malu

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Bad Days and Gentle Hands

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dividers by @cafekitsune

The Bad Day

Jason knew something was wrong the moment he climbed through your apartment window.

It wasn't the darkness, you sometimes preferred low lighting. It wasn't the silence, you weren't always chatty. It was the stillness. The apartment felt frozen, like time had stopped somewhere around Tuesday and hadn't started up again.

"Sweetheart?" he called softly, closing the window behind him. "You here?"

A muffled sound came from the bedroom.

He found you exactly where he'd feared: still in bed, despite it being 4 PM on a Saturday. The curtains were drawn. Your phone was face-down on the nightstand, probably on Do Not Disturb. A glass of water sat untouched next to it.

"Hey," he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Bad day?"

You made a noncommittal sound into your pillow.

Jason's heart ached. He knew this feeling, had lived it himself more times than he could count. The weight that made getting out of bed feel like lifting a building. The fog that made everything seem pointless. The voice that said you were worthless, broken, too much trouble.

He knew that voice intimately. He hated that you knew it too.

"Have you eaten today?" he asked.

A pause. Then a small shake of your head.

"Water?"

Another shake.

"Okay." He kept his voice calm, non-judgmental. "That's okay. We'll work on it. Can I sit with you?"

A tiny nod.

He kicked off his boots and climbed into bed beside you, not touching yet, just present. Close enough that you knew he was there, but giving you space to exist in your fog.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered quietly.

"There's nothing to talk about." Your voice was muffled, hollow. "That's the problem. Nothing happened. I just... woke up like this. Everything feels heavy and pointless and I can't remember why I'm supposed to care about anything."

"That's the depression talking."

"What if it's not? What if this is just... me? The real me, and everything else is just me pretending to be okay?"

Jason had asked himself that same question a thousand times. "It's not. I promise you, it's not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you. The real you likes terrible reality TV and argues with me about books and laughs at videos of cats being dramatic. The real you cares about things so much it hurts sometimes." He shifted slightly closer. "This is the illness. Not you."

You were quiet for a long moment. "I'm tired, Jason. I'm so tired of fighting my own brain."

"I know." He did know. God, he knew. "But you're not fighting alone. Not anymore."

The Anxiety Attack

The gala was a mistake.

You'd known it was a mistake when you agreed to come. Known it when you put on the fancy outfit. Known it when you walked into the crowded ballroom full of Gotham's elite, all of them talking and laughing and existing so effortlessly while you felt like an impostor in your own skin.

But Jason had asked, well, Bruce had asked, and Jason had given you the option to say no, but you'd seen the hope in his eyes. The desire to have you there, to show you off, to include you in his world.

So you'd said yes.

Now, thirty minutes in, you were regretting everything.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many eyes that might be looking at you, judging you, noticing all the ways you didn't fit. Your heart was racing. Your chest felt tight. The room was too hot, too small, closing in...

"Hey." Jason's voice cut through the spiral. His hand found yours, warm and solid. "Look at me."

You did, and his green eyes were steady, grounding.

"You're okay," he said quietly, angling his body to block you from the crowd. "You're safe. I've got you."

"I can't...there's too many... I need...."

"I know. Come on." He guided you through the crowd with practiced ease, his body a shield between you and everyone else. Out of the ballroom, down a hallway, into a quiet room that turned out to be some kind of library.

The silence was immediate and blessed.

"Breathe with me," Jason said, positioning himself in front of you. "In for four. You can do this. One, two, three, four..."

You tried to match him, your breath shaky and uneven.

"Good. Hold for four. One, two, three, four. Now out for four..."

It took several cycles, but slowly, slowly, the panic began to recede. The tightness in your chest eased. The world stopped closing in.

"There you go," Jason murmured. "You're doing great."

"I ruined the evening," you said miserably. "You wanted to be here, and I..."

"Stop." His hands came up to cup your face gently. "You didn't ruin anything. These things are boring as hell anyway. I only came because Bruce asked, and I only asked you because I wanted you to feel included. But your comfort matters more than some stupid gala."

"Bruce is going to think I'm..."

"Bruce is going to understand, because Bruce has anxiety too. Most of this family does." He pressed his forehead to yours. "You're not broken for struggling. You're not weak. You're fighting a real illness, and the fact that you're here, that you tried, that takes more strength than most people have."

Tears pricked your eyes. "I hate this. I hate feeling like this."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He pulled you into a hug, and you buried your face in his chest. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Bad days, anxiety attacks, all of it. You've got me, and I'm not going anywhere."

The Medication Talk

"I'm thinking about trying medication."

You said it quickly, nervously, while you and Jason were eating takeout on your couch. You'd been thinking about it for weeks, but saying it out loud felt huge. Vulnerable.

Jason looked up from his noodles. "Yeah?"

"My therapist suggested it. She thinks it might help with the depression and anxiety." You picked at your food. "I'm just... I don't know. What if it changes me? What if I get side effects? What if it doesn't work and I just feel like more of a failure..."

"Hey." Jason set down his food and turned to face you fully. "First of all, trying medication doesn't make you weak or broken. It makes you smart. If you had diabetes, you'd take insulin, right?"

"That's different..."

"It's literally not. Your brain has a chemical imbalance. Medication can help correct that. There's no shame in it."

You bit your lip. "Do you... have you ever...?"

"Tried meds? Yeah. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety medication, stuff to help with the PTSD nightmares. Some worked, some didn't. Finding the right one took time, but when I found what worked?" He squeezed your hand. "It helped. A lot. Didn't fix everything, but it made the bad days less bad. Made it easier to use the other coping skills."

"But what if I lose myself? What if the medication makes me feel flat or emotionless or not like me anymore?"

Jason was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "That can happen with the wrong medication or wrong dosage. But that's why you work with your doctor, adjust things, try different options. And if something makes you feel wrong, you stop taking it. You're in control here."

"I'm scared," you admitted quietly.

"That's okay. Being scared is okay." He pulled you closer. "But you don't have to be scared alone. I'll be here for all of it, the trial period, the adjustment phase, any side effects. If you want to try it, I support you. If you decide not to, I support that too. This is your choice."

You leaned into him. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not making me feel broken. For understanding."

"Sweetheart, you've never been broken. You're dealing with an illness. That's not the same thing." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "And for what it's worth? I think you're incredibly brave. Living with this every day, still getting up, still trying, that's strength."

The Therapy Day

Jason picked you up after therapy like he always did on Thursdays.

One look at your face told him it had been a rough session.

"Bad one?" he asked as you climbed into the car.

"Heavy one." You slumped in the seat. "We talked about... a lot. Childhood stuff. Trauma. The usual fun topics."

"Want to talk about it, or want to be distracted?"

This was your routine. After therapy, Jason always asked. Some days you needed to process out loud. Other days you needed to not think about it for a while.

"Distracted," you decided. "Definitely distracted."

"Arcade or bookstore?"

You managed a small smile. "You're going to judge me for this, but... arcade."

Jason gasped dramatically. "You? Choosing video games over books? Who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

"Shut up," you said, but you were smiling for real now. "I need to shoot fake zombies. It's therapeutic."

"Whatever you need, sweetheart."

At the arcade, Jason pumped quarters into every shooting game, racing game, and claw machine in the place. He was terrible at the claw machines, probably on purpose, and kept dramatically mourning the stuffed animals he failed to grab.

"Mr. Froggy was RIGHT THERE," he lamented. "I could have given him a good home."

"You're a crime lord. You can't have a stuffed frog named Mr. Froggy."

"That's exactly why I need Mr. Froggy. For balance."

You laughed, really laughed, and Jason's whole face lit up.

Later, driving home with a (purchased, not won) stuffed frog in your lap and cheap arcade pizza in your stomach, you felt lighter. Not fixed, not cured, but lighter.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

"For what? Losing embarrassingly at every game?"

"For knowing what I needed. For being patient with me. For not making me feel like I'm too much work."

Jason reached over and took your hand. "You're never too much work. Taking care of you isn't work, it's a privilege. Bad therapy days, good therapy days, all of it. I'm here."

The Relapse

You'd been doing better. Medication adjusted, therapy consistent, coping skills improving. You'd had almost three good weeks in a row.

Then you crashed.

Hard.

Jason found you on the bathroom floor at 2 AM, sobbing so hard you could barely breathe.

"I don't want to be here anymore," you gasped out. "I can't... I can't do this anymore..."

His blood went cold. "Can't do what, sweetheart? Talk to me."

"This. Living. Fighting. It's too hard. I'm so tired. I just want it to stop."

Jason's hands were shaking as he pulled you into his lap, but his voice stayed calm. Steady. "Okay. Okay, I hear you. Are you thinking about hurting yourself right now?"

A pause. Then: "I don't... I don't think so. I don't want to die, I just... I want the pain to stop."

"Okay. That's okay. That's good." He was mentally running through the crisis plan you'd made together months ago. "I'm going to call your therapist's emergency line. And I'm going to stay right here with you. You're not alone. Not for a second."

"I'm sorry," you sobbed. "I'm sorry, I was doing so well, and now..."

"Recovery isn't linear. You know this. We've talked about this." He kept his arms around you, solid and safe. "Having a setback doesn't erase your progress. It just means you need extra support right now. That's what I'm here for."

He called your therapist. Made a plan. Didn't leave your side.

At 4 AM, when you'd finally cried yourself out and were just exhausted, he carried you to bed.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, climbing in beside you. "I'm right here. For as long as you need me."

"What if I always need you?"

"Then I'll always be here." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Bad days, relapses, all of it. I'm not scared of your illness, and I'm not going to leave because things get hard. That's not how this works."

"How does it work?"

"We fight together. Some days you'll be strong enough to fight on your own, and I'll cheer you on. Other days you'll need help, and I'll be right there in the trenches with you. That's what partners do."

You curled into him. "I love you."

"I love you too. So much." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Now try to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

The Good Day

It was a good day.

Not perfect, you still took your medication, still felt the occasional flutter of anxiety, still had moments where the depression whispered lies. But it was good.

You woke up and wanted to get out of bed. You had energy. You made breakfast. You felt like existing.

Jason noticed immediately.

"There's that smile," he said, pulling you into a kiss in the kitchen. "Good day?"

"Good day," you confirmed. "I feel almost normal. Is this what normal people feel like all the time?"

"If it is, they don't appreciate it enough." He spun you around dramatically, making you laugh. "What do you want to do? Sky's the limit."

You thought about it. "Something small. Coffee shop? Walk in the park? I don't want to push it too hard."

"Smart." He grabbed his jacket. "Let's go be aggressively normal together."

At the coffee shop, you ordered a complicated drink and didn't feel anxious about it. At the park, you pointed out dogs and made Jason rate them. You held hands and talked about nothing important and felt light.

"Thank you," you said at one point.

"You keep thanking me. For what?"

"For staying. For all the bad days. For not leaving when things got hard."

Jason stopped walking and turned to face you. "Hey. Look at me." When you did, his expression was intense. Serious. "I'm not here just for the good days. I'm here for all of it. The days you can't get out of bed. The days anxiety wins. The days you feel like giving up. Those days don't make me love you less, they make me love you more, because I get to see how hard you fight. How strong you really are."

"I don't feel strong."

"You are. You're one of the strongest people I know." He cupped your face gently. "And on the days you can't see that, I'll remember it for you. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good. Now come on, there's a corgi over there that I need you to rate. I'm thinking solid 11/10."

You laughed and let him pull you along, feeling lighter than you had in weeks.

The depression would come back. The anxiety would spike again. There would be more bad days, more struggles, more fights with your own brain.

But you wouldn't face them alone.

And that made all the difference.

Author's Note: Mental illness is real, valid, and nothing to be ashamed of. If you're struggling, please reach out for help, whether that's therapy, medication, crisis lines, or trusted friends and family. You deserve support, and you deserve to feel better.

You're not broken. You're not too much. You're fighting a real illness, and that takes incredible strength.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

The Republic was beginning to fracture. On Naboo, Elain, a young seer in service to the Queen, dreamed of a Jedi she had never met. The Force urged her to wait in the golden fields beyond Theed when, moments later, a starfighter tore across the sky, trailing smoke before crashing into the plains. Its pilot was Jedi Master Lucien Vanserra, forced to crash-land on Naboo after a mission went terribly wrong.

Neither of them knew that the Force had been guiding them toward this meeting all along.

S𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝑬𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏 🌌💗

Krissy, Amanda, and I are so thrilled to finally be able to share this art! The lovely wictorian_art did such an incredible job drawing Elain and Lucien. The charged looks, tension, and angst in this art is top tier 🤌

Thank you so much wictorian_art for creating this magnificent artwork. It’s always a pleasure to work with you! 💗💗

When Lucien introduces himself:

"Lucien," my captor said quietly, the name echoing with a hint of a snarl. "Behave."

Lucien went rigid, but he hopped off the edge of the table and bowed deeply to me. "My apologies, lady." Another joke at my expense. "I'm Lucien. Courtier and emissary." He gestured to me with a flourish. "Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold."

When Lucien is intrigued by Feyre:

"Well," Lucien said, his remaining russet eye fixed on me, "you don't look half as bad now. A relief, I suppose, since you're to live with us. Though the tunic isn't as pretty as a dress."

When Lucien wants to know if Feyre thinks he's hot:

"Thank you for the meal," I said. It was all I could think of. "Won't you stay for wine?" Lucien said with sweet venom from where he lounged in his seat. I braced my hands on my chair to rise. "I'm tired. I'd like to sleep." "It's been a few decades since I last saw one of you," Lucien drawled, "but you humans never change, so I don't think I'm wrong in asking why you find our company to be so unpleasant, when surely the men back home aren't much to look at." At the other end of the table, Tamlin gave his emissary a long, warning look. Lucien ignored it. "You're High Fae," I said tightly. "I'd ask why you'd even bother inviting me here at all-or dining with me." Fool-I really should have been killed ten times over already. Lucien said, "True. But indulge me: you're a human woman, and yet you'd rather eat hot coals than sit here longer than necessary. Ignoring this"-he waved a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face-"surely we're not so miserable to look at."

When Feyre leaves their first dinner together:

He gave a distant nod and motioned for me to leave. Dismissed. Like the lowly human I was. Lucien propped his chin on a fist and gave me a lazy half smile. Enough. I got to my feet and backed toward the door. Putting my back to them would have been like walking away from a wolf, sparing my life or no. They said nothing when I slipped out the door. A moment later, Lucien's barking laugh echoed into the halls, followed by a sharp, vicious growl that shut him up.

When Lucien notices Feyre checking him out:

Lucien paused, and I found him smirking at me, making the scar even more brutal. "Were you admiring my sword, or just contemplating killing me, Feyre?"

When Lucien is a sarcastic motherfucker:

“So is this what you do with your lives? Spare humans from the Treaty and have fine meals?” I gave a pointed glance toward Tamlin’s baldric, the warrior’s clothes, Lucien’s sword. Lucien smirked. “We also dance with the spirits under the full moon and snatch human babes from their cradles to replace them with changelings–”

When Lucien describes Amaratha perfectly:

"What happened to the magic to make it act that way?" Lucien let out a harsh laugh. "Something was sent from the shit-holes of Hell," he said, then glanced around and swore. "I shouldn't have said that. If word got back to her-"

When they run into the Boggee:

"I heard its voice in my head. It told me to look." Lucien rolled his shoulders. "Well, thank the Cauldron that you didn't. Cleaning up that mess would have ruined the rest of my day." He gave me a wan smile. I didn't return it.

When he gives Feyre a title:

"Are you a warrior, though?" Would you be able to kill me if it ever came to that? Lucien huffed a laugh. "Not as good as Tam, but I know how to handle my weapons." He patted the hilt of his sword. "Would you like me to teach you how to wield a blade, or do you already know how, oh mighty mortal huntress?

When Lucien just needs someone to spar with:

“Do you ever stop being so serious and dull?" "Do you ever stop being such a prick?" I snapped back. Dead—really, truly, I should have been dead for that. But Lucien grinned at me. "Much better.

When Lucien and Feyre spend quality time together:

Over the next three days, I found myself joining Lucien on Andras's old patrol while Tamlin hunted the grounds for the Bogge, unseen by us. Despite being an occasional bastard, Lucien didn't seem to mind my company, and he did most of the talking, which was fine; it left me to brood over the consequences of firing a single arrow. An arrow. I never fired a single one during those three days we rode along the border. That very morning I'd spied a red doe in a glen and aimed out of instinct, my arrow poised to fly right into her eye as Lucien sneered that she was not a faerie, at least. But I'd stared at her-fat and healthy and content-and then slackened the bow, replaced the arrow in my quiver, and let the doe wander on.

When Lucien diagnoses Faerie problems perfectly:

A brush of ice slithered across my nape. "He would be that brutal?" Lucien studied the wine in his goblet. "You don't hold on to power by being everyone's friend. And among the faeries, lesser and High Fae alike, a firm hand is needed. We're too powerful, and too bored with immortality, to be checked by anything else."

When Lucien is told to Back Off, so he exacts his revenge:

Lucien's russet eye was bright, though the smile he gave me didn't meet it. The face of Tamlin's emissary-more court-trained and calculating than I'd seen him yet. "I'm unavailable today," he said. He jerked his chin to Tamlin. "He'll go with you." Tamlin shot his friend a look of disdain that he took few pains to hide. His usual baldric was armed with more knives than I'd seen before, and their ornate metal handles glinted as he turned to me, his shoulders tight. "Whenever you want to go, just say so." The claws of his free hand slipped back under his skin. No. I almost said it aloud as I turned pleading eyes to Lucien. Lucien merely patted my shoulder as he passed by. "Perhaps tomorrow, human."

When Lucien hides:

"I had to go sort out some hotheads on the northern border-official emissary business," he said, setting down the hunting knife he'd been cleaning, a long, vicious blade. "I got back in time to hear your little spat with Tam, and decided I was safer up here. I'm glad to hear your human heart has warmed to me, though. At least I'm not on the top of your killing list."

When Lucien and Feyre become friends after he tells her how to trap a Suriel:

Another riddle-and another bit of information. I said, "It's a good thing that while you have superior hearing, I possess superior abilities to keep my mouth shut." He snorted as I took the knife from the table and turned to procure the bow from my room. "I think I'm starting to like you-for a murdering human."

When Lucien is day drinking and living his best life:

“Would you like me to grovel with gratitude for bringing me here, High Lord?" "Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?" That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. "He also said that you liked being brushed, and if I'm a clever girl, I might train you with treats." Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a quiet laugh. "I might die of surprise," Lucien said behind me. "You made a joke, Feyre." I turned to look at him with a cool smile. "You don't want to know what the Suriel said about you." I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat. "I'd pay good money to hear what the Suriel thinks of Lucien," Tamlin said. A cork popped, followed by the sounds of Lucien chugging the bottle's contents and chuckling with a muttered, "Brushed.”

When Lucien is incredibly casual for a guy going to an orgy:

What?”

Lucien laughed. “Yes—all those female faeries around you were females for Tamlin to pick. It’s an honor to be chosen, but it’s his instincts that select her.”

“But you were there—and other male faeries.” My face burned so hot that I began sweating. That was why those three horrible faeries had been there—and they’d thought that just by my presence, I was happy to comply with their plans.

“Ah.” Lucien chuckled. “Well, Tam’s not the only one who gets to perform the rite tonight. Once he makes his choice, we’re free to mingle. Though it’s not the Great Rite, our own dalliances tonight will help the land, too.

When Lucien is the mom friend:

"You look . . . refreshed," Lucien observed with a glance at Tamlin. I shrugged. "Sleep well?" "Like a babe." I smiled as him and took another bite of food, and felt Lucien's eyes travel inexorably to my neck. "What is that bruise?" Lucien demanded. I pointed my fork to Tamlin. "Ask him, he did it." Lucien looked from Tamlin to me and then back again. "Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?" he asked with no small amount of amusement.

When Lucien loves drama:

"Accountable?" I sputtered, placing my hands flat on the table. "You cornered me in the hall like a wolf with a rabbit!" Lucien propped an arm on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, his russet eye bright. "While I might not have been myself, Lucien and I both told you to stay in your room," Tamlin said, so calmly that I wanted to rip out my hair. I couldn't help it. Didn't even try to fight the red-hot temper that razed my senses. "Faerie pig!" I yelled, and Lucien howled, almost tipping back in his chair. At the sight of Tamlin's growing smile, I left.

When Lucien bolts:

“I had to keep my hands clenched at my sides to avoid wiping my sweaty palms on the skirts of my gown as I reached the dining room, and immediately contemplated bolting upstairs and changing into a tunic and pants. But I knew they’d already heard me, or smelled me, or used whatever heightened senses they had to detect my presence, and since fleeing would only make it worse, I found it in myself to push open the double doors.

Whatever discussion Tamlin and Lucien had been having stopped, and I tried not to look at their wide eyes as I strode to my usual place at the end of the table.

“Well, I’m late for something incredibly important,” Lucien said, and before I could call him on his outright lie or beg him to stay, the fox-masked faerie vanished.

When Feyre goes to a party:

"Cauldron boil me," Lucien whistled as I came down the stairs. "She looks positively Fae." ...

I squared my shoulders, disinclined to let him see how much his words or voice or sheer well-being impacted me. Not yet. "I'm surprised I'm even allowed to participate tonight." "Unfortunately for you and your neck," Lucien countered, "tonight's just a party." "Do you lie awake at night to come up with all your witty replies for the following day?" Lucien winked at me, and Tamlin laughed and offered me his arm. "He's right,"....

"So there's singing and dancing and excessive drinking," Lucien chimed in, falling into step beside me. "And dallying," he added with a wicked grin.

When Lucien plays a prank:

"I also remember you telling me how witchberries were harmless, and the next thing I knew, I was half-delirious and falling all over myself," I said, recalling the afternoon from a few weeks ago. I'd had hallucinations for hours afterward, and Lucien had laughed himself sick-enough so that Tamlin had chucked him into the reflection pool...."

When Feyre gets drunk of Faerie Wine:

“Tam would gut me if he caught you drinking that.”

“Always looking after your best interests,” I said, and pointedly chugged the contents of the glass. It was like a million fireworks exploding inside me, filling my veins with starlight. I laughed aloud, and Lucien groaned.

“Human fool,” he hissed.

But his glamour had been ripped away. His auburn hair burned like hot metal, and his russet eye smoldered like a bottomless forge. That was what I would capture next.

“I’m going to paint you,” I said, and giggled—actually giggled—as the words popped out.

"Cauldron boil and fry me,” he muttered, and I laughed again.”

When Lucien is hungover and third-wheeling:

Lucien kept rubbing at his temples as he ate, unusually silent, and I hid my smile as I asked him, “And where were you last night?” Lucien’s metal eye narrowed on me. “I’ll have you know that while you two were dancing with the spirits, I was stuck on border patrol.” Tamlin gave a pointed cough, and Lucien added, “With some company.” He gave me a sly grin. “Rumor has it you two didn’t come back until after dawn.” I glanced at Tamlin, biting my lip. I’d practically floated into my bedroom that morning. But Tamlin’s gaze now roved my face as if searching for any tinge of regret, of fear. Ridiculous. “You bit my neck on Fire Night,” I said under my breath. “If I can face you after that, a few kisses are nothing.” He braced his forearms on the table as he leaned closer to me. “Nothing?” His eyes flicked to my lips. Lucien shifted in his seat, muttering to the Cauldron to spare him, but I ignored him. “Nothing,” I repeated a bit distantly, watching Tamlin’s mouth move, so keenly aware of every movement he made, resenting the table between us. I could almost feel the warmth of his breath. “Are you sure?” he murmured, intent and hungry enough that I was glad I was sitting. He could have had me right there, on top of that table. I wanted his broad hands running over my bare skin, wanted his teeth scraping against my neck, wanted his mouth all over me. “I’m trying to eat,” Lucien said.”

When Lucien drops one of the best lines in the book:

"I see," I lied, not quite seeing at all. Lucien chuckled, sensing it, and I glared sidelong at him. "You've been noticeably absent again." He used the dagger to clean his nails. "I've been busy. So have you, I take it." "What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded. "If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?"

When Lucien doesn't know what is coming in the future:

Downstairs, Lucien snorted at the sight of me. "Those clothes are enough to convince me I never want to enter the human realm." "I'm not sure the human realm would know what to do with you," I said. Lucien's smile was edged, his shoulders tight as he gave a sharp look behind me to where Tam was waiting in front of a gilded carriage. When he turned back, that metal eye narrowed. "I thought you were smarter than this."

When Lucien admires Feyre's attitude:

“Don’t you understand what Rhys is?” “I do!” I barked, then sighed. “I do,” I repeated, and glared at the eye in my palm. “It’s done with. So you needn’t hold to whatever oath you swore to Tamlin to protect me—or feel like you owe me anything for saving you from Amarantha. I would have done it just to wipe the smirk off your brothers’ faces.” Lucien clicked his tongue, but his remaining russet eye shone. “I’m glad to see you didn’t sell your lively human spirit or stubbornness to Rhys.”

When Lucien is a fashionista:

Lucien had gifted both to me—the dagger during the months before Amarantha, the belt in the weeks after her downfall, when I’d carried the dagger, along with many others, everywhere I went. You might as well look good if you’re going to arm yourself to the teeth, he’d said.

When game recognize game

“Cursebreaker,” some murmured. “Blessed,” others whispered.

I made a show of looking surprised—surprised and yet accepting of the Cauldron’s choice. Tamlin’s face was taut with shock, the Hybern royals’ nothing short of baffled.

But I turned to Lucien, my light radiating so brightly that it bounced off his metal eye. A friend beseeching another for help. I reached a hand toward him.

Beyond us, I could feel Ianthe scrambling to regain control, to find some way to spin it.

Perhaps Lucien could, too. For he took my hand, and then knelt upon one knee in the grass, pressing my fingers to his brow.

When Lucien is scared of Amren:

“I think Amren would probably deny that she feels any affection for us—”

“Amren is a bedtime story they told us as younglings to make us behave. Amren was who would drink my blood and carry me to hell if I acted out of line. And yet there she was, acting more like a cranky old aunt than anything.”

“We don’t—we don’t enforce protocol and rank here.”

“Obviously. Rhys lives in a town house, by the Cauldron.” He waved an arm to encompass the city.

When Lucien is a little murderous:

“You’re working with that prick,” Cassian cut in, whatever catching-up now over, apparently. He moved to Mor’s side, a hand on her back. He shook his head at Azriel and Rhys, disgust curling his lip. “You should have spiked Eris’s fucking head to the front gates.”

Azriel only watched them with that icy indifference. But Lucien crossed his arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “I have to agree with Cassian. Eris is a snake.”

When Lucien volunteers to go on a quest:

“You will be going into the human territory,” Rhys warned. “I can’t spare a force to guard you—”

“I don’t need one. I travel faster on my own.” His chin lifted. “I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces … I’ll find a way to do that, too.”

My friends glanced to each other. Mor said, “It will be—very dangerous.”

A half smile curved Lucien’s mouth. “Good. It’d be boring otherwise.

When Lucien makes a friend

“Not for long—not if Vassa has anything to do with it.”

“You sound like an acolyte.”

day 6 | scars good luck to whoever tries to keep elain away from lucien's scar

“I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.”

This recent debate about the next three books focusing on just one couple, whether that's Elain and Lucien or Gwyn and Azriel, made me think about something that feels really important: the need for a Multi-POV structure.

I know it's natural for every fandom to want their favorite couple to have the spotlight. But ACOTAR has become so much bigger, especially after HOFAS, that I just can't imagine three huge books being carried by the POVs of only one couple.

Characters like Nesta, Azriel, Lucien, and Elain still have so much left to explore. Even Mor, Eris, Gwyn, Emerie, and maybe even the Lady of Autumn and Helion have storylines that deserve attention.

For Elucien alone, there's already enough material for a book the size of ACOSF or HOFAS. Their bond, the Autumn Court, the Day Court, the human lands, Vassa, Koschei... there's so much going on. But stretching that into three massive books (probably over 2,000 pages combined) feels unlikely.

It's not that Elain isn't important enough. She absolutely is. The issue is the scale of the story. If everything is limited to only Elain's or Lucien's perspective, a lot of other important characters and storylines would inevitably lose space. Sarah herself has said that this universe has expanded, so what would be the point of expanding it if not to explore those stories?

The ending of HOFAS, especially with Nesta and Azriel, doesn't feel like it's setting up a smaller story. It feels like it's opening the door to an even bigger one. A Multi-POV format would let every character get the development they need without forcing one couple to carry the weight of the entire series. Years ago, Sarah even said she'd like to tell the stories of Elain, Mor, and Azriel. What if those stories are now connected?

I honestly think that approach would make the next books richer and more satisfying. It would allow every storyline to grow naturally while keeping the world connected, which is one of the biggest strengths of Maas's writing.

"𝓨𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘'𝓶 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼"

𝓔𝓵𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓮𝓷 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴 - 𝓓𝓪𝔂 𝟛

𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙺 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶

𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴

Elucien Week Day 3: Peak Yearning

I didn’t get to finish this piece I was working on, in time for today, but I thought I’d share the unfinished version anyway!! Obviously most of it is just sketches and the painting isn’t finished (you can see by how Lucien is just flat colour and Elain is half finished 🥲) but I hope you guys like it anyway and hopefully I’ll finish it one day !!!

It’s based on my favourite scene from pride and prejudice (2005) , the movie always gives me elucien vibes, with how Elizabeth is avoidant of Darcy (even telling him he’s the last man on earth she would marry…very much giving “I don’t want a mate”), yet he yearns for her.

The hand flex scene is iconic and I can totally see something like that happening with Elucien and I can’t wait !!!