Just A Little Bit Of Your Heart

just a little bit of your heart

─── i heard a little love is better than none

pairing: pierre gasly x fem!reader warnings: google translate french; profanity

There is a bit of comfortability in the love you share with Pierre. It’s simple, it’s cohesive, it just works. Though it does beg the question of how? How does it work so well? Better yet: why does it work so well? He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city, continent to continent, while you stay just outside of Paris wrapped up in your own work. How can you love a man who spends more time away from you than in your arms?

You don’t have an answer, just that it does.

It works because he calls you every night to hear about your day. He sends selfies and photos of the world he sees, and buys you snowglobes because he knows how much you love to collect them. He calls you beautiful, tells the world he’s the luckiest guy in the world to be loved by an ‘ange comme toi’. Tu es mon ange, he says. Always calling you angel, his angel. He had his way of making you feel so wanted and loved, even from a thousand miles away. 

In the quiet time between race weekends, Pierre always finds his way back to you. It was always on a Tuesday when he’d let himself in with his spare key, dropping his bags in the hallway by the door. He would call out for you and you’d come running. His smile was always wide, crinkled by his eyes as he held his arms out ready to catch you. And when you’re finally in them, god did it feel like home.  

He’d hold your hand when he drives you into Paris, taking you to your favorite restaurant. He orders for you because he knows what you like. He lets you drink as much white wine as you’d like, even if he knows he’d have to carry you up the stairs when you get home. But he doesn’t mind, because when he’s holding you up you like to touch his face. You pepper wet kisses along his jaw and make him laugh when you give him grief for not growing out his mustache. You make his heart warm when you touch him sweetly. 

Pierre knows your nighttime routine like the back of his hand. He sits you by the sink, hand securely resting on your hip to steady you. He knows to use the cleansing balm first, and then after taking off all your makeup, he picks the serums in the order you usually use them in. He knows nothing of the names, but the different sizes and colored labels are enough to help him figure it out. You’ll have your arms slung over his shoulders lazily as he gently rubs your moisturizer into your skin. You smile lazily, eyes hooded with alcohol as you hum softly.

"Tu m'aimes?" You slur. You love me?

He smiles, nodding. "Bien sûr que je t'aime." Of course I love you.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

"Je t'aime, mon ange." I love you angel. 

He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

Tuesdays grow to be your favorite day, because that means he comes home. It means that sometime in the afternoon, there would be an echo of him throughout your home. The familiar smell of his Valiant cologne would fill the air, it will wrap you up, and once again you’ll feel complete. 

You sit on the couch and you wait. The hours tick by, the afternoon comes and goes, and soon the sun is setting and the sky shifts to pitch black. 

Pierre arrives at eleven that night, bag dropping onto the floor and far too preoccupied on his phone to announce that he’s home. You hear his steps, heart anticipating his voice calling out for you. But instead you watch him walk into the room, eyes glued to his screen, stopping by you on the other side of the couch. He types and types and types, while you patiently wait for his attention. You can’t deny the way your heart aches, this overwhelming feeling of self-pity that takes over you as you keep your eyes on the man you love with every part of you. You’ve never felt more pathetic. 

But he finally looks back at you, and those blue eyes convince you to forget that he was late, convince you not to ask him where he’d been, and to be happy he showed up at all.

The past Sunday doesn’t end how either of you would hope, with Pierre having to retire with only five laps to go. You were sitting at home the whole time, throw pillow clutched to your chest as you watched your boyfriend climb from P13 to P5, only to have all that hard work shattered by a collision with a Williams. You send him a text, reminding him how much you love him and how sorry you are that the race turned out the way it did. He doesn’t respond, but you chuck it to media duties and post-race meetings. You expect a response before you to go to bed, maybe even in the form of a phone call. But it was radio silent. Not a peep, not an update. One second he was in the car and just over forty-eight hours later, he’s standing before you. 

At least he’s here, right? 

“Pourquoi n'as-tu pas appelé?” Why didn’t you call?

He sighs softly, taking the hand that was just reaching out to you to rub his face– clearly frustrated. 

“J'étais occupé mon amour.” I was busy, love.

Mon amour rolls off his tongue like it tasted bitter. It hurt. 

His phone pings and Pierre is quick to unlock and read whatever it is that is on his screen. You watch the way his face breaks out into a grin, the way his fingers are quick to type a response, lip tucked between his teeth. You wonder if he ever looks at his phone like when you text him. 

“Qu'est-ce?” Who is it?

“Personne. Qu'y a-t-il pour le dîner?” No one. What’s for dinner?

You sit with him at the dinner table while he eats, and he pays no mind to you. He stares at his phone, taking call after call from his team, and answering texts close to his chest. You watch Pierre like a movie, one you seemed to not be a part of. Insecurity is a weed, flourishes without needing to be nurtured and can only be rid of with proper care. But no one seems to care, not even you. You sit patiently, letting vines of self-doubt bury you while you hope the man before you would notice.

But he doesn’t. He never seems to notice you these days, too occupied with his phone and the car. He’d leave with a chaste kiss to your cheek and then he’s rushing out the door. No more invites to see him drive, no more plans of grandeur spent together. More Tuesdays are spent alone in your apartment, while you hold yourself and believe the lies that he’d be coming soon. You watch Pierre’s life unfold through a screen, no longer a part of his story even if you considered yourself to be. 

You grow to hate Tuesdays. It means he’s home, that there would be an echo of him moving about your space. Tuesday means it’s the restart of a game you play with yourself. The one where you swear you’re done, that you’ll leave, that you deserve better. And when you think you find the courage to do so, he’s waltzing through the door and planting a kiss on your forehead. Nevermind the lack of twinkle and adoration in his ocean blue eyes when he sees you, nevermind that he kisses you and retreats to the bedroom. The smell of his Valiant cologne suffocates you, drowns in you in a false sense of hope that at least he came home to you. 

This Tuesday comes like it does, with your chest puffed out and chin tilted to the sky until you see him and he gives you a passive smile you mistaken for affection. You let him hold your face as he presses a brief kiss against your lips before walking into the bedroom. You follow in his footsteps, leaning against the doorframe and watch as Pierre sets his phone down next to him– screen down. He looks up at you with a questioning stare. 

“Allons dîner. Nous n'avons pas été à notre place depuis un moment.” Let's go to dinner. We haven't been to our spot in a while.

“Je ne sais pas... Je me sens fatigué.” I don’t know… I’m feeling tired.

You frown, a lump in your throat suddenly growing as you find it in you to beg him for just a piece of his time– time that seemed too precious to share with you.

“S'il te plaît? Tu me manques.” Please? I miss you.

He sighs, like he’d been burdened with something. Tears begin to gloss over your eyes, shaking your head. 

“Pas grave. C'est stupide.” Nevermind. It’s stupid.

You walk away, shielding yourself and frailty, hiding your tears as you scurry down the hall to the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the ache in your chest. You try to forget that look on your boyfriend’s face, the rejection given in the form of a frustrated stare. Running water hides his footsteps to you, you don’t hear him shuffling behind you. You don’t even realize he’s in the room until you look up from the sink and see him behind you in the mirror. 

“Ne sois pas en colère contre moi mon ange. Je suis vraiment fatigué.” Don't be upset with me angel. I’m just really tired.

No words, just a slow nod. 

“Je t'emmènerai demain. Nous irons à Paris. D'accord?” I'll take you tomorrow. We'll drive into Paris. Okay?

You nod again, this time hard enough for a tear to fall onto your cheek. Pierre’s expression falls, a sad exhale coming from him as he takes a step closer to you, wrapping his arms around your frame as he leans down to press a kiss against your cheek. He whispers in your ear, asking you not to cry. Repeats his promise of taking you into the city and to your favorite spot. You want to ask him if he still loves you, asking him to say it to you over and over again ‘til you believe it. 

But you were afraid of the answer.

So you take his affections for love. You allow it to mend the ache in your heart even if you know deep down it’s temporary. 

He keeps his promise, he drives you into Paris. He takes you to his favorite restaurant, and you’re seated in the same spot you sit at since you both started coming here. He orders for you, because he knows what you like. But you eat in silence. He taps away on his phone while you nurse glass after glass, until the white wine has your head swirling. Your cheeks feel hot, and the room seems to tip left to right ever so slightly. 

“​​Ralentir.” Slow down.

Pierre’s request makes you feel guilty. It makes you put the nearly empty glass down and eat your dinner quietly. You watch as he smiles at his screen, twirling pasta in his fork with no intention of eating it. It’s busy work, doing what he can to pass the time. 

You’ve developed a sort of jealousy to the world around you, most especially to the phone in his hand. You envy the smile it gets, one you hadn’t seen directed to you in god only knows how long. You wonder who is so lucky to see it, to receive its warmth. 

He doesn’t hold your hand on the ride back, doesn’t carry you up the stairs like he used to. He walks several steps ahead of you, only gracious enough to hold the door open for you. You flop onto the bed, undoing your jewelry and slipping off your shoes. You watch Pierre do the same, trading the dressier ensemble for jeans and a t-shirt.

“Où vas-tu?” Where are you going?

“Je vais rencontrer des amis. N'attendez pas, d'accord?” Going to meet some friends. Don't wait up, okay?

You nod wordlessly, watching as he slips his shoes back on before he walks back over to you and presses a kiss on your forehead. It lacks a spark, a warmth that you used to feel. 

"Tu m'aimes?"  You love me?

He stops in the doorway of the room, looking back at you with a soft sigh.

"Bien sur que oui." Of course I do.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

The air is thick. You wait for him to say it, for sweet words to reassure you the way they used to. 

“Tu sais que je fais. Pourquoi dois-je le dire?” You know I do. Why do I have to say it?

You nod, gaze moving down to your lap. He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

“D'accord. Fais attention. Je te verrai plus tard.” Okay. Be safe. I'll see you later.

You watch him walk out, listen to his footsteps move further and further away from you until they disappear behind the front door shutting. When you’re sure he’s gone, you pull yourself off the bed and stumble into the kitchen to grab a half empty bottle of wine. You don’t bother with a glass, making your way back to bed as you turn on the TV and drink straight from the bottle.

Some time in the night, the wine lulls you to sleep. It’s dreamless. Your body feels heavy, sinking into the mattress. The alcohol numbs you, helps you forget the impending despair and self-loathing waiting to settle in your bones when Pierre comes home– if he comes home. 

He does, the door slamming shut, pulling you from your sleep. You take a quick peek at the time. 3:08am. You squeeze your eyes shut when his footsteps come closer, and the door to the bedroom squeaks open. Your heart beats quickly, listening to Pierre attempt to move quietly around the small room. Rustling, padded footsteps, fabric falling to the floor. It isn’t long until the bed is dipping behind you, and you can feel his body heat against you. But you don’t feel his arms, no kiss, no form of affection. It’s cold as he slips into bed with you, facing the wall instead of you. His soft snores fill the space in no time, and you allow yourself to open your eyes. You quietly slip out of bed, eyes scanning the now messy bedroom. Clothes are strewn across the floor, shoes kicked against the wall. You shuffle quietly, cleaning up after him as he sleeps in your bed.

It’s when you pick up his shirt do you catch a whiff of a sweet rose scent that’s not yours. You hate the smell of roses. 

You spend the rest of the night on the floor of your bathroom, his shirt balled in your fist as you cry angrily but quietly.

There’s a bit of fear in leaving the only love you truly ever known. A fear in confronting the fact he was no longer yours alone, and that he had likely found someone else. How do you choose to tiptoe around him, to allow yourself to fall into a false sense of security time and time again? How can you love a man who has fallen for another? How does loving him work? 

He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city anyway. He was never truly there to begin with, even on your best day. Maybe your love never truly worked to begin with.

But you both stay, even if you know how much it breaks you. 

It’s complicated. An age-old term to describe the limbo between friends and something more, between I love you and I’m sorry, between love and its end. It’s used to describe two stubborn people unwilling to let go of the other out of their own selfishness. Because that’s the truth. You stay, selfishly taking what he has to offer as enough, lie to yourself and say the very little he gives is enough to sustain your heart even as it cracks under your chest. You both lie through your teeth when you say you’re happy together, when you face friends and family who see the loveless stares you exchange at the dinner table. But no one has the heart to call you on it. They take a page from your book, and stand idly by. They watch quietly as you lose pieces of yourself everytime Pierre walks out the door without you. 

The fact of the matter is that neither of you wanted to be alone. You’d rather sit in a room with ‘complicated’ than to be alone. But you love him, you really do. And you think that maybe he does too, because why else would he stay… right? There was at least a bit of comfort in the fact that a bit of love exists in the space. And sometimes a little love is better than none. 

NOTE: i kinda fast tracked this one bc i got a surge of inspiration. so sorry if it doesn't make any sense. i tried to proof read it but im a dud when it comes to my own work. yes, sorta almost based off 'just a little bit of your heart' by ariana grande. hope u like this one & as always, feedback is always greatly appreciated.

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Lost (PG10) pt.3

Summary: The world is utterly unfair. He was her most prized possession, her life, her first ever commitment of love. But to him, she was just a mere person lost in his big world.

warnings: ; unrequited feelings; Pierre is a douche , arrange marriage, angst, explicit scenes and languages.

Author's Note~ Heya guys! So it's finally here! Tbe 3rd part of my fanfic.I posted the first chapter of my first ever fanfic! And I'm overwhelmed by the response ❤️ Really Thanks a lot to everyone who had liked the story so far. It's just the beginning of the journey, there's a lot to come. Love You All 😘 Here's my first ever story for you guys. As soon as I finish this one, I'll start taking requests maybe! Till then please show your love and support for "LOST".

Journal Entry - 3

Pain is something that can be forgotten if that one person that you love gives you a smile. Butterflies, jitters, rainbows! Yea, that's my heart right now. I can melt right away. Right in front of him. Pierre Gasly has a beautiful smile!

Those sparkling eyes when he smiles has the power to light up my whole world. But why did he smile at me today?

Let me tell you what exactly happened.

I woke up a little late today because of all the crying I did yesterday. I went into the washroom to take a shower and freshen up and when I saw myself in the mirror I was scared of myself! Like seriously I look like a fucking zombie! Tear stains and melted mascara stains all over my face. But what's worse are my eyes. They were blood red and super swollen. No makeup, no face wash could cover that shit up. But I couldn't let Pierre see me like that. So the only thing that I could think of was wearing sunglasses. BIG BLACK SUNGLASSES! That too inside the house cause I wasn't allowed to go anywhere outside unless it was one of his races or events, where we'd have to pretend to be a super happy and In love kind of a couple. Life Sucks for me. Anyways I changed and was going to go down when I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Other than me no one usually goes inside the kitchen , so who might it be?

A little bit curious and also frightened I went inside the kitchen only to find my ever charming husband sporting the brightest radiant smile I've ever seen. My Husband Pierre Gasly! Standing right there with black shorts and a tight fitting black tshirt. His muscles stretching and struggling from it. The tshirt seems to be too tight but he still looks like a prince.

To be very honest it was a bit weird for me. Okay chuck it! It was very weird for me but I just played it cool by returning a very awkward smile to him.

" Good morning and thanks Y/n" Woah! That was the first time he actually wished me good morning. I seriously felt like I was on cloud 9 but I don't really keep high hopes in life anymore since I have lost a lot of things in this journey.

"Good morning to you too , but why thank you?"

"Oh! Yes, actually thank you for yesterday. You prepared the soup and the medicine for Julia" those words made me want to stab myself . After a whole night of torture and tears he finally finally smiled at me for the first time and that too the reason was Julia. That bitch of a step sister. Who is stealing my husband day by day from me. But who cares if the person who's supposed to actually care does not care about me.

I sometimes think if he ever thinks about me? About my happiness or, I'm just a mere housemate for him? Actually what's funny is that even the housemates are treated better than I am . Also I'm a bit disappointed. Why did he not ask me why was I wearing those hideous sunglasses? Why was I late to wake up this morning? But no, no questions of such were asked by him.

But you know what? I'm not complaining cause this was the first time he actually smiled at me properly.

That's all I've ever wanted. A little bit of genuine recognition from him. Not because of the camera's, not because of the families. Not pretentious.

And so I , Mrs.Y/n Gasly is again LOST!

LOST in His Radiant Smile!

PS - Please lemme know what do you think about LOST and also let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list ❤️

@peachiicherries @crimeshowjunkie @oblomovissad @torossosebs @janeholt3

just a girl

intro to…

m.list

Addilyn 'Addi' Loraine Jacinthe LeBlanc was born on April 4, 2000 in Long Island, New York. Growing up, her family was close friends with the Leclerc's, and the two families began to put their kids in karting after meeting Jules Bianchi.

Her older brothers Nolan and Louis both quit karting early on in life, Nolan reaching more towards baseball and Louis had his own dreams within golfing. However, the youngest and only girl of the family was absolutely in love with racing, and continued her journey all the way up to Formula 3 until Red Bull Racing signed a contract with her in 2019 to join their Formula 1 team during the 2020 season.

Addi soon became the headline of every news article out there, being the first woman to drive in Formula 1 in over 40 years while also being the first female Red Bull driver. She has a lot to prove, to her family, her team, the media, and herself. She has to prove that she's more than just a girl.

important people/users

nolanleblanc - nolan (oldest brother, new york yankees player) louisjuliusleblanc - louis (middle child, golf player) claire.newbet - claire (nolans girlfriend, fashion and travel vlogger) lori.rynold.leblanc - loraine (mom, artist) matheo.leblanc.3.40 - matheo (dad, ceo)

(ignore her bday on the twitter page, her birthday has changed since a couple times😭)

Summary: You had always loved him, would always do, however, did the oldest Bridgerton brother still like you after all that had happened between you? Are there any feelings that come back to the surface, after not seeing each other for years? Was the love truly unrequited?

Unrequited

Part 5

“Hmm..”, you had begun. “I think Daphne is going to marry a Duke someday. I just have a hunch.”, you had continued as you had leaned towards Anthony

“A Duke?”, Anthony had spat out. You had only raised your eyebrows in amusement. “What exactly is wrong about a Duke?”

Anthony had just shaken his head. “Just that every Duke I know is not a respectful man.”, Anthony had stated.

“I think the son of the Duke of Hastings is. He’s going to be one some day. And he’s quite hands-“

Anthony had rammed his elbow into your stomach, trying to silence you and looking at you in annoyance.

“What?”, you had laughed. “I think he’d be an excellent choice for your sister.”, you had grinned.

“Oh! And what about Lord Toussaint! He’s going to be a Duke someday, too. Oh I bet he’d be a nice husband.”, you had added, enjoying the way Anthony’s jaw clenched.

“None of them are going to marry Daphne, I assure you.”, Anthony had answered.

“Oh, come on! I’d marry one of them and Daphne would and we’d both be Duchesses.”

Anthony’s eyes had widened, turning to you with a stern look on his face. “Absolutely not. You are not going to marry Francois.”

You had leaned your head on Anthony’s shoulder, feeling more than safe when you had inhaled his scent. “Well, a Viscount wouldn’t be so bad, would he.”, you had mumbled, before your eyes had closed. You had been tired the whole day and feeling Anthony near you had brought you immediate comfort.

Anthony had needed a second to process what you had just said, and when he had, you had already drifted off into sleep.

And he had sat there, with you sleeping on his shoulders and a stupid love-struck grin plastered onto his face.

“And, did the Duke find a wife yet?”, you asked Francois, focusing on his shiny blonde hair rather than the stage.

You were avoiding it as long as you could, you would only be looking when the opera began, keeping your eyes on Francois as long as you could.

“He did not, unfortunately.”, Francois smiled at you. “I haven’t found the right one yet.”, he added quietly.

“You’re marrying for love?”, you rose your eyebrows, clearly surprised. Many men, such as Dukes, married only to seal an heir, a mere business arrangement.

“Mais, bien sûr! Of course! I’m a hopeless romantic.”, Francois laughed a little, his eyes sparkled when he did.

“I’m happy I met at least one man that believes in it.”, you grinned at him. “Why exactly though?”

Francois did not even take a second to answer. “I think love is the reason for our lives. We love to find love, to experience the feeling of it as it consumes your whole body and mind. We love to feel that pang in our chest, to feel our breath being taken away, to feel our heart beat quicken. I mean why else are we living? I wouldn’t want to have a wife who I don’t love, who doesn’t love me.”

You held your breath as Francois talked, thinking of Anthony the whole time he did. How he took your breath away, how your heart beat when he was near you, how your hands grew sweatier. “You’re very sweet, Francois.”

You could hear as the people grew quieter, the curtain slowly opening. You took a long breath, adverting your eyes from Francois to the scene in front of you.

You admired all the golden details admist the read of the opera, you admired that the Duke had his own box in there, assuming he was visiting the opera quiet often.

And when a beautiful young woman stepped into the stage, having brown curly hair and wearing a white shining dress, your breathing abruptly stopped.

Siena Rosso was beyond gorgeous, her hair shinier than yours, her eyes brighter than yours could ever be, her dress more beautiful than any you owned.

It was not only her appearance, it was the way she moved her hand so elegantly, the way she began singing and made it sound like a sweet poem whispered into your ear.

It seemed like she was everything you weren’t. The thing that hurt the most was not about how she looked, but that she had the thing that you wanted the most.

She had won the heart of Anthony Bridgerton.

When Francois caught on your distraught, he moved his hand over to yours, silently asking you for permission.

You looked down at your hands on your lap, before you nodded. Francois slowly took your hand into his, intertwining your fingers.

It brought you comfort, the way his hand was so warm, the way he slowly stroked it with his thumb. He wanted to help and you gladly accepted it.

“You know what my mother always told me?”, he whispered quietly, not expecting an answer.

“S'ils ne voient pas que l'amour fait partie de leur vie, alors ils ne méritent pas d'en faire l'expérience.”

You looked up at him, the words sounding more poetic than Sienna’s singing. Francois’ voice was so soothing, sounding absolutely beautiful to you.

“And what does it mean?”, you murmured, fascinated by the French language.

“If they don’t see that love is a part of their lives, then they don’t deserve to experience it.”

“It’s beautiful.”, you let out a shaky small laugh. “If he doesn’t see that love is a part of his life, he doesn’t get to experience love with you, ever.”, Francois explained to you, his thumb still stroking your skin.

You nodded at the man. “You’re right, my Lord.” Francois shook his head. “You can just call me Francois.”

“Thank you Francois.”

The two of you left your seats after everyone else, spending more time in catching up on your lives and talking than listening to the singers.

However, you knew that Siena had been a great singer, that her voice was beyond description beautiful.

So, as the two of you slandered along the seats, watching everything in awe, Francois took your hand and led you to the opera singers at the front.

You were lucky everyone had left, Francois taking your hand would be beyond scandalous. Nevertheless, the opera singers did not care.

“Bonsoir, Ladies.”, Francois smiled at them. “It was delighted to see you all, your performance was exceptional.”

You carefully watched as Siena scanned the both of you, looking between you suspiciously. “Your voice is truly a wonder.”, you addressed to her.

Siena turned to you and as much as you wanted to hate her, you couldn’t. It was not her fault in the slightest, she probably did not even know about your existence.

And when she offered you a small smile, you knew that she was just a woman like you, who had fallen in love with the undeniable charm and sweetness of Anthony Bridgerton- or former sweetness that is. ”You are flattering me.”, the brown-haired woman grinned.

You smiled back at her, Francois‘ hand squeezing yours in a sort of comfort. “I’ve never seen you around, are you new hear, my Lady?”

You shook her head. “I was living in the countryside for a few years. I must say, none of the opera singers their are even half as good as you all are.”

Siena grinned at Francois. “I already like her.”, she whispered as your eyes swiftly wandered around the opera, now empty and without the eyes of the ton on you.

“Thank you. And I guess you two-“, Siena brought your attention back, looking at your intertwined hands, then at your face and Francois’.

“Oh, no, we-“, you began, but Francois beat you to talking. “Not yet. I might have to prove my dancing skills to her and Lady Danbury to even be considered as a suitor.”, Francois looked down at you, his eyes shining with adoration.

You bit your lip, your cheeks getting warm as you looked at your feat, trying to hide your blush from both Siena and Francois.

“Well, I only wish you the best. Future Duke and Duchess.”, Siena winked at you, excusing herself in a rather rush as she walked to the changing rooms.

You furrowed your eyebrows, but brushed it off as you nodded at Francois to get going.

You shouldn’t have looked back one last time. You should have just walked out, without sparing the opera one last look.

You should have kept your attention on the man next to you, should have had a evening without any overthinking, without thoughts plaguing your mind the whole night.

However, something inside you had told you to look at it one last time, to let go and understand that Anthony Bridgerton could never be your man.

And when you saw the familiar brown hair, even if only the back, you felt quite literally like someone tried to push a dagger into your chest, trying to reach your heart.

Nonetheless, only when you let your thoughts wander even more, seeing as Anthony moved to the direction of the stage, quite possibly wanting to go behind them, your mind seemed to fully comprehend the situation.

He was walking into the same direction Siena had just rushed to. The dagger in your chest pushed harder until it finally did reach your heart.

Anthony was going to see Siena, their relationship was not an old one like you had hoped the whole time, Siena was still his mistress, his lover, the one who got to know the feeling of his soft lips on her, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his hands on her waist, of her hands in his, she could-

Siena was able to get to know what Anthony’s love felt like, because she was the one receiving it.

When Anthony entered the living room with sweat dripping down his forehead, a frown spread across his face and hair standing everywhere but where it should, Eloise and Benedict quickly hid the newest Lady Whistledown behind their backs, knowing exactly that if Anthony would read it, his state would only worsen.

“What is it?”, Anthony asked, stalking forward. Eloise’s eyes widened as she looked at Benedict, silently asking who should run away with the paper.

Before either of them could even stand up, the paper was snatched away from their hands, Anthony’s eyes scanning it carefully.

Eloise only watched as his jaw clenched, his fists balled. The oldest Bridgerton shook his head, mouth slightly agape as he spared Benedict Bridgerton a look.

Tears were already evident in his eyes, but he would never dear to shed them in front of his siblings.

Benedict shot him an apologetic look, trying to offer him a smile. Anthony just bit his lip and crunched the paper in his palm, throwing it as far away from his as he could, before stalking out the room with heavy steps.

Violet Bridgerton furrowed her eyebrows, picking up the paper and trying to unfold it, before reading what had made Anthony as mad.

And as it appears, dear readers, the Duke of Florence, Lord Toussaint, has finally set his eyes on a beautiful Lady, old childhood friend of his and without doubt the best choice for a new Duchess. Lord Toussaint was seen with her at the opera just yesterday, both of them leaning into each other a little bit too close for friends, whispering things without listening. However, as the author was not in the same box as them, I can only assume that their talking was surely not about the beautiful singing. I can only wish this to be the next love marriage this season.

“Well, I guess we have to invite Lord Toussaint for dinner tomorrow, too.”

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Cry Me A River | Masterpost

— pairing: bts x reader

— genre: angst, slight fluff, poly!au, mafia!au, arranged marriage!au

— status: ongoing

— warnings: (triggering topics! please read at your own discretion) childhood trauma, mental abuse, allusions to physical abuse, child neglect, manipulation, gaslighting, violence, mentions of assault, hurt and comfort, divorce, emotional neglect, minor character deaths, kidnapping, some emotionally unstable scenes

↳ there will likely be more specifics in certain chapters. just know that this series highlight some things that can be triggering to some

one. the breaking | you tried so hard to be enough

two. the lie | a house made of cards, they lived in your beautiful fairytale

three. the promise | if you told them about the darkness inside of you, would they still look at you like you're the sun?

four. the gentle heart | keep your heart warm, no matter how cold they have been to you

five. the void | no matter how many times you read a story over and over again, it always ends the same

six. the puppeteer | father wanted perfection, you fell in love with disorder

seven. the trial master | the only way to get rid of a buried memory is to face your past

eight. the scarlet drop | you can wipe someone's tears but not their memories

nine. coming soon...