#7.

AMBROSIA.

[hausofmoreaux]

lucien ambrose emile thorne moreaux. “saint lucien.” 09/09/????. ferrari f1 driver. immortal aristocrat (vampire). virgo. dangerously flawless— too fast, too perfect, too untouchable.

place of birth: monte-carlo, monaco. / nationality: monégasque (ethnically korean). / residing in: yongsan, seoul — a jet-black, three-story house as private and intimidating as he is. / housing: owns multiple residences; primary home in korea, secondary estate in monaco facing the water. / myers-briggs: intj — the architect. / occupation: formula one driver — ferrari #7. / parents: father (korean, taken into nobility long ago). / siblings: none. / pets: none (yet). / supernatural: ancient vampire. turned at 23 by someone who recognized the monster he already was — a serial killer gifted the bite just to see what he’d become. for years, lucien was worse than imagined: he’s drained entire villages for sport. now? boredom has tempered his hunger. he seeks more… refined amusements. / height: 6’4” (193cm). / weight: 85kg (187lbs). / built: muscled, elegant, tall — posture straight as a ruler. / complexion: pale with golden undertones when well-fed (death-white when starved; he feeds daily, so he’s always tan). / eye colour: dark brown; glows red in shadow when the predator stirs. / hair: black, clean-cut (he’s trying to grow it out, but his stylist has other plans). / faceclaim: jungkook (bts).

⤷ ✶ warning: themes of murder, obsession, perfection, emotional/psychological detachment, and the destruction of a man who was already broken.

personality: • publicly: a playboy with a thirst for champagne on a podium—charismatic, unbothered, always camera-ready • privately: obsessive. controlled. deeply perfectionistic. he needs order, needs precision. anything less makes his skin crawl • flirts like it’s sport and usually? he doesn’t sleep with the same person twice. • pretends he’s careless. he’s not. he notices everything, down to the way someone breathes when they lie • obsessive with routine—his space, his schedule, his image. nothing is ever out of place unless he put it there • loyal only to control. possessive when something—or someone—belongs to him • doesn’t believe in love, but he collects people like they’re precious. • centuries of pretending to be human, and still no one’s caught him slipping.

vibe: • all eyes on him—and he knows it • always in control. • kisses with intent. touches like he’s memorizing you. forgets you when he’s done • doesn’t chase—makes you come to him, over and over • the kind of man who turns heads, ruins lives, and still leaves the party spotless • charming, magnetic, and just a little too precise to be human

[hausofmoreaux]

heir. monaco, just after midnight. december 25th, 2025.

the palace hadn’t changed. lights low. fire lit. air sharp with salt and lavender. the staff were long asleep, but the house was awake. it always was when he came back.

lucien walked in with the kid tucked against him. no words. no bags. just weight and silence. the boy stirred once in his arms, let out a small sound. not a cry. just something alive. soft and new and too warm against him.

sian. five months old. born in july. heavier now. breathing steady against lucien’s chest. cheek pressed into the collar of his coat. fingers curled into the fabric like they’d always belonged there. he moved like he wasn’t afraid of him.

lucien didn’t speak. didn’t look at the portraits. didn’t glance at the mirrors. just crossed the hall and headed for the last door. the one no one else touched. he pushed it open.

the tomb room was cold. preserved. the air inside hadn’t shifted in months. it didn’t need to. moonlight poured in through the tall windows. it caught the marble first. the tomb. the ivy curling up the base. no one had trimmed it. he’d told them not to.

above it. the painting. her.

she hadn’t changed. she never would.

lucien stepped inside. the breath he took came too tight. he wasn’t sure why. not at first. then he looked at her. really looked. and realized he’d started to forget. not everything. not her voice or her hands. not the way she used to straighten his collar when he was angry. but the shape of her mouth. the angle of her eyes. the edges were fading. and seeing her now, full and still and painted in light, it hit him harder than he expected.

she was real again.

the boy stirred against his chest. breath caught once. then evened. he shifted beneath the blanket and made another sound. faint. but there. lucien adjusted his hold. not to comfort him. just to keep him close. it wasn’t warmth. not really. but it was close enough.

he looked up.

“bonsoir, maman.”

he lowered the blanket slightly. enough for her eyes to find him.

“this is him.”

a beat.

“sian étienne armand moreaux ryu.”

he said it like he wanted the room to remember. he didn’t explain why it took this long. didn’t say what happened in july. didn’t say what it felt like to see history repeat itself through a mouth that couldn’t speak yet. he just stood there.

“he has your eyes.”

his voice softened there. not gentle. just quiet.

he looked at her like she might speak. like she’d step down and touch his arm the way she used to when he was spiralling. but she stayed still. so he kept going.

“you got on a ship with a name and a knife. ran because they would have killed us. they didn’t want you. they didn’t want me.”

he looked down at the boy.

“and now i’m here. holding one of my own.”

sian kicked once beneath the wool. not hard. not loud. just enough.

“not royal. not wanted.”

he blinked once.

“but alive.”

he took a breath.

“i’m not proud of how he got here.”

his voice stayed even. not cold. not cracked.

“but i didn’t run.”

his jaw shifted. barely.

“i thought about it. i really did. but i stayed.”

the baby shifted again. his breath touched lucien’s collarbone.

“i won’t leave him. even if i don’t know how to do this.”

he paused.

“i’ll try. with her.”

another pause.

“even if she makes me want to rip my own throat out.”

his mouth twitched. not a smile. just weight.

he looked back at her.

“watch him.”

a breath.

“please.”

he didn’t say goodbye. he never did. he stayed a little longer. long enough to remember her right. then turned. the door clicked shut behind him.

and she kept watching. the way she always had. the way she always would.

[hausofmoreaux]

F1 HEARTTHROB LUCIEN MOREAUX’S YONGSAN MANSION BROKEN INTO

a late-night break-in at lucien moreaux’s yongsan mansion has left fans and neighbors stunned. the trespasser reportedly bypassed multiple layers of security before being caught inside the property.

police confirmed an arrest was made, but moreaux himself was not at home at the time. his absence has fueled speculation online, with some fans questioning where the driver was during the incident.

a representative for moreaux issued a brief statement this morning:

lucien is grateful for the quick response of the authorities. while he was not present during the incident, the violation of his private space is being taken seriously. his focus remains on his upcoming race schedule.

the mansion, already famous for its striking black exterior, has once again put the spotlight on the dangers of celebrity obsession. hashtags like #moreauxmansion and #protectlucien began trending overnight as fans expressed both outrage and curiosity.

[hausofmoreaux]

scene: the weight under my ribs

he stands outside the door longer than he should. doesn’t knock. doesn’t move.

he just feels… off. not tense. not calm. just like something’s already happening on the other side of the wall and he’s late for it.

he doesn’t realize what it is. not yet. there’s a flicker in the back of his head—color, maybe. something soft. something warm. but he ignores it.

then the door opens.

mel. sweater sleeves pushed up. baby in her arms. yeonu is watching him. quiet. still. eyes wide. they look brown. but lucien knows better.

he hesitates. just for a second.

he doesn’t know why. not yet.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

he’s sitting somewhere quiet— on the balcony, in a lounge chair, with a shirt half-buttoned like he forgot how to the rest—and suddenly… he hears it. not words exactly, but something unmistakably his son. a raw, chaotic swirl of feelings and fragments: colors, hunger, confusion, warmth, that desperate baby-thought of where are you? even if lucien is right there.

and it hits him. he can hear him.

just like a newborn. just like someone he’s turned.

he’s felt this before. the echo. the weight. the bond that hums when someone’s tethered to you. he’s created it before—on purpose. with teeth. and he’s felt what comes when it breaks.

his grip tightens on the glass.

“so, you really are mine.”

not just blood. not just legacy. not just a boy that looks a bit like him.

but linked. heart to heart. mind to mind.

lucien leans back into the chair. feels it—all of it. a soft weight, curling under his ribs like it always knew where to land.

then— a sound.

not loud. not sharp. just the tiniest stir behind the glass doors.

lucien turns his head.

inside, the baby shifts. not crying. not restless. just… moving. like he felt it too. like the bond nudged him awake.

his fingers curl. his eyes don’t open. but lucien can feel it: that small flare of blue, sleepy and slow, pulsing into his mind.

there you are.

lucien doesn’t answer. not out loud. but the glass in his hand tilts slightly, forgotten. and for the first time in hours, maybe days, he exhales.

[hausofmoreaux]

heartbeat.

the kid wasn’t small. not soft, not breakable. just… new. too new. red and loud and breathing like he already had something to prove. they said “premature,” but lucien had seen smaller things die screaming— this one looked like he might bite back. he stood in the corner of the room, silent, still, not blinking. not moving. he didn’t need rest. didn’t need food. just needed the noise to stop. the monitor beeping. the hiccups. the nurse asking if he was the father like it was a title he’d earned. he hadn’t. not really. but the baby was there. his. and that made it real. uncomfortable. permanent. lucien didn’t speak. didn’t touch. just stood there and watched something alive with his blood in it fight to stay that way.

the heartbeat was the first thing he noticed. fast. frantic. not panicked— just alive. maddeningly, undeniably alive. lucien didn’t need to be close to hear it. it thudded through the walls, tugged at something in his chest he thought he’d buried. not hunger. not really. but not softness either. he held the kid because they told him to, and the moment he did, the room tilted. the warmth hit first— hot, pulsing, electric beneath paper-thin skin. his blood, somehow. but purer. newer. untouched by teeth or death or whatever he’d become.

he didn’t feel awe. he felt wrong. like he shouldn’t be allowed to hold something so loud with life. the baby wriggled once, settled against him like it meant nothing. lucien didn’t breathe. didn’t blink. just stared down at this stubborn, premature thing that refused to be small. and for the first time in years, he felt something close to fear— not for the kid, but for himself. because this wasn’t a monster. this wasn’t a mistake. this was his.

and it had a heartbeat he couldn’t unhear.

[hausofmoreaux]

𝒎𝒂𝒙 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒎𝒚... 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒋𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒐𝒖𝒍?

fans spotted max verstappen on a commercial flight to belgium earlier this week, which wouldn’t be suspicious—if his private jet hadn’t been tracked to seoul. the internet immediately connected the dots: lucien moreaux left belgium tuesday. the jet arrived in seoul wednesday. max flew coach. coincidence? no one thinks so.

[hausofmoreaux]

𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

ferrari’s lucien moreaux was a no-show at thursday’s media duties in spa. while the team says he was “attending to a personal matter,” the fia confirmed they’re reviewing the situation. fines or reprimands may follow if no formal excuse is submitted.

[hausofmoreaux]

POST-RACE INTERVIEW | SILVERSTONE 2025

q: luc, how would you sum up your race today?

"a disaster. easily the worst race i’ve had in.. probably in my career. i’ve crashed. i’ve DNF’d. but this? this was slow death. no pace, no grip, no chance. and i had to feel every second of it."

q: can you walk us through the decision to pit for slicks before the start?

"i thought it was a risk worth taking. i saw a dry line, i trusted my gut. my gut was wrong. simple as that."

q: do you regret it?

“regret’s a luxury. i don’t get to have that during a race. you make the call, you commit. regret comes after. in the quiet. when you’re staring at a ceiling at 3 a.m. and you can't sleep.”

q: you seemed frustrated on the radio—

"you heard it? good. i meant every word. it wasn’t drama. it was honesty."

q: do you blame the team at all for how things played out?

"no. the call was mine. i don’t point fingers when i’m the one holding the knife."

q: what do you take away from this weekend?

“don’t trust a british sky. and maybe listen to the part of you that says 'not yet' before the part that says 'fuck it.'”

q: anything you want to say to the fans?

“thanks for sticking around. sorry if i let you down. i know i let myself down.”

[hausofmoreaux]

hunger.

on race days, lucien becomes something else entirely. not the playboy the cameras worship, not the flirt fans scream for — something colder. more.. calculating. he wakes at 4:44 a.m. sharp. espresso. cardio. blood— unethically sourced, stored, never messy. it’s not about thirst. it’s about control.

his warm-up is a ritual: 200 push-ups. barefoot laps on cold marble. tennis ball reflex drills against the wall— no bounce wasted, no drop allowed. vocal exercises disguised as karaoke. “after dark.” “talk.” “get you.” every note deliberate. every breath locked in. he doesn’t speak unless spoken to. doesn’t joke. showers in silence. dresses with steady hands and muscle memory— like he’s done it a thousand times. because he has.

he arrives before anyone else. no cameras. no fan cams. by the time the paddock wakes up, lucien’s already walked the circuit. already changed. already waiting. at the garage, his team doesn’t ask questions. gloves arranged by wear: the newest for qualifying, the oldest for rain, the lucky pair— untouched since monaco. helmet polished until the reflection doesn’t blink. neither does he.

he keeps a pocket watch in his suit pocket. old, heavy, still ticking. he never checks it. it’s not there for time. it’s there to remind him he’s not running out of any.

he doesn’t get nervous. his heart doesn’t race. it hasn’t in over 300 years.

and when the lights go out? it’s not adrenaline. not instinct.

it’s hunger.