Lucien didn’t come to the shop.

Y/N told herself she was grateful.

At last, she wouldn’t have to see him. Wouldn’t have to deal with his lingering presence, wouldn’t have to feel that ache deep in her ribs every time he walked through the door.

And most of all, she wouldn’t have to see Elain either.

He had probably gifted her enough things by now. Probably had no reason to come back anytime soon.

Which was good.

It was what she wanted.

And yet—

The shop felt a little quieter.

A little emptier.

She shook the thought away.

It didn’t matter.

Lucien Vanserra was not her concern.

And whatever game Elain was playing—whatever that strange, polite interrogation had been—Y/N would not let herself get caught up in it.

Because none of it mattered anymore.

It couldn’t.

It had been a week since Elain’s visit to the shop.

At first, it seemed like nothing had changed. The usual hum of life in the shop, the steady stream of customers, the soothing rhythm of placing trinkets on shelves and organizing the displays. But then, whispers began. At first, they were subtle—just a few low murmurs as people passed by the front of the shop. Y/N thought little of it, chalking it up to the usual gossip that floated through the streets. After all, she was used to being somewhat of a mystery in the neighborhood, being a quiet female with an uncommon shop.

But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder.

Customers who had been regulars for months suddenly stopped coming. She could see their eyes darting away when they saw her, like they had something to hide. The air in the shop felt heavier, like a weight she couldn't escape. Her grandmother Arlena noticed it too, her sharp eyes narrowing as she made her way to the counter.

“What’s going on, child?” Arlena asked one morning as she placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, her voice laced with concern. “Why are there so many fae talking behind your back?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach flipping. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the rumors had been growing more bizarre and outrageous by the day. “Did you hear about Y/N?” one woman had whispered to another as she passed by the window the other day. “Apparently she was once a lover of Lord Theon... but she drove him mad, and now she's in hiding here, desperate to get him back.”

The rumors were becoming more scandalous by the minute—talk of betrayal, manipulation, even that Y/N had used forbidden magic to keep this...this Lord Theon bound to her in some twisted way. How had this happened?

Y/N’s hands trembled as she set down the delicate porcelain cup she had been polishing. “I don’t know, Grandma,” she muttered, her voice thick with disbelief. “I don’t know what they’re saying. Why would they—why would anyone say these things about me?”

Arlena’s eyes darkened. “I know you, girl. You don’t tell me everything, but I can tell when something’s off. You better set this straight before it ruins your name. You’ve worked hard for this shop, and I won’t have it fall because of some... rumor.”

Y/N’s mind spun. The thought of Lucien, of everything that had happened between them, seemed so distant now. And yet, here she was, caught in a web of lies she hadn’t spun. But who had? Who was behind these rumors? The connections between them were fuzzy, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t something that was just happening by chance.

The next day, things only got worse. A couple of familiar faces walked into the shop, only to turn on their heels and leave when they saw Y/N behind the counter. Their whispered words traveled to her ears: “Oh, no. Not her. I heard enough already.”

A cold sweat prickled Y/N’s skin as she watched them go. She could feel the walls of her shop closing in on her.

And then, she saw it: the headline on the local gossip board.

Lord Theon’s Ex-Fiancee? Witchcraft? A Hybern Loyalist? Secrets and Scandals Surround the Mysterious Shopkeeper.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. This was no coincidence. Someone had been spreading lies—dangerous lies. But why? Why was she being targeted like this?

Her hands gripped the counter as her mind raced. Who could this all be linked to?

As the whispers continued to grow and the people continued to shun her, Y/N’s thoughts churned like a storm inside her mind.

And as the days passed, she found herself slipping deeper into uncertainty and fear, unsure of who to trust, unsure of what to do.

The past few days had been a blur. Whispers, gossip, rumors—nothing but a whirlwind of chaotic stories that seemed to swirl around Y/N like smoke, obscuring her true nature. Every time Lucien walked through the streets, he overheard hushed conversations, people casting furtive glances in his direction as if he should somehow know more about it. And yet, he hadn’t.

He didn’t understand why this was happening. Why would anyone target her? The Y/N he knew—quiet, reserved, and focused on her shop—was nothing like what the rumors painted her to be. Even if he didn't know her for too long. Yet, despite all the outrageous claims, one thing had become clear: she was not being left alone.

It troubled him more than he cared to admit. His thoughts constantly circled back to her—her coldness, her guarded nature. Had it all been an act? Had her aloofness been the result of some past betrayal, or was it because of something that had been building all along? Something that, even now, he couldn’t quite grasp.

The question gnawed at him: was Y/N hiding a darker side? Or was she simply someone who had been dragged into a web of lies, caught in the aftermath of forces beyond her control?

Lucien stood up from the window, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of the one place that might offer him answers: her shop. He wasn’t planning to buy anything, of course. He had no need for her goods, but something in him wanted to visit. To offer some support, maybe even to clear the air. It wasn’t like he was the one who’d been wronged here—if anything, it was her who had been dragged into this mess, and it unsettled him to think of her going through it alone.

But there was hesitation. He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be walking into. After all, if the rumors were true... If she really had betrayed someone, as they said...

Lucien’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Elain’s soft voice, like honey dripping into his ears. He was sitting out in the garden of the townhouse, a comfortable yet uneasy silence filling the space between them. Elain had been talking about something—likely her latest social endeavors, but Lucien wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, wandering back to the shop, to Y/N, to the heavy weight of the gossip that had been spreading.

“Lucien?” Elain’s voice reached him again, this time with a soft, sweet question that made him blink, as if she had been speaking for a while.

He looked over at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone. "Sorry, what?"

Her expression was bright, almost innocent, and Lucien was a fool. Elain had perfected that look—the one that made her seem all sweetness and light when, in truth, her thoughts were never as pure as they appeared.

“I asked you what was bothering you.” Elain smiled at him, a soft, concerned curve of her lips. “You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?”

Lucien sighed, a hand running through his tousled hair as he glanced back down at the empty garden, the silence almost too much to bear. “It’s Y/N,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but... things have been difficult for her lately. People are saying things.”

Elain’s gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Lucien to catch it. Her eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What do you mean, ‘things’?”

Lucien’s frown deepened, his frustration growing. “Rumors, Elain. Terrible rumors. About her... and her past. It’s getting out of hand. I was thinking of going to her shop, just to... check on her. Offer some kind of support.”

He looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest. There was something inside him, something deep and unsettled, that wanted to be there for Y/N. She had helped him in the past—she had given him something precious when he needed it, and that was something that wouldn’t be forgotten.

But as his thoughts spiraled, his voice trailed off, unsure whether visiting her was the right thing to do. Was it a good idea? Or was he only walking into a trap that others had set for her?

Lucien didn’t notice Elain’s subtle shift, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she processed his words. Instead, he was too caught up in his own guilt and confusion to realize how the conversation was unfolding.

“Oh, Lucien,” Elain’s voice broke through his thoughts again, but this time, it was coated in something different—sweet, almost condescending. She leaned forward slightly, her smile still soft but her words cutting through the air with precision. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, you know? We have... a reputation, after all.”

Lucien frowned, sensing the shift in her tone but not fully understanding it yet. “What do you mean?”

Her expression grew more serious, her gaze locking onto his with that same intensity he knew so well. “Lucien, you’re a respected figure. People look up to you. If you go to that shop, everyone will know. You’ll be seen as just another person who’s been fooled by a woman who clearly isn’t what she seems. I mean, the rumors—the truth—they’re everywhere.”

Lucien blinked, momentarily taken aback. “But... there’s no proof. It’s just gossip. You can’t honestly believe—”

Elain cut him off gently, her voice coaxing and smooth. “Of course I believe you, Lucien. You know I do.” She placed a hand on his arm, her touch soft but firm. “But think about the bigger picture. People are already questioning her. Her loyalty. Her intentions. You wouldn’t want to risk your image by associating with someone who’s been labeled... a fraud, would you?”

Lucien’s mouth went dry. “But I thought she—”

“I know,” Elain interrupted, her voice turning softer, sympathetic, but with just the slightest hint of mockery hiding behind her words. “Not everyone is how we perceive them. People can be deceptive, no matter how kind they seem. And, honestly, what’s the point in defending someone who’s only going to drag you down with her?”

Lucien’s gut churned, but there was a part of him—a part that he could barely recognize—that hesitated. Elain’s words were soothing, in a way. They made sense, at least on the surface. He was starting to feel the pull of her reasoning, the doubt beginning to take root in his mind.

She gave him a small, almost pleading look. “Lucien, please. We have an image to maintain. Think of us. Think of ourfuture, the way people view us.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Elain’s voice was soft, sweet, persuasive. “We’re above all of this, above the gossip. You’re better than that. You deserve to be surrounded by people who lift you up, not drag you into their messes.”

Lucien ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of her words sink in. His heart, once determined to visit Y/N and see her through whatever storm she was facing, now wavered. The idea of being seen with her, of standing by her when so many others were turning away, felt less certain now.

Elain smiled sweetly, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lucien’s mind was still a storm of confusion, but as he glanced at Elain, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation—this manipulation—had been planned all along. Still, with her voice ringing in his ears, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had no choice but to let go of his initial plan.

He sighed heavily. “Fine. I won’t go.”

Elain’s smile deepened, though it never quite reached her eyes. “Good. I’m glad you’re seeing reason.”

The past few days had been a blur of silence. The usually steady hum of her shop had dissolved into a haunting emptiness. The customers who once bustled in and out, filling the air with chatter and curiosity, had disappeared. The shelves she’d meticulously organized now stood untouched, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel as though the walls themselves were closing in on her.

She sat behind the counter, mind spiraling into a labyrinth of confusion, disbelief, and anxiety. The whispers outside her door were becoming unbearable, lingering like an oppressive fog in the back of her mind. Hybern loyalist? A witch? Ex-fiancée of Lord Theon?

Who was Lord Theon?

Y/N couldn’t make sense of any of it. She had never even heard that name before. And as for the rumors—well, they were all nonsense. But no matter how hard she tried to push them away, they stuck to her like tar. And now, with her customers turning their backs, the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Alone in the quiet of the shop, with only her racing thoughts for company, Y/N sank deeper into her spiraling confusion. She hadn’t even thought of Lucien in days, not truly. The rumors were too consuming, too overwhelming. Yet, even as her mind churned through every possible scenario, she couldn't help but wonder: Was this why he never came back?

She thought about the time they'd spent together—the closeness, the surprising comfort. The connection that had drawn them to one another, despite the distance and the years. Did he know? Had he heard the rumors? Or worse, had he believed them?

Her chest tightened at the thought. She’d always known their bond was complicated, full of unspoken words and tangled emotions. But she never expected this.

Just as Y/N was lost in the mess of her thoughts, the door to the shop burst open, the force of it shaking the walls. The door slammed shut just as violently, making her jump. She looked up, her heart hammering in her chest, and saw Elain standing in the doorway.

But this time, there was no warm, bubbly smile on Elain’s face. No soft, welcoming energy. Elain’s eyes were cold, calculating—a far cry from the sweet, innocent demeanor Y/N had once seen in her.

Y/N stood up instinctively, confusion flooding her. What was she doing here?

“Hello, Y/N,” Elain said, her voice deceptively sweet, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Y/N’s blood run cold.

“Can I help you with something?” Y/N asked, her voice betraying none of the unease swirling inside her.

Elain’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Yes, you can. You can pack your things and leave. Now. Before things get worse for you.”

Y/N froze. Her pulse raced, her mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice shaking with disbelief.

Elain’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play coy with me, Y/N. I know the truth.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. The truth? She felt a chill run down her spine. “What do you mean?”

Elain stepped forward, her heels clicking with a rhythm that seemed far too confident. “After our little conversation in the café, I had my suspicions. The way you reacted to that talk about bonds... it wasn’t hard to figure out that you have quite a past, and one that involves a mate.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t even spoken of Lucien in years, not in the way she should have. How could Elain know?

Elain continued, her tone mocking. “I took a little time to investigate. Turns out, you and Lucien have more than just a bond. You’ve had it for years—a hundred years, in fact. But poor Lucien doesn’t even know, does he? Funny how that works, isn’t it? But don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone knows the truth soon enough.”

Y/N’s mouth went dry. “How?” she breathed, her mind racing, trying to piece it all together. How did she know?

Elain’s smile widened, almost sinister. “It wasn’t hard to figure out, really. My gift isn’t just for the future, Y/N. I can see the past, too. And what I saw was... illuminating.”

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. Elain had used her powers to pry into her life, to find out what she’d hidden so carefully. She wanted to scream, to demand why Elain thought she had the right to invade her privacy like that. But Y/N was frozen in place, her body rooted to the spot as Elain’s words continued to echo in her ears.

“And now,” Elain’s voice dropped, cold and dangerous, “I’m going to make sure everyone knows. The rumors are just the beginning. You’re going to leave this shop, Y/N. And if you don’t, well...”

Elain’s gaze darkened. “In a few days, I’m afraid I’ll have to make sure you’re locked up in a cell. That’s what happens to traitors, isn’t it? People like you.” She laughed softly. “Hybern loyalist, witch... betrayal... Oh, I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the rest of the scum.”

Y/N’s mind was reeling. She couldn’t process the storm of emotions crashing into her all at once. “Why?” she finally managed to croak. “Why are you doing this?”

Elain’s eyes hardened. “Because I can’t have Lucien’s attention wandering. He’s mine, and I’m not about to let someone like you get in the way.”

Y/N was stunned, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “You... can’t... You wouldn’t...”

Elain’s smile was smug, full of superiority. “I already have. You’re nothing to him, Y/N. Nothing more than a memory he doesn’t even know he has. I’m the one who deserves his love, his attention. I’m the one who’s worthy.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with anger and shock. This was the woman who had once seemed so sweet, so kind. But now, she stood before Y/N, a cold, calculating enemy.

“But... Lucien doesn’t know? Does he know about all this? Is that why he hasn’t come to see me?” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with fear and confusion.

Elain’s eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Oh, he knows, alright. I told him everything. And do you want to know what he said? He was disgusted. So disgusted that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at your little shop again.”

The words hit Y/N like a slap to the face. Disgusted. The word reverberated in her head, over and over again, until it felt like it was drowning her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re lying,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Elain tilted her head, feigning sympathy. “I’m not, darling. I wish I were. But you’ve already lost him. He’ll never come back to you.”

Y/N felt the ground beneath her feet shift. All the uncertainty, the fear, the confusion—it was suddenly too much. She was drowning in it. And all she could do was stand there, unable to fight back, as Elain’s cruel words swirled around her.

With a final, venomous smile, Elain stepped toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. “You have 24 hours, Y/N,” she called over her shoulder. “Pack your things. Leave this place, and never come back. Or I’ll make sure these rumors get even worse. I promise you, you’ll regret this.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Y/N standing in the quiet of her shop, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of the threat heavy on her shoulders.

Lucien... She didn’t know what to think anymore. Did he believe Elain? Was she really so insignificant to him now? Had he ever cared?

Y/N’s mind spun in endless circles, the weight of the rumors and Elain’s cruel words crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her breath caught in her throat as the reality settled in: she was alone.

And soon, she would lose everything.

He lied.

Even as Elain’s soft words curled around his mind, urging him to let go, to forget, to move on—he had lied. He was going back to see her. He didn’t know why, didn’t know what he expected to find, but the thought of Y/N, alone in that little shop, had lingered in his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

He shouldn’t care.

Shouldn’t be thinking about her at all.

But something about the way she had looked at him that last time—something in her eyes, in the way she held herself, in the quiet hesitations between her words—had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t shake. It was wrong, the way her absence gnawed at him. It was wrong that he still remembered the way she smelled, the way her fingers had once brushed against his when she handed him something, the way she looked away just a second too late, as if she didn’t want to stop looking at him at all.

Elain would hate this.

The thought slithered into his mind, unwanted.

But he pushed it away because it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just needed to see her, just once, just to put this restless feeling to rest.

Lucien turned the corner, his heart beating just a little too fast, the familiar sight of her shop coming into view—

And then—

He stopped.

Everything inside him stopped.

The door was boarded shut.

Rough wooden planks nailed haphazardly across the entrance. Red paint smeared in crude lettering. Out of Service.

His breath left him.

The street moved around him, the city still alive, but Lucien stood utterly still, staring at the place where her shop should have been. The place where she should have been.

Gone.

Without thinking, his feet carried him forward. His throat was tight when he turned to the nearest person, catching the sleeve of a passerby. "This is—this was—Y/N’s shop," his voice came out rough. "Did she move? Where did she go?"

The male barely spared him a glance. "Oh, her? Last I heard, she left a day ago."

Lucien's fingers clenched. "Where?"

The male only shrugged. "Don’t know. All I know is she doesn’t work or live here anymore." Then he shook Lucien’s grip off and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if he hadn't just unraveled something deep in Lucien’s chest.

Lucien didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Y/N had left Velaris.

[helvegen-s]

do I wanna know?

Hozier's version

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.

Word count: 12k (stoppp, so long but so worth it)

TW: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, sexually suggestive content, alcohol, strong language...

A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3

My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.

The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.

That was when he saw her.

She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.

When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.

And then she walked over.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"And what kind of person do I look like?"

"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."

Oscar let out a laugh.

"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"

She shrugged, her expression shameless.

"Could be."

Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.

"Are you always this quick with words?"

"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.

He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.

They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.

Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.

The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.

Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.

His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.

"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.

Oscar smiled, still holding her.

"No. Do you?"

"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."

Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.

"Do you dance, driver?"

Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.

"How do you know I’m a driver?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."

"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."

"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"

No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.

Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.

Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"You haven’t told me your name."

She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Do you really need it?"

Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.

Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.

Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.

"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.

Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.

"Nice name."

"I know."

Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.

They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.

Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.

"Let’s get out of here."

Oscar didn’t think twice.

The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.

"Yours."

"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.

Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.

"Nice place."

"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"

Oscar didn’t let her finish.

The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.

Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.

"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Oscar let out a low chuckle.

"Are you always this bossy?"

"When necessary."

"I like it."

This time, he took control.

They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.

The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"If at any point you want to stop—"

Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.

There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.

"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.

Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

"Always."

Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.

That night was one to remember.

Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.

Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.

And then, the body beside him.

Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.

Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.

Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.

But now came the tricky part—the mornings.

It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?

As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.

"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.

"Do you always have a comeback ready?"

"I warned you last night."

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.

She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.

"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"

Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.

"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."

Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.

"You're trouble."

"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."

With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.

He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.

There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.

Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.

The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.

"Nice shirt."

Amélie didn’t even turn around.

"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."

He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.

"And what if I need caffeine to function?"

She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.

"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.

The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.

"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.

"And yet, here I am."

"This isn’t your house."

"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."

Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.

"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"

Oscar shot her an amused look.

"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."

"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."

"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.

Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.

As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.

Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Monza?"

Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mhm."

Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.

"It’s incredible."

"It is."

"Did you buy it?"

"No."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.

"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"

"Mmm… not actively."

"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."

She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.

"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."

Oscar tilted his head.

"Is your father a fan?"

"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."

A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.

"And yes, I know who you are."

He tensed slightly.

"Oh."

"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.

"I didn’t think you did."

"Good. Because I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.

But for now, he let it go.

"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.

Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.

"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."

Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.

Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.

They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.

Oscar could only laugh.

And then, it was time to leave.

"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."

Amélie chuckled.

"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."

"That’s exactly why I need to check."

She set her cup in the sink and nodded.

"Alright."

But neither of them moved.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

"Want to exchange numbers?"

Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.

"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.

And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?

A simple “bye”? Too cold.

A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.

A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.

But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.

Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.

When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.

"See you around, Amélie."

"See you."

And with that, he left.

Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.

Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.

But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.

It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.

🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."

The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?

But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.

🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."

This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.

🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."

🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."

🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."

🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."

🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."

Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever this was, he liked it.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.

“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.

Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.

“That sounds concerning.”

“Come on, trust me.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.

Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”

Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.

“Not much effort, huh?”

She shot him a sharp look.

“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”

Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.

“Alright, point for you.”

They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.

“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”

Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.

“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”

Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.

This game between them was far from over.

Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.

“A bit of both.”

She let out a low chuckle.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.

But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.

And that’s what kept him hooked.

When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.

Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.

“Oh yeah?”

“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you think of me?”

Amélie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar licked his lips, amused.

“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”

She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.

“A solid seven out of ten.”

Oscar let out a laugh.

“Just a seven?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What would get me a ten?”

Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.

He studied her in silence for a moment.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.

Amélie smiled.

“Only if you have decent wine.”

Oscar stood up, shaking his head.

“Picky.”

“Always.”

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.

“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.

“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”

She laughed softly before taking a sip.

Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.

“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.

“Great. So am I at an eight now?”

Amélie tilted her head.

“That depends on how the night ends.”

Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.

“Interesting.”

And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.

Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.

Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.

Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.

“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.

Amélie arched an eyebrow.

“Then I should feed you more often.”

“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”

“Oh, no?”

Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.

“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”

Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”

She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.

Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.

For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.

Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.

"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.

Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.

"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.

Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I might need some intensive training."

"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty well?"

Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."

Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.

"That can be arranged."

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.

They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.

And she always answered.

Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.

Either way, the outcome was always the same.

An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.

It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.

But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.

Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.

"Go out? For what?"

Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.

Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.

And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

At least, not yet.

Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.

"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"

It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.

"Where’s that coming from?"

Oscar held her gaze.

"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."

She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.

"Because I don’t like going out."

"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."

Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."

"Like this?"

"Private."

Oscar frowned.

"Private or secret?"

She didn’t answer immediately.

And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.

"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."

Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"

"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."

She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.

"Oscar—"

"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."

The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.

Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.

Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"

"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."

Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.

"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."

"Because it’s easier that way."

The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.

"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.

Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.

And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.

Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

He stood up from the couch.

"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.

Amélie frowned.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."

She got to her feet too, watching him closely.

"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."

"No, but it sure feels like it."

Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.

Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.

"I’m gonna go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.

"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."

Oscar turned to the door.

"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.

The days turned into weeks.

Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.

He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.

He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.

But, fuck, it was getting harder.

Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.

Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.

Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.

And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.

She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She let him go to protect him.

So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?

And then, the invitation came.

Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.

Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."

She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.

And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.

He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.

But what did it matter anymore?

They weren’t together. They never had been.

She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.

For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.

The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.

She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.

This time, Oscar was here.

And at some point, he would see her.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.

And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But then, she saw him.

Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.

Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

And continued walking.

Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So that was it.

Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.

It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.

That had to be all.

And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.

He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.

So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.

But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.

Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.

The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.

And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.

The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.

Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.

But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.

Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

And then, he saw her.

She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.

That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.

But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.

The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.

The same one she had once given him.

And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.

He didn’t know what hit him first.

How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.

Or maybe it was something more.

Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.

Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?

Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.

Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.

Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.

Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.

Back to her.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more.

The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?

"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."

Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.

"It’s complicated."

Lando snorted.

"When is it not with you?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.

"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"

"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.

Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"

Oscar shook his head.

"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."

Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.

"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"

The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.

Vasseur.

Ferrari’s team principal.

A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.

Everything clicked into place.

That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.

She had played him.

She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.

His blood boiled.

If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.

Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.

"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"

"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.

"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."

Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.

He was furious.

Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.

But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.

Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.

And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.

Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.

Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.

About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.

The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.

He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.

Why?

Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?

Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.

He had had enough.

If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.

Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.

He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.

And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.

He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was movement on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and there she was.

Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.

“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.

He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.

Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,

“Tell me the truth.”

Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.

“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.

“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.

Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.

“I never laughed at you.”

“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”

Amélie clenched her jaw.

“Oscar—”

“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.

Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”

Amélie felt her own anger rise.

“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

“And who decided that was your problem?”

“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.

For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.

Something that hurt even more than his words.

Disappointment.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”

Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.

“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”

Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.

“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”

Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.

“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”

Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.

Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”

Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”

Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”

Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”

The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.

For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.

Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.

Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.

It was broken. Uncertain.

One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.

“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.

She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”

Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.

“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.

“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

“Oscar…”

“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”

Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”

He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.

Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.

“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.

She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”

Oscar felt his heart pound harder.

“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”

Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.

Because he understood.

God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.

Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.

Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.

Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.

“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Amélie swallowed. “Now…”

She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.

“Now I don’t want to keep running.”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.

She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.

Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.

And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.

Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.

There was no fear anymore.

Only them.

And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.

Because in the end, love always won.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.

Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.

It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well… that was intense.”

Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”

She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”

Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”

“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”

Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”

Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”

She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”

Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”

Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”

Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”

Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.

“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”

Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.

“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”

Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”

Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”

Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”

Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.

Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.

Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”

The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.

Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.

Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.

“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”

Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.

“We can stay like this a little longer.”

Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.

Amélie frowned. “No…”

Another knock, this time more insistent.

And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.

“Amélie, open the door.”

Oscar felt his soul leave his body.

Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.

They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.

Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.

Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:

“Oh, shit.”

Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.

From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.

“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”

“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”

Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.

But then, her father stilled.

His gaze drifted toward the window.

More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.

Amélie followed his gaze.

Shit.

Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.

She tried to think fast. “It’s—”

“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Amélie looked at the bathroom door.

Then at her father.

She tried to smile.

“…No one.”

Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.

Oscar’s eyes widened in horror.

Amélie sighed dramatically. “Dad, please. Don’t assume things.”

“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”

Oscar felt the doorknob move.

He held his breath.

Then, three firm knocks.

“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”

Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”

Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.

Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.

“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.

Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”

“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”

Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.

"I…"

"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"

Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.

"Sorry."

"What was your plan if I caught you?"

Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"

Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."

Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"

Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."

Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."

Oscar looked at him skeptically.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Vasseur’s grin widened.

"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."

Amélie burst into loud laughter.

Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.

The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.

But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.

From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.

Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.

And yet, here she was.

Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.

She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.

Words weren’t necessary.

They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.

And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.

They wouldn’t run anymore.

Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.

Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.

Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.

"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."

Amélie turned sharply, frowning.

“Dad, please…”

“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”

She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.

“Whatever.”

Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.

"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."

She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.

"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."

Amélie narrowed her eyes.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Vasseur smirked.

"It means I come with the package."

She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Her gaze returned to the podium.

Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.

The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.

They had found each other.

And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.

@smoooothoperator

if you want to be part of my permanent taglist, just let me know! <3

[gleekingdom]

It's kinda crazy to think how young these characters we're in the first seasons. Because since most teen shows back then had them played by young adults, and they look young. But Blaines character was like one of the youngest starting out. Because he was 16 in season 3 and 15 in season 2. And sad in general that he got like beat up in his former school before we saw him on screen. Because it's just sad in general. But even this scene here makes me think of that scene whenever I see it. Because he's learning how to fit into public school again, and he wants to fit in but at some level that must be terrifying. Because even said he took self defense here and felt like he didn't just take it for fun it was like stress reasons.

I guess it just makes me think how that could of changed the characters world view like even though we don't see it on screen. And though he has had good things happen to him, things like that don't just go away and kinda stay with you. And how when we even just tell things like that in media it helps connect with people and comfort them a bit to know they aren't alone that they can get though these dark things that happen, and especially for younger people because atleast when I was a teen I kinda had this mindset that I was just kinda alone in a way and was just expected be like a certain way. And that my problems weren't as big as other people's or adults ones were.

So Idk why but I have always been a deep thinker. So yeah these little things meant a lot to me, and still do. Oh and I'm a young adult now but I enjoy talking about glee. It was fun but it dealt with things I appreciated it trying to tackle.

It's by no means a perfect show but it explained some topics that I think is good for media to sometimes explore, and better reach a wide amount of different kinds of people.

Personality wise I'm kinda like Blaine, and I not nessaryly never went through the exact same things as he did. But I'm also an Empath. But he just happened to be the character I connected the most with. So little scenes like this my brain is just gonna always over analyze. Lol anyways that's it just was sharing what came into my head when I saw this.

And I like hearing how people analyze the same character, other characters, scenes and characters from the show. So if you want to share you can but you don't have to. I just share things on my mind sometimes.

So thanks for reading Lol 😂

[bennyboyfics]

omigod can we get protective ben?? maybe too much people or just reader getting overwhelmed and ben is there to help!

Paparazzi || Ben Shelton x gf!reader

A/n: I’m getting so many requests rn!!!! (keep em coming!)

Wc: 655

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

-

The air outside the restaurant was thick with the kind of restless energy that only comes when too many people are crammed into too small a space, all desperate for the same thing. Flashbulbs popped, voices overlapped, and the pavement was a mess of shifting feet, hands clutching phones, and the occasional outstretched pen shoved forward in hope of an autograph.

You had known this would happen—Ben was one of the biggest rising stars in tennis, and your relationship, while not completely private, had only grown more public in recent months. But knowing and experiencing were two different things. Ben had been holding your hand, guiding you toward the waiting car, his grip firm but reassuring.

It was something he always did, a silent promise that no matter what, he had you. And then you lost it. One second, his warm, calloused fingers were wrapped around yours. The next, a surge of bodies pressed in from all sides, breaking the connection. You stumbled back a step, disoriented, your heart lurching into your throat as your arm instinctively reached out, searching for him.

But all you found was air. The noise seemed to double in volume.

“Ben! Over here, man!”

“Ben! Is that your girlfriend?”

“Can we get a picture? Just one?”

“Y/n, are you guys engaged?”

“Ben, please! Just sign this real quick—”

Your chest tightened. The crowd wasn’t violent, but it was overwhelming, closing in too quickly, too much at once. Hands, cameras, voices—too many people, too little space. The flashing lights made your vision swim, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your ears. “Ben—” Your voice barely carried over the noise. You turned frantically, but he was lost in the sea of people. Panic clawed up your spine.

Then, suddenly— “Back up.” Ben’s voice, firm and unmistakable, cut through the chaos like a blade. A strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his solid frame, his warmth immediately grounding you. His grip was protective, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths as he squared his shoulders and put himself between you and the pressing crowd.

“Yo, I appreciate y’all, I really do,” he said, his voice level but commanding. “But you gotta give us some space. I’ll take pictures, I’ll sign what I can, but not if y’all are pushing up on us like this.” The shift was almost immediate. People hesitated, some taking small steps back, others lowering their phones. The intensity dimmed just enough for you to take a proper breath.

Ben looked down at you, his brows knitted with concern. “You okay?” You nodded quickly, still trying to steady yourself. He didn’t let go, keeping his arm locked around you as he turned his attention back to the crowd. “I’ll try to get to everybody, but y’all gotta respect our personal space,” he reiterated. “Yeah?” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The energy, while still buzzing, felt more controlled.

Ben pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head before gently maneuvering you toward the car, making sure you were safely inside before turning back to sign a few autographs. From the safety of the car, you watched him—how effortlessly he handled the chaos, how he still took time for his fans while never losing sight of you. Your heartbeat was still slowing, but the panic was gone now, replaced with something warm and steady.

Ben was your anchor, and in moments like this, you knew without a doubt—he always would be.

[hansmic]

“𝖘𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖊”

possessive bf! leeknow x fem! reader

summary: when someone wants to takes what’s his.

genre: romance, angst I guess?

warnings: very suggestive.

word count: 961

a/n: thank you anon for requesting I hope you liked this!

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Lee Know had never been one to show his emotions publicly. He always kept a cool and composed demeanor, regardless of the situation. However, there was one thing that could rattle him: You. From the moment he met you, he knew that he wanted you all to himself. He couldn't stand the idea of anyone else coming close to you, and it drove him crazy with jealousy. He would watch you like a hawk every time you interacted with someone else, ready to pounce at the slightest hint of attraction.

One day, you were out with friends, and Lee Know happened to be there too. He watched from across the room as you laughed and joked with people, and suddenly, a guy started paying a lot of attention to you. Lee Know clenched his fists as he watched the guy casually touch your arm, making you laugh. He felt a pang of jealousy in his chest, and he had to resist the urge to march over there and claim you as his own.

He continued to watch you, his eyes never leaving you. Every time the guy made you laugh, Lee Know's irritation grew. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh, to make you smile. He wanted to be the only one to touch you, to hold you close. He couldn't stand the idea of anyone else having even a fraction of the connection he had with you.

As the guy continued to flirt with you, Lee Know's jealousy only grew stronger. It was getting hard for him to keep his emotions in check, and he was starting to feel a possessive anger welling up inside him. He watched as the guy leaned in closer to you, his hand on your shoulder, and something inside Lee Know snapped.

Without thinking, he strode over to where you and the guy were standing, his eyes fixed on you. The guy noticed his approach and looked up, a hint of unease in his eyes. Lee Know stopped right next to you, his hand reaching out to grip you tightly by the arm, pulling you closer to him.

"Excuse me," Lee Know said, his voice cool and steady, his eyes fixed on the guy. "I think you're getting a little too close to her." He kept his grip on your arm as he spoke, making it clear that he wasn't going to let you go. The guy backed up, his eyes flickering from you to Lee Know, sensing the tension in the air. "Relax, man. I was just being friendly," he said, raising his hands in defense.

Lee Know's grip on your arm tightened even more, and his expression darkened. "She doesn't need your kind of 'friendliness.' She belongs to me." He pulled you even closer, his body pressing against yours as if to make a claim.

You were surprised by Lee Know's sudden possessive nature, but a small part of you was secretly enjoying the way he was claiming you as his own. The guy muttered an apology and quickly fled, leaving the two of you alone. Lee Know finally loosened his grip on you, but he didn't let go. In fact, he stepped even closer, his hand sliding down to your waist.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. "I don't want anyone else touching you, looking at you, or even thinking about you. You're mine." He pulled you against him, his body flush against yours, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

"I... I don't know what got into you," you said, a mixture of surprise and excitement rushing through your body as he held you close. "You've never acted like this before."

Lee Know let out a small huff, his grip on you tightening. "I've always felt like this. I just couldn't show it before. But seeing you with that guy... it made me crazy." His gaze was intense as he looked at you, his eyes filled with desire.

"I couldn't stand the thought of him touching you, talking to you... It was like he was trying to take what's mine." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"I want you all to myself," he whispered, his voice rough with need. "I want to be the only one who touches you, the only one you look at, the only one you think about. You're mine, and I'm not sharing." He ran his hands over your body, his touch both possessive and tender at the same time.

Lee Know pressed his lips to your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice soft and insistent. "Mine. Say it."

You felt a thrill go through you at his possessive words. "I'm yours," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

Lee Know let out a low growl of satisfaction. "That's right,"

Lee Know pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with yours. "Don't ever forget it," he said, his voice low and commanding.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, his hands roaming your body.

As the kiss deepened, you wrapped your arms around him tightly, feeling the possessive and territorial tension in every touch. His hands roamed over your body, exploring and re-laying his claim.

He eventually broke the kiss, panting slightly, but he didn't let you go. He held you even closer, his grip unyielding.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," he said, his voice firm. "I can't have anyone trying to take you from me again."

As he held you against him, his possessive nature was impossible to ignore, but there was something else there too - a tenderness and vulnerability that he had never shown before.

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masterlist is here

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The ask I got yesterday about ~community~ and whatnot just made me think again about how special it is that we all have this space to share in something we all love, and create connections with each other and with this art that enrich our lives. Again, what a gift it is that Taylor has been able to put into words these experiences that touch people so deeply, and give us all a way to better understand each other and ourselves and in some ways give us the tools and space to learn how to support each other. Whether it’s identifying with struggles or sharing experiences or reveling in joy or even communing in events like concerts or meet-ups or simply making friends along the way, I can certainly say this time has enriched my life and I’m sure it has with many of us here.

I hope we can all continue to practice that kindness and empathy in this little community and beyond. ❤️

[whenmemorydies]

Thanks for reading and for your original meta! Love your deep dives into the psychology of individuals and relationships on the show!

Sydney working through her imposter syndrome whilst being so good at what she does and putting in the effort to be better cements her as one of my fav characters on television, period. She's so special to me.

I agree - I think her wanting to stay at The Bear, even throughout all the shit of season 3 is because of her connection to the team AND her drive to make this "the one" - the place that would be so different from her other experiences in the restaurant industry. She wants to do things different and make things better. Carmy originally agreed to this too but has reverted to what he knows - patterns that he's grown up with as a child well before he met Chef David.

Also YES to this:

Her mirroring with Chef Terry (the bandanas, the attitudes, the vibes) feels even more telling now. She is a chef Terry, before Terry discovered her greatness. All the people at Ever told how much they learned there, that is what a place run by Sydney can be. It's so mindblowing that even if Carmy was present at Ever, she was still so trapped in his trauma that he was not able to absorb it and dream of creating a place like it.

Sydney's totally creating a place like Terry did where the folks who work with her are able to thrive and become better. I think Carmy's regression in season 3 is because though he learned so much with Terry, he also had to contend with almost an entire lifetime outside of that where he was subjected to the kind of toxicity that Chef David threw around. LIke you say - he's still so trapped in his trauma. I think the logical way for him to move past this is to begin to see outside of himself. JAW mentioned in an interview that the great tragedy of Carmy is that he's never been able to see someone else entirely. I think that is going to change in s4 - as @freedelusionshere has said in their reblog of this post - Carmy is going to see Sydney - he's been doing this incrementally throughout the show - and he is going to act accordingly.

The restaurant could be good.

Why did Syd call herself an accomplice in 3x05 Children?

I was re-reading @yannaryartside's fantastic meta about this (and you should too) and it got me thinking. In their meta, OP asks:

Is Syd (or her leaving) supposed to be a wake-up call to Carmy? That he fucked up something that brought him genuine joy and connection because Syd knew the real him, while Claire liked Logan and Carmy's brokenness? The way Claire would enable him in his bad tendencies? How is he gonna realize all that?

Honestly, I don't know what these writers have planned for how Carmy comes to the realisation that season 3 Carmy is not it lol. But I have one suspicion about how it might go, and it has less to do with Carmy and more to do with Syd.

We have to go back to season 1 where it all started. Where Sydney met Carmy and articulated within the first three episodes of the show, her hopes for her future and the future of The Beef.

Recall 1x02 Hands and the convo between her and Richie in Richie's car:

Sydney: You know the restaurant could be good. Like I know you know that. Like it doesn't have to be a place where the food is shitty, and where everybody acts shitty and feels shitty. Like it could be a good legit spot.

Cut to season 3, after Syd and Carmy have overhauled the restaurant and everyone is...well...acting shitty, feeling shitty and the food is looking like a damn mess:

Also recall the alley chat in 1x03 Brigade:

Sydney: You know, I think this place could be so different from all the other places we've been at. But in order for that to be true, we need to run things different.

Then cut to season 3 where we have EC Carmy decidedly not running things different at The Bear. Instead, he repeats toxic communication and management styles from his past:

Recall 1x05 Sheridan and Sydney's vulnerability with Carmy about why she started her catering business, Sheridan Road, after leaving the restaurant scene:

Sydney: Like it was the first time I didn't have a complete and utter psychopath behind me screaming, and pushing and yelling, and I thought I wanted that, you know?

Cut to season 3 and, well, you know the drill: behold our fav Executive Jeff acting like an utter psychopath and partaking in some screaming, pushing and yelling.

So what happened in season 3? Why have things gone in almost the exact opposite direction of what Sydney hoped for in season 1?

To my mind, the answer to that question lies in season 2 and what both Syd and Carmy were doing during that season. Yes, Syd spent most of season 2 setting up the restaurant alone while Carmy played hooky with Claire. But what was more striking to me was the contrast in effort that both of them put into actually doing things different at the restaurant (as per their pledge to each other during the alley chat of 1x03 Brigade).

Breaking cycles

I agree with @yannaryartside: Carmy playing hooky with Claire in season 2 was him numbing himself (i.e. Claire is the drug that he was addicted to for this purpose). I also reckon he was using Claire as another way to keep Mikey in his life - a reverse-engineered haunt - particularly while the most obvious physical manifestation of Mikey in the present day (The Beef itself) was being transformed into something else entirely. That kind of change - that kind of loss - couldn't have been easy for Carmy, particularly as The Bear was something he had wanted to open with this brother in the first place. I get why Carmy would "self-medicate" with Claire to try and numb some of the pain he may have felt, I really do.

But while Carmy was spending so much of his time either avoiding or dulling his pain, it meant he had little time or energy for working through these things. We know that he has been making attempts at this particularly in relation to his familial trauma and grief (as evidenced by his attendance at Al-Anon meetings). But throughout seasons 1-3 we see almost no work on Carmy's part to address the abuse and trauma that he's experienced in professional kitchens. We do not see him trying to prepare himself for the task of leading an entire restaurant. The first and only time we see Carmy start this process is in the last episode of season 3, when he bravely confronts Chef David Fields at the funeral dinner for Ever.

Now admittedly, Sydney does not have the history of familial abuse that Carmy does. But as discussed above, she does share a history of professional abuse in the restaurant industry with him. Its why the two of them make that promise to each other to do things different in 1x03 Brigrade.

To this end, Sydney spends almost all of season 2 working to enhance her leadership skills to make herself better for the staff she'll be leading as CDC of The Bear. Recall her book, Leading with the Heart by Mike Krzyzewski (Chicago-born, Polish-American and hugely successful former basketball coach of the Duke University Blue Devils and the American national basketball team), gifted to her by her father, Emmanuel:

In the beginning of 2x07 Forks, we follow Sydney as she surveys The Bear during renovations and while she works on a menu idea. This opening sequence features the following narration from an interview with Krzyzewski (which reiterates the show's ongoing message that none of us are alone, particularly when we take the time to listen to one another):

The other thing is that you're not gonna get there alone. You know, be on a team. You know, surround yourself with good people and learn how to listen.

You're not gonna learn with you just talking.

And when you do talk, converse. Don't make excuses. Figure out the solution. And you don't have to figure it out yourself.

I always wanted to be part of a team and obviously I wanted to lead that team. You know, [...] what an interesting life it is to be a leader.

The advice Coach K gives in the above monologue is also mirrored in Marcus' eulogy for his mother where he spoke about the importance of listening. It's also gold advice for how to be consistent in relationship to others. I've spoken here about the themes of chaos and consistency on this show and how one of Carmy's battles is understanding that,

[C]onsistency in terms of a product (e.g. a clean kitchen every night or immaculately plated dishes each service) and consistency in terms of relationships are two different things. You can strive for consistent products but destroy all your relationships in the pursuit of them. Conversely, if you strive for consistency in your relationships, you may not always make consistent products (and quite frankly, that's OK - is a perfectly plated agnolotti dish worth Carmy's relationship with Tina? Is driving Syd to a panic attack worth Carmy's pursuit of a star? I think not on both counts).

Sydney took the time throughout season 2 to learn how to be consistent and effective as a leader. She knew - and knows - that simply being an excellent chef is not going to cut it when it comes to running a restaurant and leading a team. This took time and effort on her part but she was committed to making The Bear different to all the other places she'd been at, so she did it. I should also note that Syd did this internal work while menu-planning and trying to push herself culinarily. She was doing so much lifting. Jealousy of Claire aside, I am surprised Syd didn't rip Carmy a new one when he talked about rejigging the menu while at his girl-who's-a-friend's house lmao.

Cut to season 3 though, and Syd is running The Bear with Carmy who has spent the entire season not having put in the work to change the chemistry in their restaurant. Of course Syd tries to counter this as best she can. She runs interference with the team and gently tries to steer the ship. But as she says in 3x09 Apologies, things have been off at The Bear.

So when Syd tells us in 3x05 Children that she's an accomplice, I can't help but feel that in her heart, Sydney believes she's an accomplice in the betrayal of their vision - Sydney and Carmy's shared vision for The Bear - from season 1. The vision she worked so hard during season 2 to bring to fruition.

By season 3, they've betrayed it and each other: family style is no where to be found and The Bear looks and feels like all the other places Syd and Carmy have been at. While exhausting for Carmy ("I'm so fucking sick of this"), this would have been devastating for Syd, given all she's done to try and avoid this outcome. You can understand why she'd consider an offer like Shapiro's (though we know she's not going to take it).

Given the events of 3x10, where Carmy confronts Chef David and has that heart-to-heart with Chef Terry, its clear his perspective on Michelin mode is starting to shift. I think the threat of losing Sydney will scare the shit out of him too. But what I think will prompt Carmy to actually change his behaviour in season 4 is the realisation that he too is an accomplice and has betrayed not just himself but Sydney and their team as well. Season 4 will necessarily need to be told, at least in part, from Syd's perspective so that the impact of this on Syd is made clear to the audience (Storer and Calo, are you listening? Its me, a desperate fan). And once Carmy recognises his role in continuing the traumatic professional legacy championed by Chef Fields, he can get into working through and breaking that cycle. I'll be seated and ready for it.

[deoidesign]

Can you make a tutorial on how you world build and make ocs? I can't seem to make any people in my brain, but then when I try to come up with environments jobs, beliefs and little details to slowly come up with someone, I think: well I don't really know how people have influenced the world- it's a weird loop

To be honest, I don't think I can! Writing is an extremely personal process. The way I write is directly related to how I process things, what I find important in stories, years of my own analysis of my and other's writing, etc... The way you write will be unique to you, as well. But I can explain how I personally think of it.

The short answer:

Write. Write anything and everything, it's a tool to explore your ideas. Analyze your own writing, and write more. Then, as you discover which ideas you want to develop, write more to explore them more. You won't know what you want otherwise!

The long answer:

I think this kind of loop is common. It's easy to feel like everything needs to be done "at once," because our job as writers is to make elements logically fit with each other for our readers. But as you've discovered, developing multiple elements simultaneously isn't really possible, or at least is extremely difficult.

Personally, when I think of writing, I break it into three major elements; characters, world, and plot. As much as possible every scene explores one or more of these, and as much as possible these three things tie back into what I personally consider most important: theme.

Everything I do is in service of the themes I want to present. Without them my events feel aimless. It can take a while to discover them, but they're the core of my work. You will have to discover what you feel is the core of yours. Analyzing other media helps with this too.

Concepts in your brain exist in a state of infinite potential. But when you start writing you have to start making choices, which removes potential as you move forward... But you have to move forward anyways. If there's ideas you want to explore later, you can always explore them later.

What this ends up meaning, to answer your question, is that I don't think of my characters as "people in my brain" or my worlds as something people have influenced... Not at their core, at least. They are tools that I use to represent specific ideas. Obviously they're also my blorbos, but mostly they're serving a specific narrative purpose.

So above all else... Write. Write, and discover what you're writing about, and then start over and write with that in mind. Keep doing this. But you have to write!

[musical-chick-13]

Regarding the previous post, I think the way I approach trying to evaluate a piece of art is asking "Do I think the positive things I get out of it outweigh the parts of it that I don't like?" And when I call something a "guilty pleasure" song/show/book/piece of media/etc. it's really more in the sense of, "Given who I am as a person, the flaws I've found in this should be complete dealbreakers for me, but somehow they aren't, and it makes me feel like I'm having an identity crisis."

[eclarinet]

same soup... different day

[hivemuthur]

The Ugly Thing

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut, love confessions, D/S dynamics (if you squint or if you know what I'm talking about), pining, dom!viktor (but also not, if you squint, something something), Viktor-centric, AU college/university + modern era (again, you have to do some squinting for it to be relevant)

word count: 4,9K

summary: Yet another self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader. It's just an exploration. I want to believe this is erotica, but you tell me. Subspace/Domspace if you squint. Just squint, alright?

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor was, at the very least, difficult. That was what he had called himself, and he relished the label, as it allowed him to be all things at once—sweet, shy, bold, cruel, smart, oblivious, observant. He walked through life making observations and turning his conclusions into actions, placing people exactly where he needed them, ensuring they couldn’t place him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

His relationships were fleeting moments of leniency—sometimes even kindness—offered only when he felt inclined. Occasionally, the kindness transpired twice, or three times, but never more, as the risk of forming a one- or double-sided attachment was undesirable. Viktor’s desires lay elsewhere, and in his pursuits, he indulged the weakness of the flesh while keeping his ultimate goal—recognition of his brilliant mind—crystal clear.

Always polite, so that nothing could hurt him. His armour of politeness and astute behaviour shielded him from the lingering hands that sought to cradle him through the night, from the tender offerings of morning coffee, and from the quiet intimacy of shared silences. Viktor didn’t crave these things. He made sure his politeness was cold, detached, and practised—a skill perfected to keep others at bay. There was no warmth in it, no invitation to linger.

From time to time, he indulged in fleeting encounters, moments where he allowed himself to surrender to the pull of human connection—physical, but never emotional. Emotional, but not lasting. It was a necessary recharge, a way to quiet the body’s demands, but he was always one step ahead. He ensured his partners understood that whatever fragile universe they built together in the night would dissolve with the first light of morning, leaving no trace beyond the cooling embers of his skin.

All that was left was being polite—a polite smile in the hallway, a pencil lent during a lecture, an elevator held for his perishable lover rushing to class. Their names never forgotten, but their warmth never wanted again.

Until you. Until you invaded his orbit and refused to be erased. Until you befriended Jayce, making it easy to keep meeting him, keep looking at him, keep exchanging amusements and something more than politeness—exchanging kindness. Until it turned out you were smart and driven and managed to scare him once or twice by pinning him with your joke.

Until he had slept with you, giving you his mediocre self—not the calculated, observant one, but the needy, touch-starved, pathetic one that moaned your name and groped you with begging hands. All during a completely unorchestrated evening in your dorm room, still half-clothed, just lustful and impatient. Just really fucking hungry in your mutual understanding, though you understood absolutely nothing. Oblivious to the ugly thing in him. Oblivious to the concept of boundaries. Oblivious to the need to protect yourself from prying eyes that might see the truth of what they were.

And the way you stared at him afterwards, gave your body a long stretch, and your limbs flopped back onto the mattress. And the way you said, “It’s ok if you want to go,” an understanding smile cracking across your face—yet you understood absolutely, utterly nothing. A way out he craved, but he wanted to carve it out for himself with his politeness, not with this—this knowing, wise look in your eyes that came from nowhere, because you knew nothing. He almost wanted to stay, just to spite you, but found himself only nodding, scrambling to his feet to fetch his brace and cane, and bidding you goodnight with a polite nod.

And the way you remained friendly. Not friendly—the way you two remained friends. The long nights spent in study groups, pulling straws to determine who was doomed to coffee duty, your head slumped in sleep on Jayce’s shoulder, his head resting on Mel’s. Your bare, cold feet stretched out, toes brushing against Viktor’s thigh, sending ice through his veins—and the way he didn’t mind. The way he contemplated cradling your feet in his palm, warming them against his better judgement.

The way your touch lingered on his arm when you grabbed him in the corridor to show him something funny on your phone. And the way the thing on your phone actually was funny—a picture of Jayce passed out in the library under a mountain of plastic cups balanced on his shoulders. The way his own laugh startled him, made his chest shake and his face lean in close to yours.

The way you would fall asleep in the common room, watching old horror films, your throat vulnerably exposed on his lap. And he just wanted to grab it, squeeze it tight, choke the confession out of you—that you lingered because you wanted more, because this friendship was unthinkable.

The way you got upset when he was mean, and the way he went out of his way to apologise with a childish, shit-eating grin. His arms reaching out for you, your palm pressing his face away in that same friendly gesture.

When he flushed his system with alcohol, all he could think about was fucking you senseless. And when your gaze lingered on him, burning all the way down into his ugly thing, you would ask what was on his mind, and he would say, “Physics.” And you would laugh his lie out.

The way, once, he gave you a lingering kiss on your doorstep and stopped himself. But seeing the question poised on the tip of your tongue, he sunk back in, turning the kiss into a sloppy, drunken mess, so you would be the one to push him away. A gentle pat on the shoulder, sending him off with the unspoken instruction to come back sober. And how he never came back for that.

All of this made him so fucking angry. His carefully mended self, constructed from sweetness, shyness, boldness, cruelty, wisdom, and oblivion, was crumbling under your pensive eyes—and the way you floated atop the pissed-off ocean of his mind.

And oh, he loathed himself on that evening, loathed the way his feet carried him to your room because he was feeling vaguely sad and distracted. He loathed his feet for doing so, loathed his finger for pressing the elevator button, loathed his knuckles for placing a quiet knock on your door. It was all so gross, so out of character, and he loathed it all.

And there you were, opening the door, your face full of dinner, hair messy, cheeks puffed out as you curled them into a closed-mouth grin and gave him a wave to come inside. A quiet “hi,” followed by a chuckle as you tried to swallow before chewing—and a cough when the gulp was too massive for your throat.

“Are you busy?” Viktor found himself blurting out, scanning the room. Your flatmate was gone for the weekend—her bed made, her shoes and coat missing. Observed, concluded. His eyes flicked over to the other bed: messy but cozy, notes scattered across it, a steaming cup on the bedside table, and a laptop propped in the leg area playing background noise. Studying, of course.

“I am always busy,” you grinned at him, your teeth bare and beautiful like the rest of you, as you dropped your dishes into the sink and put the kettle on. “Watching Dexter and studying. Do you want tea?”

“Maybe,” Viktor mused, biting his lip. He negotiated silently with himself, wondering what it was he hoped to find in this room that might sweeten his sour mood—and why his mood was sour in the first place. His hand wobbled on his cane, the traitorous thing, and he leaned against the doorframe to deflect, refusing to decide whether to step fully in or out.

“Okay, what’s gotten into you today?” you huffed, picking a mug you deemed suitable for him. Good Vibes Only, with a middle finger printed on the bottom of it, seemed fitting.

“Meaning?” Viktor cocked an innocent eyebrow, feeling the burn of your inquisitive gaze. Oh, to yank that lovely head by the neck and shove it between his legs, to ease the torment in his mind.

“This is the third time you’ve bothered me today. It’s the weekend. You usually work on the weekends. You’re being vague but resistant to probing. Did something happen?” The countdown of his sins, and it was only the count of one day. Nothing had happened, and that was the issue.

“I suppose I’m feeling… down?” He shrugged, the movement worn down, defeated. His brain ached, and he felt lonely. It had started to feel indecent to pursue others—and for that, you deserved a whack as well.

“Do you need a hug?” A mocking snort reached his ears. A long pause as the scales tipped between a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’

“Yes.”

Another long pause, as you blinked and scanned him for any signs of a sham, your expression still uncertain. You had to make sure again. “Do you need a hug now?”

“No, in fifteen fucking minutes.” His undignified huff earned him a pair of raised eyebrows from you, and a remark already rolling off your tongue—but he cut it short. “Yes, now. Come here.” His head hung low, and only his hand made a beckoning gesture.

You smiled, disarmed by the black cat of Viktor, finally trying to scramble into your lap after months of teasing and playing around—head bumping and blinking at each other from afar. You walked up to him, your hands hesitant, as if this open display of need was unthinkable.

Before you could settle, Viktor snaked himself around you, his cane propped by the door, his frame bent and draped over you, leaning his body weight forward. It was the grabbiest, the neediest hug he had ever given—or that anyone had let him have. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, smashing his nose against your skin, and inhaled you deeply, through both mouth and nose.

His palms, open and wide, raked as much of your body in one go as they could. They slipped under your clothes, seeking the taut skin stretched across your back and shoulders. He wanted to go lower but could only squeeze.

You weren’t hugging him; he was hugging you. Caging you in his grip, controlling when the hug would end—and as far as he was concerned, not ever. You stilled under his touch, your hands resting obediently on his chest as he rubbed his face on yours, purring like a cat.

“Viktor?” Your voice was barely a whisper, bouncing off his mouth, an inch away from yours. “Would you like me to kiss you?” He sang his swan song in that moment, almost asking permission, granting you the illusion of control, the illusion of choice—when in truth, it was him silently begging for the kiss to happen.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Of course. A deflection. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

“I asked you first.” A cruel blow, almost childish. He pulled his face back a few inches to watch you wrestle with the indignity of the situation. The whine you tried to suppress at the loss of contact didn’t go unnoticed, and the snake in Viktor’s belly coiled its head up, smug and poised.

But then you did the thing he didn’t expect—twisting the serpent’s head off and tossing it aside with quiet defiance. You moved closer, nudging his chin with your cheek, your wide eyes pleading for his plea. His resolve shattered instantly.

He held you in place, his lips hovering just above yours. His whisper was longing, desperate. “Can I kiss you?”

A silent ‘yes.’ He only knew it was a ‘yes’ because he felt the movement of your lips on his—but he didn’t let you finish. He sank into your mouth with a disturbing, possessive urgency, pressing his tongue inside, licking your beautiful teeth, biting your beautiful skin.

He kept you locked in, pressing you down under the weight of his kiss. His mouth drooled into yours obscenely as he breathed heavily through his nose. It was the ugliest kiss he had ever given anyone—the ugliest anyone had ever taken from him. And yet, it was taken with such grace, such gratitude, that he wanted to give you everything else.

With inhuman strength, he pulled you both apart and placed his thumb on your lower lip, still glistening with his saliva. He traced it lazily, transfixed by the shimmering reflections on your skin. His heart swelled as he observed the redness blooming around the spots he had bitten. He wanted you bruised by his love—for everyone to see.

“What are you doing tonight?” Another plea, another promise, fell between you. Viktor cursed himself for being so open, so exposed. Because even though you knew nothing, you would understand this question.

“Watching Dexter and studying,” you said in an absent voice, your eyes following his, following the path of his thumb. The silence stretched between you, taut, until you felt the need to fill it. “Do you want to watch Dexter and study with me?”

“No.” The word escaped him in a croak, sung low and jagged, as if he had only just realised this wasn’t what he wanted at all. “Are you wet?” was all he wanted to know.

“What?” The word escaped you, surprised, almost appalled. Viktor braced himself for you to pull away, so he tightened his grip—but you didn’t. You just stared at him with those beautiful eyes on your beautiful face, your pupils dilating at the vulgar perversion of his question.

“I think you heard me. Are you wet right now?” He leaned in to whisper the filth into your ear, feeling his snake grow out a new head at the full-body shudder that went through you.

“What if I said no?” you asked shyly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“I would demand proof,” he murmured, holding the sides of your face as he poured his poison straight into your ear, his voice so quiet and rude that your eyes fluttered closed.

“What if I said yes?” You found some bravery in yourself, tracing your fingers along Viktor’s neck, just under the line of his hair. You smiled at the feeling of goosebumps rising under your fingertips. He couldn’t have this, of course.

“I would demand proof regardless,” he responded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear before licking it, slow and deliberate. He craned his head back to look at you. You appeared frightened and excited all at once, and if Viktor had no restraint, he would have run his fingers through your hair to soothe you. Instead, he placed a flat palm on your stomach, fingers pointing down, waiting for your permission.

He received a timid nod, but it wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

“You can check.” You closed your eyes and exhaled, as though allowing yourself to be judged for your crime. And as the crime was that of lust, Viktor, somewhere deep down, knew he didn’t really need proof, and that your punishment would be light. Because he didn’t truly want to punish you. He wanted to love you in an ugly way.

He slid his hand down, down beyond the waistband of your pants, down your lower belly straight to your womb, palming your cunt through the underwear and gasped, “Oh lásko, look at you.” His chest fluttered at the first touch, with joy and accomplishment, but also because he was right, when he slid the fabric to the side and ran his finger through your slit. Warmth dripped onto his fingertips, and he felt himself grow hard beneath the restraint of his own clothes.

“Do you really like me this much?” he cooed, so pleased that just one ugly kiss had managed to drench your knickers and make you feel so ashamed you nearly flinched away.

“Viktor—” You looked at the floor, your brows furrowed, your face burning from being so exposed, so naked. And you looked so, so beautiful.

“I am not mocking you,” he murmured, placing a reassuring hand on your cheek and caressing it gently. It was almost a praise, though he dared not say it yet. “What makes you want a cripple so much? Is it your heart that longs for me, your mind that thinks you can change me, or just your body?” he mused, revealing too much merely by asking.

You looked almost offended by how blunt he was about knowing what you wanted, just not knowing why. His fingers now parting you, playing at your entrance, teased you but you wouldn’t flinch. You just searched his face hesitantly and as Viktor grew tired of waiting, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, mercilessly bumping your wall, forcing you to flinch. He really wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, and he really wanted to hear his name distorted by a breathy moan.

“Which… would be the worst?” Your breath fanned his face as you steadied yourself on his shoulders. Truly, you weren’t ready for any of the options to be soured.

Viktor thought for a moment, his fingers slowly retreating, almost absent-mindedly. When his answer was found, he pushed back in, smiling innocently, his face moving close to yours. “The first. The second,” he mused, another slow, unbearably so, thrust. “I could fuck out of you. The third, well…” A gentle kiss on your lips, almost loving. “I see no fault in the third.”

“Of course, you don’t,” you scoffed, your grip on his shoulders tightening with each minute. “And what brings you back to me over, and ah,” a gasp escaped your mouth when Viktor brushed his thumb over your clit. You closed your eyes and evened your breath. “Back to me. Heart, mind or… body?” you asked, your brow furrowed in concentration against Viktor’s efforts to throw you off course.

“Which would be the worst?” He quirked his lips against yours and chuckled at another concentrated huff. He could feel your unrelenting grip on his shoulders, was convinced that it would leave a mark, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. To be marked by this gentle creature, a dream.

“Any of them, without the others,” you quipped, your eyes shut. Viktor’s movements stilled at that. You had managed to surprise him. Again. Of course, you would want to devour him as much as he wanted to devour you. Eat you whole, spit out the bones and build a shrine out of them. Ugly.

He retreated his hand and chuckled at the muffled whine that followed. He licked his fingers clean once your eyelids fluttered open, making sure you were watching. Rude. But he was going to kiss you with this mouth.

His hands snaked back up your spine, your body pliant against his, providing him with warmth. His teeth and lips got back to work on the swell of yours, and you fell right into it, mouth open, when his tongue pushed itself down your throat as Viktor began his meal. “I will die if I don’t fuck you,” he rasped. So fucking dramatic over nothing, over just a kiss and some unfinished fingering, and a clipped conversation about what he wanted.

He could abandon it here. He could walk out; he could sit on your bed and just study and watch Dexter. He could drink his tea, already cold, he could make you blush all evening, bid you goodbye and go back to his grimy room to jerk off and fuck off. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, I’ll be so good to you,” he prayed to you, your hands so warm on his waist as he kissed you till he was out of breath. “You don’t know what you are doing to me.” Pathetic, moronic wail escaped him. And he knew you only grew wetter and wetter, your lips getting hotter on him. Panting, you pulled him by the belt and walked the two of you over to the bed, leaving Viktor with no other support than yourself.

He had never rid himself of his clothes so fast. Everything he had on, tossed and crumpled by the bed, next to your own little pile. All the layers of the second, the third skin abandoned, his brace, his pants, his boxers, embarrassingly soaked with sweat and precum, when he crawled on top of you just to keep kissing you and biting your neck, leaving nasty marks everywhere. He panted, his own breath betraying him as your skin came in contact and Viktor whined simply at his cock rubbing against your thigh and he wanted more.

“If you want to stop, tell me.” Another raspy, absolutely dishonest, but a proper plea, asking for the complete opposite. Please, never ask me to stop. “Do you understand?” You nodded, again—not good enough. Your eyes so wide, he could barely see the colour. When you were splayed flat below him, he could see your heart twitching, your chest contracting. A minuscule movement, but he could see it.

“Words, I need to hear your words, lásko,” he growled, stunned by his own impatience.

“I understand.” A kindness in your voice enveloped him. He slid you down the mattress by the ankles, his cock rested against your slit. With clumsy hands he put on a condom, stole a pillow from under your head to support his bum leg and adjusted his crooked crouch. You had the audacity to chuckle at the commonality of his movements and he bit your calf in response.

Absolutely unhinged, you hooked your foot behind his neck, and he immediately loved the weight that pulled him down, steadied him, as he teased your entrance. You held a breath; he had forsaken the privilege of air long time ago.

The first thrust was just blissful. He could feel the crease on his forehead relaxing, his mouth opening, his jaw hanging heavily, just joy and warmth, him awash in it. He felt so full, so complete, yet it was you who was full of him as your bodies slotted together easily, differently to the last time, which left him feeling awkward and ashamed and unfinished.

You rested your hands on his hips, gripping the sharp angle of his bones, your fingernails leaving crescent marks that he would run his fingers over in the morning. “You are doing so well,” he whispered in awe, and it was honest, and you loved it, he felt it in his cock getting squeezed in a silent gratitude.

He felt his ugliness leaving him with each pump of his hips, each sloppy sound of your bodies bumping against each other, his cock twitching inside you, and he needed one more thing to make this even less ugly.

He brushed his thumb over your clit, stretching it, teasing you and taking in all your huffs and puffs, your contorting stomach muscles, your tightening walls. A longing look and an echoing question followed. “Do you love me?”

“Viktor, don’t be cruel,” you answered so fast, he almost retreated. How could you think so? A childlike curiosity creeped onto his face.

“I am not. I really ought to know. Just say yes or no,” Please, just say yes. He felt you twitch at the question, and it made him think he was right. But he could have also been completely deranged. Brain burnt by lust and all the ugly things.

“Viktor—” you pleaded at the loss of his thumb on you.

“I can feel you. Yes or no?” A hard thrust, right up your guts. You yelped, and he could see the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and the sight was something to behold, keep in the palace of his mind forever.

“Then, why are you asking?” You were ready for filth. For his erotic weirdness, for his awkwardness, for all the want he would suppress every time you interacted. You felt it all in his fleeting touch, in the warmth of his thigh when your naked toes rested against it idly, unintentionally, though very intentionally. But this was how you coax a cat. And this was not how cats responded.

“You will see,” he promised, more to himself. “Do you love me, now, in this moment, when I’m fucking you? Yes or no?” Another twitch of your cunt at ‘love’. He left himself unguarded, shielded only by the mould of your womb.

“Yes.” A tiny, shy ‘yes’. But it fell right into Viktor’s heart and there it grew into a big promise, and he would keep it and take care of it and cherish it.

His body bent in half, his mouth seeking yours. A sloppy kiss, painful, with teeth at your tender lip. Another, earnest, slow and careful. Another, quick and fleeting, before he found your ear. Between them, “I love you,” whispered back like a secret, like a prize for your struggle.

Your breaths grew frantic, you wanted to keep him close. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging him in, so you could lick the sweat from his neck, bite it and claim it. Your leg slipped onto his hip, and you curled it around him, his bone digging into your thigh.

“Do you see? How it feels?” he rasped into your ear, gripping you tight. “To be loved while being fucked? Tell me how it feels.” Viktor moaned with each of his thrusts, holding back getting harder and harder. His cock getting more swollen. Your walls getting tighter.

“Amazing,” you whispered, pulling his mouth back to yours. “I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes rolled back into his skull. He slumped onto you, his hands snaking behind your waist, and he could feel your sweat merging with his as your chests pressed together. “I love you,” he cooed weakly. “You can come now, lásko.”

He felt your thighs clutch on his hips, a long spasm twisting your spine underneath him. You came with an orgasm wrenching breath out of your lungs, leg bending, blinding. The ‘I love you’ falling from your lips over and over again, and Viktor could finally let go and spill all his ugliness out. He came with a loud moan seconds after, his brain fucked out, his heart swollen, as he came loved for what he was.

He held you tight through it, chests heaving, when he felt a quiver and wetness on his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

You sobbed onto his chest, hands caged in his arms as you tried to release them and wipe the tears away. “No, no,” you shook your head. “What is this… feeling?” It had no name. For Viktor, it was a dumbing bliss. He could cry too if he wasn’t so warm.

“How do you feel?” He wanted to know what it was like on the other side. No one ever told him, no one ever shared this with him.

“Hollow. Ah… fuck. Empty,” you struggled to find the words, trying them out on your tongue, but they felt wrong. “I feel like you took something… bad from me. And now I don’t know what to do with the space left—” you gasped between sobs as Viktor rolled you to the side and pulled your hair to expose your neck.

You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder. Tears fell on their own, and Viktor wanted to drink them and cry them out himself. When the sobs transformed into clipped breaths, and clipped breaths transformed into one long exhale, you asked carefully, “Viktor, you don’t really love me, do you?”

“Well, do you really love me?” His chest was swollen, his head heavy. He was triumphant. He was so invincible he had it in him to love you.

Silence, for a while. Viktor nudged you gently with his chin and whispered a soft command, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be here.”

You looked at him, the practicality of it spreading a strange warmth in your belly. Wordlessly, you got up and disappeared, still naked as day, and Viktor watched your feet shuffle in the creak of the bathroom door. He got up, put on his underwear, and drank his cold tea in one go.

When you got out, a relief glimpsed through your face, as if you were expecting him to be gone. He waited for you with a cup of tea and a clean sweatshirt, beckoning you to slide into it. Once you both had a singular piece of clothing on, he pulled you back into bed and cuddled sweetly into you. “How do you feel now?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“I feel… like I really need you to love me right now,” you let it slide out. Even though your sweatshirt shielded you from the chill of the room, your soul was still completely bare and shivering. And Viktor loved this nudity, the weirdness of it, the feeling of belonging it gave him.

He found that is was his hands that were lingering now, that the tender thought of the morning coffee was no longer distorted by fear, the quiet and the silence became comfortable in a good way. He felt so wanted, so beautiful in your eyes. He felt all the right things and none of the wrong things. His ugly snake was skinned and turned into a beautiful object. In this beautiful space only beautiful words seemed fitting. “I really do love you right now.”

[cazshmere]

12th House Sign in the Natal Chart and How you can Heal and Find Closure from Past Wounds 🩵

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER : healing is a journey, not a destination, and everyone moves at their own pace. these tips are here to give you a nudge, not to create pressure or perfection. if you’re reading this and some things resonate, that’s wonderful :) take what feels right and leave the rest. and remember, there’s no one right way to heal or find closure. it’s okay to stumble, feel lost, or take a break. trust that every small step forward, even the tiniest ones, are part of the process. be kind to yourself along the way; you’re doing the best you can 🩵

🧩 aries in the 12th house

1. you’re bold in action, but sometimes hesitant in introspection. reflect on fears you might avoid and tackle them directly, like you would any challenge.

2. pent-up frustrations weigh on your subconscious. try activities like boxing, painting, or writing letters you’ll never send.

3. give yourself time alone without needing constant action. Silence and stillness help you get in touch with buried emotions.

4. reflect on times you acted quickly and accept that growth often means making mistakes.

5. indulge in something silly, like playing a game or watching cartoons. It helps you reconnect with yourself. watching your comfort movie with your favourite snacks will surely help

HEALING TIP : try journaling with a twist : write letters to yourself from different ages, like your 5-year-old self or your future self, to see your emotions from new perspectives. this could be super cathartic for you and help you move through the hard feelings holding you back also try meditation that is targeted towards inner peace

🧩 taurus in the 12th house

1. learn to release your hold on past pain. Healing for you often means loosening your grip on comfort zones, even in memories.

2. reflect on areas where you’ve felt unappreciated, finding self-worth from within rather than external validation.

3. you resist change, so make small, gradual adjustments to your daily life that invite healing over time.

4. practice acceptance of things you cannot control or predict; even small, symbolic acts like letting go of a token can help.

5. revisit an old hobby that once brought you joy, like gardening, knitting, or cooking. it’ll remind you of your inner peace.

HEALING TIP : try a sensory grounding exercise: touch something soft, listen to calming music, and smell something grounding like lavender to soothe your mind and body. also something that can temporarily help is watching a super scary movie or just eating spicy food, it can help you distract yourself from your thoughts, at least momentarily

🧩 gemini in the 12th house

1. your mind runs fast, but your 12th house challenges you to slow down and acknowledge buried insecurities.

2. release old narratives, whether it’s past gossip, harsh words, or regrets, let go of thoughts that weigh you down. Practice rephrasing past stories with kindness.

3. try creative outlets that let you express emotions without words, like art or dance, to connect with deeper feelings.

4. when you socialize, make time for connections that feel supportive and honest, without intellectual posturing.

5. quieting your inner monologue helps you access the quiet truths below the surface. Breathing exercises can help here.

HEALING TIP : try recording voice memos on your phone when you feel overwhelmed. Sometimes saying things out loud can help you make sense of them faster than writing.

🧩 cancer in the 12th house

1. you tend to tuck away your deepest fears. Make time to reflect on past emotions without judgment or the need to ‘fix’ them.

2. address any unconscious attachment to people or situations that no longer serve you, knowing it’s okay to need change.

3. offer compassion to yourself, revisit times when you felt misunderstood or unsupported, and give your younger self the love they needed.

4. learn to let go without feeling abandoned. Spend time nurturing your sense of self apart from your relationships.

5. forgive old wounds, allow yourself to release grudges or hurts, understanding that they don’t define your future connections.

HEALING TIP : write a letter to someone from your past you’ve never fully moved on from, then release it (you don’t have to send it).

🧩 leo in the 12th house

1. step back from needing validation, explore who you are outside of praise or recognition. spend time with yourself, just being rather than performing.

2. acknowledge areas where you might have felt rejected or unappreciated. practice self-love that doesn’t rely on others’ feedback.

3. try activities where you’re a beginner. learning something new can help you find power in vulnerability.

4. let go of ego-driven fears, focus on what makes you feel genuinely fulfilled, not just admired. reframe your goals around personal joy rather than approval.

5. reclaim your authenticity by exploring what brings you joy outside of an audience, like a private creative hobby that brings you peace.

HEALING TIP : try visualising your inner child, close your eyes and picture yourself as a child full of hope and joy, and send love to that younger version of you.

🧩 virgo in the 12th house

1. acknowledge that some things don’t need fixing. practice letting go without feeling the need to control every detail.

2. practice self-compassion, allow room for mistakes and honor your efforts without focusing solely on flaws. embrace your progress, not perfection.

3. stop overanalyzing (ik it’s hard but your overthinking is what causes majority of your problems, the more you overthink the more power you’re giving to those unwanted thoughts) give your mind permission to take a break. activities like meditative gardening or painting can help soothe the inner critic.

4. connect with your intuition, trust your instincts rather than rationalizing everything. allow yourself to simply “know” without overthinking it.

5. embrace the chaos haha, let things be messy or spontaneous without judgment. Flexibility helps you grow beyond rigid expectations.

HEALING TIP : try writing a list of what you’re grateful for, it's a simple but powerful tool to shift your focus from worries to abundance.

🧩 libra in the 12th house

1. find comfort in solitude, learn to enjoy your own company, separate from others’ opinions or companionship. practice inner peace.

2. let go of past people-pleasing, allow yourself to address buried feelings of resentment that may stem from overextending for others.

3. balance your inner harmony, focus on inner alignment rather than external harmony. Journaling or meditating on your needs helps you center.

4. heal relationship wounds, reflect on past connections that left an impact. release blame, knowing each taught you something valuable.

5. set boundaries with yourself, give yourself permission to say “no” without guilt. embrace your inner balance, free from others’ demands.

HEALING TIP : you can try a heart-centered meditation to connect with self-love and release neediness for outside validation or try a balance-focused yoga routine, it can be both grounding and soothing, helping you connect with your inner equilibrium.

🧩 scorpio in the 12th house

1. embrace your emotional vulnerability, lean into your feelings without fearing loss or control. Sharing emotions helps relieve hidden weight.

2. release grudges (ik this is something hard for you but letting go is better than holding on to the things that cause you problems - forgive but don’t forget perhaps), practice forgiveness as a way of releasing old hurts that drain you.

3. face your darkest worries with courage, knowing they don’t define you. Write them down and let them go.

4. reclaim personal power, you’re literally THAT bitch don’t forget that queen, focus on how you can empower yourself from within, instead of seeking control externally.

5. trust others with your feelings when it feels right; vulnerability can be deeply healing.

HEALING TIP : you can try shadow journaling by exploring both light and dark thoughts to understand yourself more deeply or if you want something fun instead try listening to a mystery podcast or an immersive story app where you can dive into thrilling narratives. this helps you tap into your emotional depth while being entertained, offering healing through mystery and intrigue.

🧩 sagittarius in the 12th house

1. look inward for meaning, sometimes answers lie within, not in new experiences. find fulfillment in self-reflection rather than escapism.

2. explore spiritual grounding, sagittarius craves meaning, so find practices that connect you to a sense of purpose, like guided meditation.

3. release judgment and let go of self-criticism about past “mistakes.” accept that growth is a journey, not a fixed outcome.

4. embrace introspection by giving your adventurous mind permission to slow down and find contentment in stillness.

5. cultivate patience please (so so important) you may be prone to quick fixes; practice patience with yourself and your journey to healing.

HEALING TIP : start a personal travel vlog (even if it's just to document your local adventures) or use digital journaling apps to record your thoughts, dreams, and philosophical insights. It’ll allow you to process your emotions while in a fun way <3

🧩 capricorn in the 12th house

1. release pressure to always be “on”, let go of needing to achieve every moment. It’s okay to just “be” sometimes, without a goal in sight.

2. forgive your past mistakes, address any old guilt you’re holding onto. you’re allowed to grow beyond your old decisions and learn without punishment.

3. embrace vulnerability (very important) being open about your feelings doesn’t weaken you; it strengthens your ability to understand and trust yourself.

4. trust life’s timing, not everything has to be perfectly planned. lean into moments of uncertainty and find peace in simply experiencing.

5. reflect on your worth beyond productivity, spend time exploring who you are outside of what you “do” or “produce.”

HEALING TIP : try weekly self-check-ins to connect with your needs and desires, away from the hustle of daily demands.

🧩 aquarius in the 12th house

1. embrace your quirks and shadows, you have a unique mind, so allow yourself to be different even in your struggles. reflect on hidden fears and accept them.

2. let go of needing to understand everything, release the need to overanalyze or intellectualize every emotion; trust that some things are just felt, not solved.

3. balance independence with connection, don’t isolate yourself too much. healing also comes through genuine human connections.

4. explore spontaneous introspection, give yourself the freedom to meditate or journal in unconventional ways, like painting or singing.

5. lean into self-compassion, you may be hard on yourself for being “too different” or processing wounds and hurts “differently” but learn to embrace that unique perspective as your strength.

HEALING TIP : try creative expression exercises that bring your thoughts to life, like freeform art, dance, editing, posting stuff online (blogs, reels etch) or sound journaling helps too.

🧩 pisces in the 12th house

1. set healthy boundaries with emotions, your empathy can pull you into others’ feelings. spend time differentiating between your own emotions and theirs.

2. give yourself closure without finality, understand that sometimes closure isn’t perfect or neat, and let go of needing every question answered.

3. create a soothing retreat, build a healing environment, like a cozy corner or blanket fort lmao, where you can escape and connect with your inner peace.

4. release victim mentality, move beyond past hardships by reclaiming your personal power and seeing yourself as a survivor, not a sufferer.

5. TRUST. YOUR. INTUITION. you’re naturally in touch with the unseen. lean into that gift by tuning into your feelings without judgment.

HEALING TIP : create a healing playlist filled with calming music, or even soothing ASMR sounds, to help you unwind and feel safe in your own space.

© cazshmere 2024 [All Rights Reserved]

banner & pic credits to the rightful owners <3

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere manager who was never gonna let you get famous.

Nsfw for this one! MDNI!

Warning for noncon/dubcon!

Yandere manager who holds a high position in a prestigious entertainment company. He works with so many prolific stars, so he's surprised that your pitiful little portfolio ever even made it to his desk. You've got no experience, no connections, and you're not exactly industry standard in terms of beauty.

Yandere manager thinks it's kind of funny that a cute little thing like you thinks they can make it in such a cutthroat industry. he's kinda curious about what you're like though, so he calls you in for an interview. He can't help his large, sleazy grin that forms on his face when you sit there in his office stuttering through an introduction.

Sure he'll hire you, but you've gotta get on your knees.

Yandere manager feels a sick thrill run up his spine as he goes over contract details while your pretty little lips are spread around his cock. Your eyes are filled with tears, and he can feel your little whines and sobs vibrate in the back of your throat, and he groans. He has to admit it, you've got that special something about you that certainly has him captivated.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a deal, sweetie," He grunts out playfully and signs his name as he forces your head down further and came down your throat.

Yandere Manager who only books you for enough gigs for you to justify staying with him. He makes you fuck him whenever he asks, and whenever you want an actual job, you have to do something more extreme to get it. A modeling gig? Yeah sure babe. You've just got to dress super slutty and let him take you in the middle of a crowded club.

Yandere Manager who rails you violently whenever he catches you trying to network. He bets you think you're so smart and clever for chatting up some pervy, old director to get a spot in a music video. Does he not give you enough? You don't need all that attention unless he's giving it to you. You don't even know how many people are gonna wanna bury themselves in that tight little hole of yours, how many people would take advantage of you. At least with him, you knew what you were getting.

You're fucked so thoroughly, and Yandere manager loves watching you stumble around after he's stuffed you full of cum. He's started making you wear plugs afterwards just so he can watch the discomfort on your face as he takes you out shopping or for meals.

Yandere manager starts to feel a bit fond of you in not just a carnal way. As much as he loves seeing your cute little asshole twitch and stretch around the toys he pushes in you, he also likes seeing you smile, hearing you laugh. He likes the way your eyes light up when he allows you to do a photo shoot. He starts liking the way you shudder and squeal when you orgasm, too.

He's not a sappy guy by any means. Really, he sucks. Even he knows that, but maybe now that you've got his initials tattooed on your plump, well spanked ass cheeks, he can start making you like him too.

He's gross, and he knows it. But he loves fucking you so much he can't find it in himself to care. I mean you're not going to get away when he's got you coming back to him with the promise of success that he's never ever gonna let you have. Not for the risk of his favorite, cute little fucktoy leaving him.

[inkskinned]

the problem is that being single is seen as the consolidation prize, and not the natural neutral state of being-a-person. at the end of the movie or the book or the poetry, there is a person waiting for you at the altar, and they love you. if the play is a comedy, everyone gets married. the metaphor is about how you are not-whole. the metaphor is about how everyone is going to be happily-ever-after. the metaphor is that romantic love is the most important resource on the planet, not just all-love. all-love is not a thing, that is a disappointment. the treasure is not the friends we made along the way. the treasure is the girl you landed.

the metaphor is that you cannot be alone, that means you are broken. are you getting over someone? that is acceptable, you can be getting over someone, but not for long. you must be single because you would rather not be single. you must be single and looking to not-be-single. you must want to date, eventually.

friendship and community are never seen as being equal-to or even-better than romantic connection. that person is your one! you need to find them. you need to hunt through the sand particles until you can shift out some kind of gem. this is regardless to your own experience of the beach and the sun. you need to be somewhere with someone.

if you are taking this time alone to heal, that is so sad. everyone gives you this little pitying look. the understanding is that you are not actually happier than you were before you were single. it is seen as a sort of pity - oh, you are choosing yourself, making yourself the priority? - that isn't quite right. you must mean that you are making yourself ready for the right person. you are just laying the bed better this time. open up your heart. you'll find them, we promise!

what do you mean you're really-truly genuinely-very happy? you are probably misremembering what it was like to be in a relationship. and besides, once you meet your person, that time will look grey and bland and wasted. your person is the only way for you to see in color. so what if you have taken this time - for the first time in your entire life - to actually-for-real do the fucking work. you can be proud of yourself, sure. but the way we need to know that you got better is that you get a partner. you're healed enough for the next bad part!

people don't choose to be single, they just say they're choosing to be single - they actually mean "nobody wants to date me." it doesn't matter how many people you have gently rejected or how many times you've talked it over carefully in therapy. what matters is that you are single, and by all accounts - that means you are something worth our pity. your successes and life all seem pale in the sunlight. sure, you have done amazing things and finally found your way in life. what matters is that there wasn't a person in the room with you while you did it.

you want to tell them - that's the whole thing. i didn't know how to be alone in the room. i didn't know how to handle the silence. every moment was so sharp, and i kept choosing the wrong way to close the door. i have spent my entire life in the empty well, living in the ricochet of someone else's cruelty. for once i have built myself a ladder. for once everything i taste is all mine, every bite of sunshine and laughter. i have learned how to sleep out in the open with my memories. recently, they have started to purr.

your father rolls his eyes. listen. this isn't about you. i just want a grandchild in my future.

[thebibliosphere]

There are a lot of things I'm sad about in my life. You don't get to go through the kind of medical trauma I've been through and come out unscathed on the other side.

But one thing I'm really bitter about is that I can't remember my wedding anymore. The pernicious anemia took it from me and wiped my brain clean. Except it's not clean, not really. I remember it in patches. Like red wine stains on a white rug that have never quite lifted out no matter how hard you try.

I look at the pictures on my bookcase, and they feel like remembering a story someone else has told me. There's a young woman in a white dress wearing my face, and she looks happy. I'm happy for her. But you can see the strain around her eyes, too. The pain she's hiding because no one with authority believes her when she says her body doesn't feel right. That something is Wrong.

They won't believe her for another decade. They won't believe her until it's almost too late, and it's that lateness that will rob her of her memories and turn them into a wavering rainbow suspended in the fine haze of watery sunlight that occasionally surfaces through the blanks.

There's one memory that's real, though. Solid. It's not my vows. It's not my father walking me down the aisle. (Though those are there, just hazy and dream-like). It's our first dance.

It's the lights dimming around the room as the staff cleared the floor, causing the fishbowls full of white roses and LED lights on the tables to wobble like pools of moonlight against dark paneled walls.

It's the band inviting us out onto the floor and us giggling because we know what's coming next, and no one else does. It's the twang of a banjo reverberating around the room through the speakers, followed by the dulcet tones of Kermit the Frog wondering why there are so many songs about rainbows.

It's us waltzing around the enclosed circle of light, singing to each other out of tune and grinning like idiots as everyone around us starts to laugh.

It's everyone joining in on the song because it's the Muppets, and everyone knows the words. It's 100+ people singing the Rainbow Connection, some laughing, some a bit tearful, because it's bringing back memories. Because it's making a new one.

It's looking up at my new husband through the brain fog and all the pain in my body and thinking, "I want to remember this moment forever."

I don't know what entity was out there listening to me at that moment and chose to grant that wish. I don't know why this is the one memory that stuck while everything else in my brain got decimated into scattered, fragmented snapshots. But I'm so, so thankful it is.

[jaewritesfic]

Melon!AU Part 2

If it had been anyone but Cass to suggest it, Bruce is certain that both Damian and Tim would have responded with an immediate and vehement, Are you insane?!

But it is Cass. It's Cass, so Damian makes a choked sound and bites out, “Help. The Pit Demon?”

Similarly, Tim chokes out, “I don't know about that one, Black Bat. I mean- it's- it looks-”

“Judging books?” Cass asks through comms, a gentle disapproval in her tone that rivals Alfred’s in effectiveness. Bruce himself feels a little cowed by it.

Diplomacy had not, after all, been on his mind before his daughter spoke up.

He should know better than to make assumptions, especially if she's right and the creature isn't as hostile as it seems.

That's still a very big if.

“Commissioner,” Bruce says lowly, turning his head. Gordon is lingering near the roof access stairway, having come up to brief them but seeming reluctant to even look down on the creature in the alley. “Have there been any casualties? Injuries?”

Jim falters, uncharacteristically rattled. Bruce can't blame him - there's a low level dread and an unsettling feeling just being in the same vicinity as the creature, and that's as a seasoned vigilante. Someone who faces death down regularly.

“Uh. No. No, it uh- it took some swipes at people who got too close, but it didn't connect. We backed off pretty fast and called you as soon as possible.”

Bruce blinks. “Not even any blood drawn?”

Gordon shakes his head. “Damn miracle. The thing is fast and those claws are vicious.”

He hears Cass hum into the comms, and he understands exactly why.

The thing in the alley is built to do damage. He has his doubts it was any kind of miracle that made it ‘miss’ any of the swipes it took.

Trying to scare them off indeed.

“Black Bat. What exactly are you reading off the creature?”

“Looking for exits. Desperate. Overwhelmed.”

Bruce hums. “Being cornered and desperate will make anyone or anything dangerous. We need to proceed carefully here. Even if it doesn't want to hurt anyone, that doesn't mean it won't if it thinks it has no other-”

The shadow that is Cass shifts in his periphery, and he looks up to the opposite roof just in time to bark, “Do not-!” as Cass steps off the roof and flips down into the alley.

Why are his kids so determined to give him a stroke?

Dick vaults up over the edge of the roof to join he and Tim, saying, “I'm here, what's-”

He cuts off and claps his hands over his ears with everyone else when the creature shrieks at Black Bat's unexpected arrival.

“Black Bat,” Bruce grits out, heart in his throat as he peers over the edge with ringing ears. “Retreat back to the rooftops now.”

One tap to the comm. No.

Bruce grits his teeth, fighting not to show his anxiety. It's not like Cass to refuse orders. Hell, he can't remember her ever disobeying an order in the field so blatantly.

The low warning noise the creature is making now is almost as bad as the shriek. Something about it sets off every alarm bell in his brain, like it was never meant to be heard by human ears. Almost a growl, almost a moan, something celestial and unfathomable.

Cass doesn't back up or get any closer. She raises a hand slowly in a little wave and says, “Hello.”

If it were possible to startle a fax machine, it would probably sound like the creature does as it jerks and snaps its mouth shut in surprise, lamplight eyes going huge and round.

Masterpost