#if youre reading this please commission me

[aimfor-theheart]

to break first

|| mel medarda x reader, jayce talis x reader, viktor x reader || E/18+ || messy dynamics/hurt/comfort || wc: 6k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

Your lovers are strange, demanding types.

a/n: idk man. but this revived my writing so. pls take it. dividers by @/cafekitsune

tags: messy dynamics, light smut/smut mentioned and implied, implied rough/hate sex, some hurt/comfort, ends on a hopeful note. not beta read/edited.

You've never liked Jayce much.

And you might just be the only person he doesn't like, either.

He plays nice, though, especially around Viktor. You think Jayce has teeth that he tries to hide, but you catch the flash of them from time to time. He smiles at you and it doesn't reach his eyes. It's just shy of contempt.

It makes your grin cheshire and sharp. You like watching him squirm. You like watching him wrestle with his distaste for you, try to keep his teeth hidden. Especially here, at this gala, all gold and sparkling and pristine, for all the world to see.

Bubbling rosé is bright and fruity on your tongue. You're shoulder to shoulder with Viktor, the two of you half-miserable together, stuffed into formal wear and ripped from your respective labs and studios. Which is why Jayce lingers; he's hovering in that annoying way of his. Bumbling a little. He's trying to make Viktor feel more at home but—

You have something Jayce doesn't.

Only you can do that.

You're Viktor's childhood friend, thick as thieves and twice as inseparable. You're an artist from the Undercity—a painter, a poet, a musician. An artistic genius, the world claims, an artistic savant. And one of the rare, lucky few who has been exalted and raised above your station to be paraded around Piltover like some trophy of success from their lowest. It's mostly Viktor's fault, you claim—the moment Heimerdinger found him, he also accidentally found you.

"Ah, if it isn't one of the most brilliant and groundbreaking artists of our generation." A smooth, easy voice floats through your thoughts. You turn your head to find Councilor Medarda, swathed in what could be a starry sky of silk and gold.

She's even more beautiful in person somehow; if you were to paint her, she'd be all easy, graceful lines, curved and long. A lily stem. The arch of a tiger.

"Just the person I was looking for." She muses.

"Me?" You balk, at the same time that Jayce gaps, "Them?!"

You swing your gaze to glare at him and even Viktor wrinkles his nose. Jayce tries to clear his throat, clear the mistake.

Councilor Medarda raises a brow at Jayce, but then her eyes flicker to you, honing in on you. Hazel and gold and reflective; a kaleidoscope of color. And with such—intensity. You feel it in her. Thrumming. "Yes, you." She says smoothly and she smiles in the elegant way of royalty; perfect and mysterious.

"Are you sure you have the right person, Councilor Medarda?" You joke, "you know I'm just—"

"I'm certain. And please—call me Mel. I'd love to commission you for several art pieces to be displayed in the council chambers."

Viktor whistles a little, impressed, though you can tell it's a little dry.

(He both rambles and rants about Councilor Medarda from time to time and you can never tell if he adores her or resents her.)

Jayce startles at this, but again, he tries to play it off. He places his hand on her lower back, "I didn't know the council chambers was looking to display art."

Mel allows his hand to remain, but she tilts her chin up and her eyes flash somewhat—quick, sharp. There's a silent conversation there that you can't decipher.

But you can tell there is something more than just coworkers happening between them.

"I'm looking to display art in the council chambers." Mel then says.

Jayce looks away, cowed somewhat, tail tucked between his legs in a way that makes you smile.

Mel drifts from Jayce's hands, offering her arm to you, "will you walk with me? I'd love to discuss what I have in mind."

If only to steal her away from Jayce, you finally peel yourself away from Viktor's side and the wall. Your shoulder, where it was touching his, goes cold. But Mel's arm is warm as you twine it around yours.

She draws you away from the scientists, into the fray of swirling, dazzling people.

You glance over your shoulder only once and catch Jayce's eyes, and let your smile curl into something a little smug, almost vicious; baring your teeth as if to gloat at his own, still tucked behind his lips.

***

"Mel's an artist." You say to Viktor, offhand. "A good one, too. You should see her paintings—"

Viktor sighs heavily, snatching one of the little tools that you'd been fiddling with out of your hands. "You sound like Jayce."

You wrinkle your face in disgust, reaching back for the tool and grappling with him a moment for it. You press all against each other, squabbling, before you win out and take it back from him. He stares at you, almost in some form of a glare and you stare back, watching his eyes, dark in the low light of the lab. He glances at the tool in your hands like he might try to take it back, and when he moves, you move faster, and hold it out of his reach.

"Are they together?" You ask.

He gives up on the tool.

Then, he lifts his shoulders in some form of a crooked shrug, eyes going skyward. "One can only assume."

"She's out of his league." You sigh, throwing your weight back in the chair in despair.

Viktor snorts at that, returning to his work, "I'm sure few are in league with Councilor Medarda."

His voice is dry. A little brittle.

"I don't know what you have against her." You then venture, speaking more to the ceiling, returning to fiddling with the tool. It twists in your fingers, the sound of metal whirling and softly grinding.

"I have nothing against Councilor Medarda." He says too evenly.

"You know, I've never been able to tell if it's contempt or adoration you have for her." You continue, as if he hadn't said anything to contradict you. "But either way, she gets under your skin."

"She does not—"

"Are you jealous? She took your big, dumb partner away?" You press, twisting and twisting away at the tool.

"No—" Viktor says sharply, but it rings with a note of truth. It's not quite that then.

You pause. And then.

You crack your eye open, "I think she likes me."

Viktor pauses now too, metal clinking quietly with the sudden stop of his work again. He knows that tone of your voice. His face pulls; distaste. Frustration.

(Jealousy.)

His speech is slow as he tries to parse through what to say, "Councilor Medarda is charming and—"

"She invited me to dinner." You say and now you're watching him carefully, "at her personal suite. Just us."

Viktor rounds on you, "you're going to get yourself into trouble."

You can't help but smile, slow and amused, "I feel like it's good for the art—fool around with a politician—"

"You know, I have always wondered if you would learn your lesson," Viktor continues over your monologuing about drama and passion and politics, "—maybe this time, you'll finally learn it."

He snatches the tool from your hands and throws it down on his desk.

"I love learning." You chirp innocently and he shakes his head, face flushed with passion.

He looks at you again when he can, shakes his head some more, some of the irritation fading from his features. He never stays mad at you for long; doesn't have it in him. Besides, he causes his own trouble. Doesn't learn his own lessons. And when the dust settles, the two of you are still here, beside each other. The artist and the scientist, making messes, breaking things—all for some higher purpose only the two of you have ever understood.

(You've loved him your whole life. Sometimes, you think you carry half of the other's ribs inside one another. He must have twelve of yours, and you must have twelve of his—)

You lift your foot, nudging his calf beneath the desk with it, then up to place it in his lap. An olive branch, of some kind. Your affection is unsurprising to him and he sighs. He drops his hand to your ankle. He squeezes.

"She's going to eat you alive." Viktor finally warns.

"One can only hope."

A laugh startles out of him, rough and raspy, before it dissolves into coughing.

You lurch up to give him water, sitting near you, and bring the glass to his lips on reflex, like you used to as children. And on reflex, he drinks—he doesn't try to take the glass from your hands right away or push you away. Instinctively, you care for him, and instinctively, he lets you.

(You think you're the only one he'd ever allow to do this, born out of years of pressed side to side in the same bed, listening to him weather the nights. Born out of years of your love and stubborn care for him.)

After a moment, he lifts his hand and slowly replaces yours.

You hover over him. He sets the glass down. The water is almost gone. You'll replace it for him before you leave the lab.

He settles back into his chair, eyes returning to the pieces in front of him; all the odd metal scattered like little silver stars in front of him against a vast, dark sky. He picks up one, and then another, and tries to fit them together.

Then another. And another.

You watch him twist and turn, put the puzzle together.

He says, "Lately, I feel as if—" his fingers are careful, almost shaking, as he tries to create something of the scattered, broken pieces, "everything is quite fragile. And it's all just going to—" he presses a little too hard, and the metal all splinters apart, clattering back to the desk, "break. At any given moment."

After a moment, he looks up at you, still hovering over him, "I fear you're heading towards a breaking point."

You hum a little.

"What is it you scientists say?" You ask, running your fingers through his dark hair, thick and tousled. You twirl a strand around your finger, let it fall;

"It has to break first, before you can discover anything."

***

You'd say Mel Medarda is a wolf in sheep's clothing, but she doesn't feign anything so harmless or lost as a sheep.

You do think she's—

A little like Jayce, where she hides her teeth. But where Jayce irritates you because he's certainly trying to seem better than he is, or more harmless than he can be, Mel does so with intention. Mel hides her teeth to lure you closer. She doesn't pretend she doesn't have them; she waits until you're in range before you catch a glimpse of them.

And by then, well. It's too late.

You realize this over dinner, as she laments about what art she'd like from you and she's adamant about not censoring you.

(You're known for you controversy; whether in your physical art, your poetry, or music. Once pulled to the light of the Upper City, you refused to let them defang you. Where Jayce pretends he doesn't have teeth, you bare yours proudly, and sometimes wish you could tear the tender parts of Piltover open.

You strive to do it with your art. And while applauded in some vague capacity, you are also kept on a tight leash. Your patrons are warily supportive of you. Your commissions are strict. You're treated the way you think a wild animal is; with utmost care and fear and awe.)

In fact, her only rule for you, is to not hold back.

Which, given the growing tension between the Upper and Lower Cities, you realize this cannot only be from the goodness of her heart or for the integrity of art but—

You tilt your head and consider her.

"Am I a political move, Mel?"

She smiles in that enigmatic way of hers, her teeth flash, "isn't all art?"

You narrow your eyes, "perhaps. I wonder of it's effectiveness when it's employed by the people it often critiques." You lift your chin and pretend to be hurt—or perhaps, mask your hurt within dramatics to make it seem ironic, "and here I thought you really liked me—"

"I do." Mel assures, "I've admired you a great deal from afar. And getting to know you, your mind, it's—" she considers her words, "it's been nothing short of mesmerizing. Astonishing."

She sounds sincere. But you wonder if she always sounds that way.

She can tell she hasn't convinced you because you've never been able to mask your emotions well, so she leans forward and says, "unfortunately, everything I do is a political move, whether I'd like it to be or not. Both can be true—" she says, "I can adore you. And I can also need you to make a public point, wield you like my own elegant weapon."

"Artists make for disobedient weapons, usually." You say.

She laughs a little at that and agrees, "True." And then she lowers her voice, looks at you through the fan of her dark lashes in such a way that seizes you—arrests you, holds you right there, caught, in her heady gaze;

"But I don't need you to be obedient."

"I can never tell if you're trying to seduce me or persuade me." You blurt out, the words running from your mouth like a rabbit from a wolf. Your desire bursts from you like frightened birds taking to flight, like most of what you feel does, all of it spilling out of you in a gush of rawness.

She stands gracefully and again, you think of how you'd draw her—how you'd capture her in a poem or a song. The sharp curve of her waist, the predatory grace she carries effortlessly. You think her song is a croon from the deep part of your chest. You think her poem looks like an hourglass on the page and she slips from your fingers as easy as time does, too.

She rounds the small table to your side.

You look up at her. Your heart kicks up into a quick dance.

She brings the back of her knuckle to your jaw and gently—with all the carefulness in the world, strokes you.

(She touches you the way one does a bird, as if they know it's fragile. Perhaps as if they know it might fly away.

Or maybe she touches you the way one does an animal they're not sure of; will you bite? Will you lean into the touch?)

"Both can be true." She finally answers.

When she kisses you, it's fiercer than you're expecting; a lightning strike, a blow to the heart.

Your teeth come up against hers.

She gasps when you drag her further down to you, greedier than she's ever known, meeting her fierceness with your own, like the clashing of blades, or the destruction of stars.

And you think, if you don't want obedience, then I'll show you.

I'll show you.

***

"What are you playing at?"

Jayce's voice is a vicious little hush in the caverns of the council chambers. Mel has just left you after peaking over your shoulder to view the preliminary sketches.

You lift your head and blink up at Jayce slowly, dragging yourself from your sketch; from your world of art.

(It sets his teeth to grinding because Viktor makes that same look, when he's so deep into his work and Jayce disturbs him. It's a face he finds endearing on both of you, unfortunately. He imagines your minds are in heaven and he's selfish enough to drag you both back down to earth.)

"What do you mean? For the art piece?" You ask, glancing down at your lap, at the series of gestures and lines that you've been lost in. Maybe you're feigning innocence a little. But you want him to say it, if he's going to pick this fight.

Jayce's eyes flash like the too-hot part of the flame.

You have to bite back a smile.

Come on, you think wildly, say it. Let's fight. Here in the chambers, where you try so hard to be their golden boy.

"What are you trying to get out of Mel?" He asks and it makes you laugh outright, because he's dancing around what he really wants to ask.

Your laugh echoes in the hall, bouncing off all this marble and gold. It's out of place here, too loud, too free.

"The better question is what she's trying to get out of me." You say, "do you think I have it in me to manipulate the Mel Medarda?"

He goes quiet at that.

"Are you doing this to get back at me?" He asks after a moment and it's so close to what he wants to ask, so close to what he really wants to talk about.

"She kissed me first." You answer. "Have you had this conversation with her?"

You can tell by the shadow of uncertainty that passes over his face that he hasn't. You stand, easily setting your sketches and pencils aside, and drift nearer to him.

"Oh," you hum, "you didn't know. She didn't mention some plan of seduction to you? Maybe she really does like me."

He rounds on you so sharply that you are genuinely surprised. You gasp when your back hits the wall and he's got you caged in, a snarl on his lips and you finally get to see those teeth of his—

"You just always have to push me, don't you? In all the years I've known you, you've only ever tried to get under my skin. I tried so hard, for so long, for Viktor's sake to get along with you." He says lowly and distantly, you think, does he cage in Mel like this? With his big arms and broad chest? Or does she have him on a tight leash, underneath her?

"This time, I didn't mean it. Surely, you understand—" you say slyly, "when she comes onto you like that, all honey-voiced and half-lidded. She's hard to resist, isn't she?"

The grip he has on your biceps tightens to a point of pain—he'll bruise you. You'll be tender there, where his big hands gripped you, and it only makes you smile.

"Stop it." He snaps.

But you can't help yourself now, because once you've got something between your teeth, you've never been able to let it go;

"I just want to know if she kisses me the same way she kisses you? Does she play nice with you? She's quite fierce with me—"

When Jayce kisses you, it's a crush of aggression.

You laugh into his mouth wildly as he shoves you harder against the wall, teeth mean in the tender part of your bottom lip so that your laughter melts into a groan of pain. Of pleasure.

You claw at his back and wonder if Mel does, too.

You fight and hiss and snarl, show him your teeth when he sinks his into the fluttering pulse at your throat. You try to draw blood. You think he tries to bruise.

And well, you always wanted to see his teeth—

Just never thought you'd end up with a ring of their mark on your neck.

***

You're not really sleeping—nights are long. Days are longer. You're in the studio too much. This art piece is strangling you, wrestling with you and you're losing. Your lovers are strange, demanding types. Jayce comes to you at his lowest, and Mel at her highest. She licks the wounds Jayce leaves on you, purrs about how good you're being for her, goads you into putting up more of a fight that she likes to quell. She asks, have I stolen your bite? Are you going soft on me? Until you try to wrestle with her, too.

Mel subdues you the way snakes do—constricts and tightens and puts all that pressure on you until you just burst.

Until you go slack in her grip.

Jayce takes his anger out on you and he's not so cunning or delicate as her. You think Jayce struggles with you the way he must with his hammers, with high heat and all his strength.

Your art is starting to look like pieces of them; brutal and brilliant and cunning and beautiful. Tricky to capture, even more difficult to mesh together.

You're covered in paint when Viktor comes to visit you, frustrated with the canvas in front of you, which you think you'll end up scrapping again.

(This is the fourth one. You've been trying to fit all the components and pieces together but none of it's working, all of it's a mess. Splintered apart on the canvas. It looks like a disaster on the page.)

"Have you eaten?" Viktor asks as he comes to stand behind you. He gazes at the canvas n front of you.

You sigh heavily. "Have you?" You return.

He snorts at that, "No. I'm coming from the lab and thought I'd check on you—Mel mentioned you were here."

He pauses and then, "that you'd been here. For awhile now."

You hear the layers in his voice; the worry, but then the—

Irritation? Disdain?

"Are you asking me to dinner?" You say instead, dashing the canvas with a sudden great, horrible X. It's your meager attempt at some sort of joke or flirting, but your voice is perhaps too thin for it. You stare at your canvas, now dripping with that great X, the paint slipping down and marring it further.

When you turn to look at Viktor, he regards you warily. He glances at the canvas you've just ruined, and then back to your face.

He takes in your appearance; your disheveled hair and the paint all over your clothes and skin. And then his eyes skip down to your throat, to your arms. All marked up and bruised, unhidden and worn proudly here, in the safety of your art studio.

"Should I be concerned?" Viktor asks instead and you've always loved his bluntness. His lack of tact is like coming home. It's a relief, when you're constantly with Mel and Jayce lately, who talk in riddles and niceties and flowered language that hides their intentions or feelings.

There is a bitterness in Viktor's voice that you know well, too.

"About?" You prod.

"I'm no fool." Viktor answers, "I know you're sleeping with Councilor Medarda."

"Is that all you know?" You return, tilting your head.

"Is there more to know?" Viktor asks, eyeing you.

"Jayce hasn't said anything?"

You watch a strange shadow pass over Viktor's face as he slowly comes to the natural conclusion that you've lead him to. He's right, he is no fool. And then you watch his eyes catch fire, catch jealousy.

"I warned you—" he starts, suddenly.

"And I told you, it's good for the art—" You joke.

"Obviously it isn't!" He snaps, gesturing to the canvas behind you, ruined and glaring at your back. And then he heaves out a rough, agitated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Do you ever think of consequences?" He demands.

"Sure," You say, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

"You know, they are my colleagues. What am I supposed to do if—?!"

You laugh at that, enough that it startles him out of his beginning tirade. He comes up short and his shoulders bunch with tension as he glares at you.

"Is something funny?" He hisses.

"Your colleagues?" You repeat, "that's all they are to you?"

"Well—yes, technically." He stumbles on his words here.

"Are you jealous, Viktor?" You ask. "You don't have to be."

"I'm not jealous—" He refutes, even as his cheeks grow ruddy. And for a moment, you could be twelve with him again, his face flush as he looks at you after you'd kissed him for the first time because he'd never kissed anyone before. Or twenty-two and drunk, kissing one night under the stars when you felt so lost and disorientated in the Upper City—just wanted to feel like yourself again.

Or now, at thirty-two, staring at the man you've loved your entire life and whatever mess you've made out of everything.

You reach out and touch his cheek, glowing with color, and at first he winces away, but when you persist, he relaxes. He presses his cheek to your open palm and looks at you; raw and frank and so Viktor that you can't help the faint smile that touches your lips. Even as he frowns at you.

"What are you meddling with?" Viktor murmurs, turning his face into your cupped hand. You feel the faint brush of his lips, a little dry, and soft. Warm.

"Apparently our political landscape." You respond and that at least gets a laugh from him. You feel it against you and some spark shimmers through you, shudders and opens itself to you.

(Your desire for Viktor is something always with you, ambient, perhaps dormant, that always resurfaces like the great fins of some horrible, huge monster in dark waters. Your desire for Viktor is a symptom of your love. You've never know what to call it except that, except his.)

"Have I upset you?" You ask now as his laughter fades, and with it his amusement.

He sighs deeply and you feel his breath against your skin. You draw nearer. He leans back onto his crutch only slightly, only for a moment, before he allows you further into his space.

"I don't—" He struggles for the words before admitting, "yes, somewhat. For some reason."

"Are you feeling neglected?" You ask and try very hard to keep your amusement out of your voice, lest you irritate him further. He's always had a jealous streak in him, even as kids. If you made another friend, he would pout until you draped yourself over him and showered him in your attention again.

Even your previous relationships had bred some sort of jealousy in him; he's never liked any of your partners.

(It's so endearing to you that you have to tuck your teeth into your own lip and hum a little.)

You lean towards him, ducking your head so that your nose dips to brush against the line of his jaw. You feel his body shudder more than you see it. His breath goes tight. Your eyes flicker, a flash in the sun-spun light of your art studio;

"Do you want me to kiss you the way Jayce kisses me?" You murmur, your lips hovering over his. You watch his face gutter, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His breath goes shallow.

"Or would you prefer Mel?" You murmur, just before you close the distance and kiss him with a certain fierceness, a meanness that you don't usually have with him. He stumbles back a little with the force of it and your hand that had been holding his cheek, slips into the hair at the nape of his neck.

A groan startles out of him when you tighten your hand into a fist and pull.

You part from the kiss, panting a little, and he looks down at you, eyes molten gold and burning.

You're about to kiss him again, when he murmurs, "I want—" he swallows hard, "I want you to kiss me the way you do—I want—"

You press back into him instantly, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought, with the notion that his desire, his jealousy—

You kiss him like you always have, overeager and desperate and messy. You urge him backwards, towards your workbench, all cluttered with paints. His crutch clatters against the ground uselessly as you grab for each other. You knock over a jar of brushes half-haphazardly placed on the floor.

You're overwhelmed with the thought that his jealousy might've been for you, too.

When he braces his hand against your work bench, he knocks over a cup of paint. You laugh into his mouth as you paw at his stupid, perfectly buttoned vest. When he touches you again, he stains you blue—and later red and violet. Burnished gold and paint so silver it makes the stars look dull.

A mess, he tsks, impossibly fond, as he looks at you and himself and the work space.

At all that you'd done.

***

"You've been pulling strings," Mel says as you lay in her lap, letting her pet and stroke you. Her fingers dance over the ridge of your brow.

You blink up at her slowly, eyes fluttering. "Shouldn't that be my line?" You ask.

"I'm not naive to the way you've been pulling our strings." She muses, fingers tumbling into your hair. She's gentle here, careful as she cards her way through your hair, her fingers nimble.

"Pulling strings is a far too sophisticated thing to call it." You snort and lean into her touch like a cat, preening a little.

"What would you call it?" Mel asks and the smile she wears is less of a mystery to you now, and you can tell there's a fondness to it.

(She does really like you—she is really being sincere, you've learned.)

You think about this for a long moment; you toy with saying a fucking mess. Or digging my own grave. But neither feel quite so full—while true, in many ways, there leaves little room for—

Well, this.

The way she holds you. The cat's curl of her smile, pleased and mischievous. Her fingers, gentle and coaxing, urging you to unfurl and bloom.

Or Viktor's rasping laugh that you can pull out of him. The fondness you hold for him like a pearl held inside a clam, growing and glowing. The way you drape yourself all over him, and he accepts it as easy as the day accepts the sun, or the night accepts the moon into its skies.

And even Jayce and the strangled back-and-forth that the two of you dance; it's still yours. It's still his. And the way he cups your cheek admist the violence or how he let's no one speak ill of you in front of him.

(Or the way Jayce and Viktor's minds work together, or how tactical Jayce and Mel can be; sharpened like daggers and twice as pretty. Or the creativity you pull out of Mel, allowing her to see the world like a boundless piece of art. Or the way Viktor's science influences your art; how your art influences his science. The fierceness you bring out in Jayce—the passion he brings out in you.)

It doesn't quite account for all the parts that make you burn and grow and shake out your great, big wings to fly.

Finally, you say, "it feels like I'm trying to find the melodies and harmonies and how they mesh—or the composition of a painting, or the feeling of a poem, but some of the words are still missing. It feels like when I chase art and try to break it open, to reveal what it wants me to learn—or show me."

"Have you figured it out yet?" She asks and she's genuinely curious, almost quiet in her desire to know.

At that, the door creaks open and there are several hushed whispers before Jayce suddenly strides into the room with all the false confidence in the world. Viktor looks sheepish behind him.

You sit up sharply, trying to detangle yourself from Mel.

"I told you they were here—" Viktor hisses to him, "and we shouldn't—we shouldn't be here."

Jayce isn't listening, though, and he's clearly inflating himself to get out, "I've come on important business of the council."

Mel raises her brows and throws you a sideways glance. She then says, "then come in, Councilor, since it's so important that you've come to my personal quarters. Unannounced."

Jayce at least has the good sense to look a little sheepish now, too. You can't help the laugh that springs out of you.

He throws you a dark look before clearing his throat.

"Councilor Haskel and Salo are seeking to strike down the art deal." Jayce announces and your heart drops a little, sinks in your chest.

You look at Mel. She purposefully keeps her face a mask of coolness. She rolls her shoulder briefly, which is your only tell of irritation or concern.

"Come in, Jayce." Mel finally says, "and you, too, Viktor. Shut the door behind you."

Both wander into the space and it's such a surreal moment, all four of you, for once, in the same room, that you can't help but laugh again.

Mel sighs in a way as if to say, I suppose this would happen eventually.

Jayce and Viktor can't quite look anyone in the eye and they both take uneasy seats int he living room.

Again, you feel like laughing—you're not sure what all the trepidation is for. Each of them have you seen you naked; you have seen them naked.

"What's their angle?" Mel asks, ignoring both Jayce and Viktor's shyness.

Jayce clears his throat, "they don't think it's worthwhile to support an artist from the Undercity at this time."

You wince and Jayce adds, "their words, not mine."

"Well, that won't do." Mel tsks and she suddenly moves to stand, graceful as ever, her robes trailing in a wave of silk and the smell of lillies. She likes to pace when she's thinking, and she pads over the window, to look out at the city.

Eventually, she says, "we'll need a grander plan. Something they can't refuse."

"What are you thinking?" Jayce asks.

She turns and all around her, she's doused in gold light, glowing in the evening sun as if she was born to it. "Perhaps combining some science with it." Now she looks at Viktor, "something symbolic to the current advancements with Hextech, perhaps."

Viktor looks at you, then back at Mel, "I can do that."

"Jayce, I need you to talk to the other Councilors and be sure they're not swayed by Haskel or Salo." She then adds, "and I want more publicity around it—and around our artist and scientist."

Our artist.

Our scientist.

"Ah—" Viktor starts, "I don't want to be in the public eye."

Our, our, our.

"It'll put pressure on Haskel and Salo if the people are behind you both, too." Mel presses gently, though her gaze has softened on him; she's sympathetic to his desires.

To assure him, you chirp, "I can do all the talking."

"Not sure that's our best idea." Jayce remarks.

"I am certain I can name several worse ideas of ours." You quip without thinking, and then you toss one of Mel's throw pillows at him; the beautifully embroidered one that's likely far too expensive and made from the rarest threads.

It hits him with a dull thud. And for a moment, he's shocked. The room is silent.

Still, your heart sings our, our, our.

But then Viktor snorts, before breaking out into his low, soft chuckle. And then the twinkle of Mel's giggles, coupled with your own laughter that bursts from your chest like a bird taking to flight.

And Jayce watches a moment, all of you laugh and smile, and if you could paint him in this moment, you would—

A little awe-struck. Tender around the edges, burnished gold. Breath stolen from him.

(Oh, he does really like you, too. All of you.)

But then laughter rumbles from him, too. And the tension slips from all of you, drains from your bodies with each bubbling sound.

And all of them together—finally together—are the melody you've been looking for, the words you couldn't place. The color on the canvas that finally brings it all together.

It's all the broken pieces like a mosaic, finally put together to create something whole.

And it's all ours, you think, the sun a flare of light and beauty bursting through the room, bathing all of your favorite people in it's gold and glory;

It's all ours.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

The decision to start your busy day with a 20-ounce coffee from the local coffee shop instead of your usual brew bites you in the ass as you hunch over in one of the bathroom stalls ten minutes before rehearsal begins. It exacerbates the already twisting sensation of your period cramps, sending a cold sweat down your temples. But it’s not like you have a choice—it’s only a week until the big performance, and you really need that extra boost to get through the day.

Knowing hands reach into the duffel bag at your feet, searching for the familiar edges of your phone. Pulling it out, the screen comes to life, unimportant notifications displayed. The clock revealed you only had five minutes left before you needed to leave.

You open the text app, not expecting anything really—you always know if he’s texted or not. The last few messages between you had all been initiated by you – a thank you, a hopeful “Hope you’re doing okay.” But his replies remained void, the "delivered" text staring back at you, mocking your attempts to reach out.

Switching to the “Find My” app, you searched for your other device. The last known location, before the device probably ran out of battery, was somewhere outside of London—a different city. A simple Google search reveals it to be a street lined with pubs and apartments, and his consistent coordinates say that’s where he lived.

This means you’ll have to wait a little longer for him.

Without further thought, you put your phone away, shouldering your duffel bag then. The reflection in the mirror greets you as you exit the stall, following your movements as you neatly arrange the loose strands of hair that had escaped your bun.

Just as you are about to turn away, the sound of a stall door clicking open catches your attention. Through the mirror, you meet Claudine's gaze, her lips automatically pulling into a smirk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the ‘Miss Robot Queen’ herself,” she drawled as she sidled up next to you to wash her hands. You watched her, biting the inside of your cheek like you always do when you’re holding back words stuck in your throat. “How’s practice going, hm? The show’s in a week, you know.”

Shame crept up on you, threatening to consume you before suddenly giving way to something new—something that shifted inside you. The sensation was foreign—a burn that seemed to emanate from the center of your chest, radiating outwards. Your knuckles paled as you clenched your fists. The words turned sour, irritating your tonsils and—

You felt the urge to spit them out. At Claudine.

The woman carelessly tossed her paper towel into the bin. Looking in the mirror again, looking at you. “Break a leg, prima ballerina.” She blew you a mocking kiss, then walked towards the door to leave the bathroom.

“If it’s true what you said,”

Your voice echoed through the four walls, stopping Claudine in her tracks. Turning to face her, she did the same but looking quite shocked, for reasons unknown.

“If it’s true what you said, that I’m just a ‘robot ballerina’… then what does that make you?”

How uncharacteristic of those words to come out of your mouth. Claudine could hardly believe it—she continued to furrow her brows in disbelief as she tried to make sense of it all. A flicker of uncertainty crossing her features as she processed your bold sentence. Were you expecting silence instead, Claudine? Like before?

And then, there it is—hurt laid bare beneath just one thin layer of her skin, her insecurities swimming to the surface. For someone who constantly underestimated you, she was a fragile one. If the roles were reversed, she wouldn't have survived for nearly as long as you had.

Claudine tried to gather her composure, playing the tough girl, but her efforts were derailed as her breath began to stutter. “D-Do you think you’re all that now? Just because you got the role, you think you can talk to me like that?” Listen to that; even your voice is shaking.

“Do you always think you’re all that? Is that why you act the way you do?”

There was a crack in Claudine’s scoff. She pulled her lips into what she attempted to be a mocking smile, but the single tear that fell acted as a contrast. Hastily, she wiped it away, taking a heaving breath.

"Don't you know?" she started. “They made me your alternate. So if something happens to you, I'll be the one dancing as the Swan Queen.”

Everything went abruptly silent.

Alternate? What did she mean by ‘alternate’? You knew what an alternate was—you knew there was always an alternate. But why Claudine? Why did it have to be Claudine? It felt like a betrayal, but you also knew it was part of the norm. But they could have chosen someone else—Mary, Sophia, or anyone else who wasn’t Claudine. All this time, she had been waiting, hoping for you to falter, to fail—just so she could swoop in and claim the role that you had worked so hard for.

If anything happens to you, she’ll be the Swan Queen.

If anything happens to you.

“There won’t be anything happening,” you say, voice full of conviction as if the future is already guaranteed. “I can make sure of that.”

Without waiting for a reply, you snatched up your things and walked past her. The door slams behind you, drawing the curious gazes of other dancers who lined the walls. You lengthened your strides to reach the rehearsal room.

You push open the door, greeted by the familiar sound of the piano and the director’s voice guiding the corps de ballet. Henri notices the new arrival, turning his gaze to you.

“Ah, here’s our Swan Queen!” He exclaims, clapping his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Let’s take our places!”

Swallowing hard, you try to calm your pounding heart. The other dancers start running to take their places, tutus swaying like water lilies. The pianist turns the sheet music to the front page. You take a deep breath before approaching.

Yes, you thought to yourself.

I am the Swan Queen.

The dark, dramatic notes of Black Swan Coda fill the air as you launch into the 32 fouettés. You continue to stretch your extension, fixing your eyes on one spot to anchor your spinning. The burn in your calf muscles intensifies, but you must keep going.

As the music comes to a close, you end the sequence with a finishing pose. The rehearsal crew erupts into thunderous applause, but you barely register any of that as you collapse to the floor, body succumbing to the cramps. You let out a hiss of pain, your fingers digging into the taut muscle.

“Are you alright?” Henri’s French-accented voice rings out as he approaches you.

You nod, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Just cramps.”

Henri regarded you for a moment, a faint frown on his forehead, before nodding slightly. “Okay, you take a break then. The rest of you, let’s take 10 and we’ll continue!”

The rest of the crew dispersed to their respective breaks, leaving the once bustling rehearsal room in a comfortable silence. You gently massaged your calves, trying to loosen the tense muscles underneath. Turning to the empty seats, you thought of the plush velvet version of it—the one in the grand hall where you would perform. In your mind, you had imagined those seats occupied by an eager audience, the balconies filled with those who had been fans of this kind of spectacle since their youth.

In the audience, there will be the dancers’ families and lovers—which means yours too. You’re sure your mother won’t be there, but Simon will be, just as he promised.

Making your way to where your duffel bag is, you sit down right next to the mirror. You reach for your water bottle, gulping it, closing your eyes as the cool liquid washes down your parched throat.

Untying the ribbons of your pointe shoes, you couldn’t help but hiss as the satin brushed against your skin. The relentless hours of practice, classes, and rehearsals revealed results you thought you’d grown accustomed to over the years—peeling skin, friction blisters on your pinky toes, the once-fresh Band-Aid now worn.

Rummaging through your duffel bag, you retrieve the burn pads, carefully peeling off the adhesive backing and applying them around the worst one. The cool, soothing sensation against your skin was a welcome relief; the throbbing ache numbed. You grab the duct tape, wrapping it around to secure everything in place while also effectively substituting for toe pads. Satisfied, you slipped back into your pointe.

Rehearsal resumed in ten, just as Henri promised.

And you’re home by eight.

The door closed with a heavy thud behind you, the familiar sound of mud crunching under your shoes as you stepped out onto the wet streets. But your attention was focused solely on the lifeless notification of your cellphone; your fingers scrolled through your unanswered messages.

Still nothing from Simon.

You type another text: “Simon, it's been weeks. I'm starting to get worried. Are you okay?” and hit send. Both frustration and worry start to color your brain. Is he busy? Didn't he read your messages? Or is he ignoring you on purpose? But everything is fine even after he drops you off—no arguments, nothing. Did he lose his phone, then? Is he in trouble, trapped, or being held hostage—

Stop. You've watched too many movies.

But now that you think about it—about the possibilities of why he hasn’t responded to any of your messages or even given any sign that he’s alive—your chest tightens.

Where are you, Simon?

The sound of raucous laughter from a group of men nearby causes you to shove your phone back into your coat pocket. Quickening your pace, you make your way down the familiar route to the subway. You went down the stairs with the sound of your boots stomping. The rumble of the approaching train echoed through the station, and you stepped onto the car, sinking into an empty seat.

Leaning your head back against the cool window, you feel the weight of exhaustion settle over you. Your calves ache, and your shoulders pop as you roll them. You know better than to close your eyes from fear of missing your stop, but everything feels heavy.

Where are you, Simon?

Lately, the days have been a blur, like a hazy dream you're not really a part of. When tomorrow turns into today, you go on with your routine based only on muscle memory that's been forged over the years.

Learning from your mistakes, you go back to your usual brew – two teaspoons of instant coffee. Sitting at the dining table, you gather your wits, letting your body adjust to the morning chill. Once you’ve reached the bottom of your cup, you stand up, make a beeline to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Stepping out, you slip into your tights before sitting on your yoga mat and starting to stretch.

You bent forward, fingertips brushing the floor as you stretched your hamstrings. Holding the pose, you focus on your breathing rhythm, feeling the expansion of your lungs and the gentle pull in your spine before releasing and transitioning into the next movement.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your arms high, feeling the tension in your waist and—ding!

You quickly snatch your phone, hoping, praying, that it was finally Simon. But as you stared at the screen, your hopes were dashed; it was from a fast food restaurant promoting their latest deal. Not a message from Simon. Your chat room is still the same as you left it yesterday, the day before that, and the weeks that preceded it. No message from Simon, again. The same absence greeted you. Again.

The big performance is just a matter of days away. On that day, all the hard work, the fruits of your practices, all the blood, sweat, and tears that dripped will be unveiled on the prestigious opera stage that you've always dreamed of dancing on as a prima ballerina. You have grown out of the corps—in this Swan Lake, you will be Odette. You will be Odile. Her 32 fouettés will be yours. But—

But, why?

Simon didn’t reply to your text. Is he not coming? Does that promise mean nothing to him? Was it just one he knew he would break, but he gave it to you anyway because it was the least he could do to a woman he just had sex with?

No, why would you think of him that way? You berate the voice in your head. He always comes back in the end, so stop saying that about him.

The need to satisfy the nagging uncertainty inside you was overwhelming, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed out a new message. It didn't matter if it ended up sitting unread among the pile of unseen messages. The important thing was it was out there, that you had sent it. He would read it once he was done with whatever occupied his time.

As you hit send, the whoosh! sound of the message being sent is heard. Just as you’re about to put your phone back down and continue stretching, a small icon pops up next to the green chat bubble. A red exclamation mark in a circle.

“Not Delivered” is displayed underneath.

Your eyes darted frantically to the top of the screen, taking in the full signal bars and the indication that your service was working properly. So what happened? Why isn't it delivered? The questions swim around like restless organisms at the forefront of your mind. Gluing your eyes to the screen until it hurts, you keep waiting, hoping, praying that the status would change. But that dreaded exclamation mark remains, mocking you, taunting you with its presence.

Why? Why wasn’t it going through? Had something happened to Simon? Was he okay?

You tried to rationalize it. If it's not from you, it's definitely from his side then. Maybe he had wandered into an area with poor reception, or he had traveled somewhere with spotty service. Yes, that had to be it. Isn't that what military wives are always complaining about?

Despite knowing that wasn’t how it worked, you persisted. It was always easy to turn away from reality. Not the first time you’d settled for the comfort of a ruse.

Putting your phone aside, you demanded your focus return to your stretching routine. You tried to push the "Not Delivered" notification to the back of your mind where you could avoid facing it. But a girl in love could only do so much—to pretend it wasn’t forming a hole in your skull, questions forcing their way in despite the lack of answers.

Hours later, you find yourself back in the same rehearsal room, with the same Black Swan coda playing in the background. Your muscles burned with the strain of the same 32 fouettés, but you kept going, kept pushing yourself because that’s all you knew.

Because you are the Swan Queen.

You are the Swan Queen, and yet you’re slipping away. Your body moved through the steps, but your mind was a million miles away. In the background, Henri’s voice is almost drowned out by the orchestra—but the second time, he screams louder. Both fall on deaf ears. He screams about how you’ve fallen into the same old hole—

But you're not sure which one he means: your soulless dancing—the robot ballerina making her comeback once again—or your bad habit of tightening your grip on something you can’t keep?

Each spin, each leap, each extension of your limbs should be proof of how far you’ve come. But this? This looks like a restart—Henri lets out a ragged breath.

The piano stops playing. The whole room is silent.

You know you should be worried—your heart should be pounding in dread of what he has in store. Henry is going to orchestrate public humiliation against you in front of your fellow dancers and crew members, but then again, you can’t find it in yourself to blame him. In fact, he has every right to be. He has risked so much for this play, only to have the prima ballerina he personally chose to dethrone him into the abyss.

Without a word, Henri waved his hand, and the crew knew to immediately clear the room. They shuffled out, some in relief for the sudden short break, some casting curious glances over their shoulders, probably eager to witness your downfall.

But you felt nothing. Just this dull, numb sensation that almost made you unable to feel your own heartbeat. Even when you knew you should be scared of Henri’s berating or even the threat that he would replace you with someone else, you felt nothing.

Henri stepped closer, his brows furrowed in anger. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas? C'était quoi ce bordel?!” What’s wrong? What the fuck was that?! he demanded, the French coming out thick and heavy. “You were doing so well! The play is tomorrow and you’re falling apart!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, fingers tangling through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!! We can’t afford to lose, not now! Not when we’re so close!”

Something inside you suddenly snapped into focus. Your eyes widened as a realization fell.

So close. After all this time—all that you two went through—you couldn't afford to lose him now. Not when you two are so close to being together, to finally have a chance. You couldn't afford to lose him now.

After the disastrous rehearsal, you waste no time. You are already on your phone, searching for Simon's name before pressing the call button. With heart pounding in anticipation, you waited, but it wasn't a long wait until a voice answered.

A voice that wasn't Simon's.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Instantly, the numbness lifted before it all crashed. Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach, and you felt something acidic creeping up your throat, threatening to choke you. Hands trembling, you lowered the phone, staring at the screen in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some mistake.

You quickly dialed the number again, praying it was just an error—a temporary disconnection that you’ve been having problems with since this morning.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

The world around you seemed to tilt and sway. Pain coursed through the back of your neck, making its home in the nape of your neck. Taking ragged breaths, your mind raced as you tried to make sense of it all.

What happened?

The ache reaches the back of your head, and you reach up to grasp the tight bun that contained your hair. Your rough grip undoing the pins in one pull. You grab a fistful of your strands and yank, hoping to relieve the tension.

What happened? You keep asking yourself. The unanswered message, the failed one.. And now, the number was out of service? Your heart pounded in fear, a thousand scenarios playing through your mind. What happened?

Did something happen to him?

Was he on deployment, and the worst had happened?

Had he been hurt, or worse?

Simon has been an enigma since the moment you met. But not this, don’t let this be. Please, I need you to be okay. I can’t lose you, not now, please.

Crouching on the side of a London street, you don’t even notice the headlights of the cars that blind you. To the casual observer, it would look like you had become enamored with the stone pavement beneath your feet. But in reality, you’re just trying to slow down time, to find your footing once again, to stop the torrent of thoughts racing through your head.

But time waits for no one, as they say. And before you knew it, tomorrow turned into today, just as it had before. Now, on the big day, standing on the stage, you stare at that lonely, empty chair that had been reserved for your special audience.

Simon Riley.

The Swan Queen dances, but looks more like a ghost trapped in a body operating solely on muscle memory. The leaps, the extensions, even the infamous Black Swan 32 fouettes—they all feel mechanical. As if danced by…

A soulless ballerina.

But it doesn’t matter, right? Not when someone has made a promise to see you perform, only for them to not show up. Even when the show is over (and you survived Henri’s berating, saying that it can’t go on like this—“we’re replacing you.”), all you find is your failure.

Your failure in finding him.

Your failure in—

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

No, you insisted, he didn't walk away. Something must've happened to him—something that was keeping him away from me. He wouldn't... he wouldn't have just disappeared, not when he knew how much I needed him, not when we're so perfect for each other.

Not when he promised you.

But you also know that promises are the easiest to break. Besides, this wasn't the first time, was it? Something similar happened a long time ago.

Where are you, Simon?

Where. Are. You?

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. A city outside of London. The location coordinates were given by your other phone before the battery died.

A city where Simon is likely to be.

Realistically speaking, this is a shot in the dark. A wild guess you've made based on the screenshot of the "Find Me" app and the address you googled. There’s no guarantee that he lives in one of those buildings like you assumed—there’s no guarantee that by setting foot here, you’ll meet him.

However, a girl in love is nothing but hopeful. Too hopeful, sometimes. And you cling to that like a lifeline—praying there will be a clue leading you to him.

As you emerge from the train station, the fresh air greets your face, a welcome change from the stuffy confines of the underground. Glancing down at your phone, you re-read the address, eyes following the arrow on the map that gauges the distance between your current position and your destination. You start walking, navigating the unfamiliar sidewalks.

You sweep your gaze across the faces of the passerby, heart beating in hope—in desperation to find a familiar face, to catch a glimpse of Simon among the sea of strangers.

The outcome proved to be consistent with the weeks that preceded it—nothing. Doubts begin to take root, seeking an abode within you to poison your thoughts. Maybe this is all just a stupid chase—one that won't yield anything no matter how deep you dig.

Then, your eyes land on the quaint little café—the very same one you had seen on Google. It’s striking enough, perfect for a guidepost that could lead you to the address you’ve been searching for. With renewed determination, you know you must keep going.

You pushed through the café’s door, deciding to get your caffeine fix before continuing your mission. The aroma of freshly brewed java enveloped you, accompanied by the busy voice of the barista behind the counter. You entered the queue, sweeping your eyes over the menu board despite knowing you were only loyal to one type of drink.

“What can I get for you today?” the barista asked as soon as it was your turn.

“A large caramel macchiato, with an extra shot of espresso, please.”

The barista nodded, tapping away at the cash register. He stated your total, and you quickly fished out a few bills from your wallet and placed them on the counter. After mumbling a thank you, you stepped aside to let the next customer order.

You sat at an empty table, drumming your foot anxiously and biting your lips as you waited for your order. The jittery feeling in your stomach grew more intense with each passing second. You continued glancing down at your phone, at this point expecting nothing, but doing it for the sake of acting busy.

Taking a deep breath, you try to still the trembling in your hands. You turned your gaze to the window—

And your heart nearly stopped.

There, parked on the street, was the very car you’d been in multiple times. It was the car Simon drove to the countryside when you went to Sabrina’s wedding. The same car that drove you home before he disappeared into thin air.

You pause for a moment but don’t take your eyes off it—a lurking fear that if you do, it will evaporate like a daydream. But the car is still there. Real. You feel your palms begin to sweat.

What started as a wild guess—a wild, aimless chase—now seemed to be bearing fruit. Simon’s car was parked right there, which means there’s a good chance he’s somewhere around here. Even if he isn’t, then at the very least, this is a neighborhood he frequents—a high-probability location to find him.

You can almost see him now. The black woven polypropylene mask he often wears, beneath it a smile he tries to hide but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes always give it away. Maybe he's clad in the leather jacket he usually wears. Is he upstairs in one of the apartments, just out of sight? Does he really live around here?

If you do bump into him, will he suspect you—see through your lies? Or will he think it’s a coincidence—a meeting planned by the universe? Signs that you were truly meant for him.

Signs that you’re perfect for each other. Soulmates.

A voice called your name, snapping you back to reality. You realized it was the barista; you quickly got up and collected your drink with a grateful nod. Looking back out the window, the car was still there. Waiting for you.

What had started as a simple to-go order quickly transformed into a leisurely sip as you found yourself sitting at a table outside. You settled in, trying to blend in without seeming suspicious with the other patrons—some reading, others tapping away on their laptops, and a few chatting with their friends over their coffee and baked goods.

Time and again, your gaze drifts back to the car. You study it intently, as if looking for a difference—for it to reveal secrets to you. Perhaps Simon would emerge from one of the buildings, or he might even stroll to this café. Is he a regular here too?

The temptation to survey the area grows stronger with each passing second. But you resist the urge, knowing full well that such a bold move could backfire. What would you say if you ran into Simon? Coincidence is one thing, but running into him in his own apartment?

Hours ticked by. The patrons around you came and went; you stayed, your body still angled at that car. You finished your coffee but refused to give up your post. Despite your waiting, there was still no sign of Simon.

The sky was getting darker, probably close to dinner time—you confirmed this after checking the time on your phone. A rational part of you knew that you should leave, at least to get something to eat instead of subsisting solely on caffeine. But you denied yourself. What if he shows up when I leave?

If you leave now, you might lose your chance—the scattered clues and breadcrumbs you’ve been trying to scavenge for the past few weeks. All of this would be nothing again, and what are you supposed to do if that were the case?

The barista pushes open the door of the cafe, collecting the empty cups from the table across from you. He turns, then pauses. Something about you brings pity into his expression, and he offers if you’d like him to bring you something to eat. You accept the offer, order a plate of Danish pastry, and pay and tip.

Another two hours of waiting, and the hope in you begins to fade. You sank deeper into your chair, staring at the empty cup of your second coffee that had gone cold. Maybe you should just call it a night. There's a hotel just a few blocks away—you can settle in there, get some rest, and pray the phantom himself will make his long-awaited appearance the next day.

You begin to gather your things, making sure everything is in your bag. Standing up, you tighten your coat, preparing to leave.

A movement caught your eye.

Across the street—right in front of the building where the car was parked, a movement made you stop in your tracks. You waited for confirmation.

A tall, familiar shadow emerged, and your breath caught. The car lights flickered—the figure is unlocking it and preparing to get in. Your heart throbs both in excitement and trepidation. And then, just as another car passed by, its headlights illuminated the man’s face.

Simon looks exactly the same as he had the last time you saw him.

As if he had never been away, never disappeared. As if he had gotten up in the morning, gone about his day, and fallen asleep peacefully at night, and all of this anguish and turmoil was one-sided-

Simon’s car engine roared to life. Before you could process it, it started to drive away. You quickly hailed the nearest taxi, hastily climbing inside. The driver was about to open his mouth, but you beat him to it by pointing at the car in front and commanding, "Follow that car!" He didn’t ask any questions. The cab pulled out onto the street, just two cars behind Simon’s.

And so, here you are, sitting alone in a tucked-away booth of a pub, lacking friends when everybody else meets theirs. You retrieved your compact powder, discreetly aiming it toward where Simon was seated at the bar, probably ordering his usual drink. Sweeping a quick glance around, you wonder if this is the place he haunted while vanishing from your presence.

When the bartender returned with his order, you watched them exchange a few words—a short conversation, typical Simon. The bartender left him to serve another, and Simon enjoyed the quiet alone time with a sip of the amber-brown liquid.

Simon was… well, the same. You didn’t expect these times to change a man like him, but watching his unaltered demeanor—lost in his own world, focused only on his own business—felt like a soothing balm on your longing. He was wearing the same leather jacket, but you couldn’t help but notice that his hair seemed shorter—he had recently gotten a trim.

Everything about him seemed so… unchanged, so constant, that it was almost jarring when he suddenly shifted his head and gazed at someone you hadn’t noticed before.

“’Ello, there. Mind if I sit with you?”

It was a blonde woman, lips drawn into a flirtatious smile. Your throat tightened, your heart began to race as you heard Simon’s response.

“’Course not.”

The woman beamed. Your breath hitched, yet the woman beamed, sliding onto the barstool next to him with her shoulders open—her body language inviting him in, as if whispering to him to come closer, closer, closer—and he will find a fruit sweeter, riper than—

You.

The two of them exchanged a conversation too quiet for you to hear. You pressed your spine against your booth chair, straining your ears to catch even the slightest snippet of their conversation. Simon’s words barely reached your ears, but you managed to hear his response to whatever the woman said.

“’s my usual spot.”

The woman nodded, curving her smile wider. “Well, lucky for me, then,” she purred, voice dripping with suggestive tone. “My girls ditched me, so I was hopin’ to find someone to keep me company.”

You hear him snort. From the side profile, you can see Simon smiling at her words—and it burns your chest. He raises his glass, taking a long pull of his whiskey as if he’s preparing to entertain her more. Stop. Take your eyes off her. Don’t look at her like that. Don’t look at her at all.

“’s that so?” he replied, tone laced with a hint of amusement and something else. “An' you thought I'd be the right person to come to, did you?”

“Well, I certainly ‘oped so,” she said. “You’re not married, are you?”

Simon shakes his head. “’M not married.”

She leans in a bit closer, and your fingers turn pale around your compact powder. “An’ not with anyone? Anythin’?”

Like the woman, you still your breath waiting for his answer. Perhaps he will say yes and reject her proposition entirely. Or at the very least, he will consider you to be a near-answer before responding. The air you’re holding in begins to choke you like a boa constrictor, causing your eyes to water and your lower eyelids to moisten.

Far from your expectations, Simon finds his answer quickly and without hesitation, “Nope.”

Everything in you shrinks into what it once was—nothingness. You feel yourself slowly unraveling, like a thread being pulled apart. The world around you is blurred—Simon’s reflection in the mirror of your compact powder blurred. You take a shaky breath, brow furrowed as you burn holes in the stranger you now despise so much. The liquid smooth you brought to this city has been turned into a scalding, caustic torrent, burning mercilessly even to its master.

When you came back to reality, they were both already standing, Simon closing the tab and making his way towards the backdoor with her. You turned your head, watching them disappear behind the old wood.

With all that's been presented before you, it should be enough for you to get up and walk away—to spare yourself from another twist of the knife. Somewhere within, a voice seems to whisper that you don’t need this—that you have suffered so much, that you don’t need to do this to satisfy whatever found amusement in your own heartache. That you can walk away, let him slip away if necessary.

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

But you are nothing if not obsessive. The urge to uncover the truth, to confirm everything even at the cost of your own destruction. You will push your sanity to the brink where you will find the end.

Summoning what little courage is left, you stand up and begin retracing their invisible footprints, making your way towards the backdoor. As you pushed it open, you were greeted by the sight of a dark, empty alley, with your ragged breath as the only sound.

But when you reached the other end of the alley, the silence faded away as hushed whispers and soft sounds filled the air. Alarms went off in the back of your head—it only meant one thing—but you ignored it. Instead, you slowed your steps, hiding behind the crumbling brick wall, and peeked around the corner.

There they were. Simon and the woman, locked in a deep, passionate kiss. His body pressed against hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist in a way that made your stomach churn. The hands you knew so well cupped her jaw like he did to you as he dragged his lips down her exposed neck. Just like he did to you.

A strangled sound escaped your mouth; you covered it to prevent another. You felt your eyes burning, yet you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the show. Spare me, your heart begged, yet you let your ears continue to listen to them.

The sound of a zipper being lowered cuts through the air. Simon lifted her dress, and you watched in morbid fascination as he snapped his hips forward. She lets out a loud moan. Your head throbbed, the pulsing pain matching the rapid beating of your heart. The burn inside you was almost unbearable, and you felt your breath shortening, vision blurring as you grew lightheaded.

You couldn’t bear to watch anymore. With shaking limbs, you walk away from them. The acid reaches your throat—the next second, you're hunched over, vomiting onto the cold, hard concrete.

And suddenly, everything feels like a fever dream—a repetitive loop that leaves you feeling both light and heavy. You exist, but you don't really exist; you're breathing, but you're not really breathing. The cobblestones stare back at you, their edges thickened, spreading like black blood. Beside them, your hands are shaking, and when you turn them over, you realize they’ve always been this way—open, fingers stretched to their maximum.

Like they're grasping for something out of reach.

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. Yet, the hollowing abyss within you is anything but a stranger. In truth, it's probably all you've truly known throughout your entire life before you dared to believe you could become something beyond this yawning emptiness—the chasm where every ounce of love and all the things you've held dear have been mercilessly flushed away.

When you sob again, you choke. Gravel scrapes your skin as you kneel down,  resembling a devout soul pleading to the heavens. It isn't devotion that drives your supplications, but rather fear—and perhaps that's why your fervid entreaties never find an answer.

“Why did you let that man walk away?”

Change the prophecy, change the prophecy, you beg. Make him love me, let him love me.

(But, is it his love you truly seek, or simply the proof that it brings?

Or is it a bit of both?)

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city, you taste the saltiness of your own tears on your lips. Release me. Release me from this pain—from this curse. Make him love me. Prove me right, prove her wrong. All these demands, and yet, the voracious pain continues to spread like an all-consuming malady.

It gave you an open eye.

How pathetic you must’ve looked—like a crumpled, wretched thing, curled on the dirty sidewalk while Simon was still there in the alley, digging his fingers into the hips of another woman. You could almost feel it—the phantom of his touch, the sounds he used to make. You knew he would kiss her just as he had kissed you—he would make her feel good, the way he had always made you feel.

And you knew—you just knew—that she would fall for him, just as you had.

But this time, he would love her back.

Because she wasn’t you.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[clownstillwritesfanfic]

So Come One, Come All - Five Hargreeves X GN!Reader (REUPLOADED)

PLEASE READ: my old blog (clownwritesfanfic) was deleted when my main blog attached to it got terminated for some unknown reason. I can’t get it back so I’m reuploading everything I had saved in my notes app. Sorry for any inconvenience or disappointment, trust me, I’m devastated, but with your help I can get back to my former glory so PLEASE reblog if you like it 🙏😭

Summary: After you find out that your husband of 40 years cheated on you with his own brother’s wife, you give up on figuring out how to fix the apocalypse and run off. That’s when you’re lead to a suspicious deli full of the exact face you never wanted to see again.

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word Count: 1,663

Warnings/Notes: implied/referenced cheating, heartbreak, rushed writing, happy ending

Disclaimer: Five is canonically in the body of an 18 year old in this season. Not to mention he aged like 7 more years with Lila. Also, obvious Season 4 spoilers. This season was awful and Five was done so dirty and he’s still ooc in this fic (or at least a version of him is)

This is part one of my The End series (part two and three coming soon)

———————————————————————

You had no idea how long you had been walking for. All you knew was that you were tired.

Tired of everything. Of the constant apocalypses, the fighting, the stress, …the lying, the heartache. Everything.

You had to get away from that place. You couldn’t stand to be around anyone from that family anymore. Around… him.

You and Five have been married for forty years. You both met in the first apocalypse as teens. You weren’t special like him or his siblings but you were both grateful to have someone else around.

You slowly fell in love over the years as you grew older together. You had a makeshift marriage with a ring Five had made for you out of random bits of metal he had found.

You had both been recruited into the Commission together and quickly became the most badass couple in the entire organization. You were always put on missions together for your efficiency and speed.

You had followed Five back in time to see his family, consequently getting stuck in your younger body as well. You followed him everywhere. You would’ve given your life for him.

So, how could he do this to you?

Forty years, thrown away all because he supposedly got stuck for seven fucking years in a stupid timeline traveling subway station with another woman.

You wanted to kill him. He knew that you didn’t like how comfortable Lila was with him since the beginning and he had assured you he wasn’t interested in her at all and that you were all he wanted. What a load of bullshit that was.

You had left after their explanation. You saw the way he looked at her. The exact same way he used to look at you. For him at had been years since he last saw you. For you, it had only been a few hours since he last looked at you like you were the world.

You had slipped off the wedding ring and threw it at his face before leaving. You could hear him trying to get you to stay and try to follow you but he was stopped by Diego.

You were so lost in thought before you found yourself in front of the entrance to a subway station. This must be the one they were talking about. You looked behind you, making sure no one had followed you but also as a way to look back on this life.

If they were telling the truth about the timelines…then you weren’t going to be coming back to this one. Maybe there is a timeline where you’re happy. One where you and Five don’t meet. Or maybe one where none of this happens. Where you’re both a normal married couple.

You took a deep breath as you gazed down the steps. Once you took your first step down, you knew there was no going back.

As you descended the steps, the eerie silence unnerved you. You could hear only your footsteps on the ground and the squeaking of the turnstile as you pushed through it.

You were startled by the sound of the speakers playing some sort of announcement. It was impossible to understand considering it was all backwards.

Soon, the subway entered the station and came to a halt. The doors opened and you stood still, you were still a little creeped out. Five always made you feel more comfortable in situations like this…but he wasn’t here anymore.

You swallowed your unease and entered the subway car. You slowly took a seat and looked around before the doors closed and the subway started moving. You looked out the window as flashes of colour went by.

You were there for a couple minutes before you stopped. The doors opened but you didn’t get up. You weren’t sure if you wanted to get off yet. You wanted to be sure you were as far from the timeline you were just in as possible.

You felt something pull inside of you though. Something wanted you to get off and explore. So you did.

You let yourself be guided by this feeling deep inside. It was like your heart was pulling you somewhere.

It isn’t long until you end up in front of a building of some kind. Could you even call it that? You never left the station and it’s the only other place in here. Is it more of a building in a building? You didn’t want to think about it too much.

The words “Max’s Delicatessen” were shining brightly in your face. You were a little amused. Maybe you were hungry and it was actually your stomach bringing you here rather than your heart.

You sighed and decided to check it out.

But when you entered, you were horrified at what you saw.

The entire deli was full of copies of your (now ex) husband. This was the last thing you wanted to see and you internally cursed at your conscious for bringing you here.

You could feel your heartbeat pick up and your breathing become heavy as tears pricked at your eyes.

Finally, one of the Five’s had looked up and noticed you stuck in place at the door.

“Darling!” He shot up out of his seat, audibly hitting his knee on the table but he didn’t flinch.

Suddenly, every single Five in the place had his eyes on you, each with various emotions displayed on their face.

The Five that spotted you quickly made his way over to you. He lifted his shaking hands and held them over your cheeks, too scared to make contact in case you fade away.

You could see the disbelief and love in his eyes. This snapped you out of your confusion and slapped his hands away from you and backed yourself up into the door.

The Five in front of you looked confused and hurt before sighing and lowering his hands.

“Sorry…I forgot that you’re not the same one.” He apologized.

“What the FUCK is going on?” You exclaimed as you looked around to be met with all the Five’s still staring at you. “How did you get here? Why are there multiples of you? Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

“Woah, woah, slow down. Breathe. You’re okay. Everything’s fine.” The Five in front of you tried to calm you down. “You took the subway right? This is a different timeline. We’re all the same person from different timelines. Usually the only new people that enter here are a version of me…or…us I guess. You’re the only…well…you, that has shown up here.” He explained.

“What?” You looked at him like he was crazy.

“They should sit down.” Another Five had said.

“Come on, hun. Come sit down and we can talk.” He had reached out towards you, careful not to touch you while he guided you towards the opposite end of the booth he was previously at.

You sat down, still in shock. It felt weird being surrounded by so many Five’s. Especially when you were trying to get away from him.

“I guess I’ll start.” Five had sat down across from you and sighed.

“In my timeline, you and I had been together for years. We met at the Commission. At first we hated each other but we were always put on missions together. Over time…I had fallen for you, and luckily for me, you reciprocated those feelings. We were together romantically for years. We were on our last mission before our contract with the Commission ended. We were planning on getting married after and retiring somewhere nice. But…it went wrong…and I lost you. You died in my arms.” He looked off to the side and tried to play off wiping away his tears.

“I haven’t seen you in years. You’re just as beautiful as the day I lost you.” He reached a hand across the table and gently placed it on yours.

You teared up as you saw the pure love in his eyes. Your Five used to look at you like that and it still hurt knowing he no longer felt that way.

“If you’re here…then something must’ve happened to the Five in your timeline.” He rubbed his thumb on the back of your hand.

You stilled and took your hand back, making the Five in front of you frown.

You hugged your torso for comfort and curled in on yourself slightly as you looked down at the table.

“We were married for forty years…but he got stuck in the subway with Lila and…I guess forty years didn’t mean anything because in seven years he threw it all away for… her .” You hiccuped as you tried to hold back your tears.

There were multiple grumbles and scoffs around the deli.

The Five across from you reached across the table and held your shoulder gaining your attention.

“Everyone here had a version of you in their timeline. We all lost you in one way or another. I think I speak for all of us when I say…having you here is the best thing to happen to us, and he’s a complete idiot for throwing you away like that.” He smiled as he lightly caressed your cheek.

You smiled slightly at his words.

“Aww there’s that beautiful smile.” Five said as he lightly pinched your cheek.

You giggled and batted his hand away and wiped your tears away.

A sandwich and drink was placed in front of you and you looked up to another Five holding a now empty tray.

“Your favourite, just the way you like it.” He said as he gently grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on the back of it with a wink.

You blushed at the action and thanked him.

Even though you got on that train in order to get away from him…you don’t think you’ll be getting back on any time soon.

[snoopdoggs]

public commission — 900 gifs of kathryn hahn in agatha all along (2024) have been delivered to their owner, and can be accessed by joining my discord server. kathryn is white and was born in 1973, so cast accordingly. like and reblog if you found these useful. please read my rules before using. all gifs were made by me, so do not redistribute or claim as your own.

tw: partial nudity, weapons, violence, flashing lights, kissing

my gif commissions are currently open, check my pinned post for more information!

[porcelainhalo]

Ok, listen-

[bathroomcube]

spend chunk of change on commission from someone with really cool artstyle on toyhouse

lose contact with them when they get banned a few days later for having 15 willy wonka kinsonas

[favoredsouls]

A while ago I commissioned the artist @haclif to do art of my upcoming pathfinder character Kimiran Oshotenat (also hi Haclif! Its 2bit) and this was it! I love the way he portrayed Kimiran.

I'm on a Pathfinder kick this week and I am so excited to play Kim in our upcoming Kingmaker campaign. He's an agnostic warpriest who wields a spear and has a tragic past. I based him off of Kaladin Stormblessed from the Stormlight Archive, one of my favorite characters in anything anywhere.

He isn't a favored soul but he is very lucky all things considered. He may not see it that way though. I love my sad boy

[stitchy-face]

❄️⚠️ SNOW STORM WATCH IN EFFECT ⚠️❄️

We're approaching the snow day.... but there's still time to line up and try to take me on in a snowball showdown :)

For TOMORROW ONLY you can get a snowball thrown at mach speed at your fursona (I can make an icon version too)

IF YOU want me to pummel your poor fursona or character in the face with snow as hard as possible you can snag a limited slot below!

And stay tuned...because there'll be another stream event tomorrow :)

Check it out HERE > https://ko-fi.com/peripendrake/commissions <

[leadendeath]

I wanna do some sketch pages for £6/$7.62/€6.98!

Choose 4-5 expressions from one of these kinda sheets (but these are just some ideas, doesn't have to be from these ones exactly, and you can have less than 4/5 if u really want! You could even send me a meme redraw idea featuring your characters, I love doing those!)

Message me with your reference image(s) at the ready- doesn’t have to be an official ref sheet, any pics are good!

Then after a discussion of what you want to see from me, be ready to throw the tip into The Jar (please + thank u :3) alt links here:

I’m about to reblog this with examples of what my sketches look like: (will be under readmore because i'm trying not to make this post too long and there’s a limit on how many images I can include in a post)

THANKS FOR READING SO FAR I LOVE YOU

[gender-is-fake]

Hey! I hate to do this but I’m kind of tight on money right now, so I wanted to send out a general reminder that I take commissions! For my portfolio, please check out my art Instagram at @contentiousart.

Character Portraits: $5-$20+

They’re great for tokens on Roll20, character art, sticker designs and pins for a renaissance faire act, and book covers. Sketches are great if you want me to design you a concept… or if you just want me to make you a meme. (Example: I once drew catgirl Mike Hermantrout, DM for proof.)

Sketch: $5

Lineart from waist up: $18

Full Body Lineart: $20

Flat color: +$7

Full Shading: +$10

Add Pet: +$10

Add Another Person: +$20

Add New Background: +$10

Preset Background: Free

Gradient Background: Free

Flat Color Background: Free

Transparent Background: Comes with every option in addition to background choice

Preset pose: $2 discount (excludes sketch)

Other ideas?

DM me and I’ll probably have a good idea on how to price it.

If you don’t want to commission me but do want to support me, you can also buy from my redbubble shop here: https://www.redbubble.com/people/contentiousart/shop?asc=u

Thank you so much for reading!

[darkartsanna]

This is bullshit! This website is dedicated to preserving not just books, but audio files, videos, websites, this is the source of the wayback machine! They have effectively lost the right to lend out digital books, regardless of origin. This now limits our resources even further. It's another book banning issue, and it needs to be heard.

[transformativeworks]

Are you getting that annoying "Buy Art from Me" spam on your AO3? Here is what to do

First - if you are a real non-spam person asking folks to commission art by commenting on their fics on AO3.. please do not do that. That is a violation of the TOS.

Second - We are working on filtering it out, and you can help! Below the cut is info on identifying the spam comments, and then how to report them in the most effective way!

So we can stop this flood of spam.

<3 Mod Remi

(Details from PAC are below the Read More)

How to identify it - 1. Comments are left by registered accounts 2. Usually, the comments are on works that have just been posted or updated 3. The comment may provide very specific compliments about the work, and if challenged, the commenter will firmly deny being a bot or scammer 4. The key identifier is that in the comment itself, or in a follow-up to any reply to the comment, the spammer will always do at least one of these two things: - Offer to create art for the work, or say that they are an artist interested in working with you - Ask if they can speak with you on another platform (they may provide their own contact details for other platforms, such as Discord, Artstation, or Instagram)

THE BEST WAY TO REPORT IT 1. Select the 'Thread' button on the comment so that you're viewing the comment's direct page 2. Scroll to the bottom and select the "Policy Questions & Abuse Reports" link 3. In the "Brief summary" field, put "spam comment" 4. In the "Description" field, put "This is a spambot" and then "The account name is [whatever account name]" – this will ensure it gets sorted correctly - Please only include 1 account in your report – if you see another, then please file a new report - Please don't re-report accounts you've already reported

What AO3 is doing about this - 1. We're implementing several measures to try and stop these spammers from making new accounts, but unfortunately, some are going to slip through our fingers 2. Fortunately, it is very easy for us to get rid of this type of spam and prevent the account from posting more – so long as it is reported to us in the correct fashion. If our auto-sorter detects the keywords in your report that will file it into our "suspected spam" folder, then it's easy for our volunteers to quickly check and handle it

[kkurensia]

hey guys long time no see *throws civvie ricardo on the table*

ALSO

emergency commissions under the cut cause a guy needs financial support. click more if ur interested </3

UPDATE:

comms and waitlist slots are full! but you can still hmu if you want me to update you when slots are available :D

please read this for more info regarding the commissions. im probably gonna focus on assignments before i draw anything else, so you'll have to secure your spot for now and then i'll have you pay when im about to start. dm @kid.arachn1d on insta cause im sure that dms on my main account still doesnt work properly on this account

this isnt exactly my first official commission grand opening but it is an emergency and im lowering the price just for this special occasion

[beebeedibapbeediboop]

Updating my commission info !! ヾ(:3ﾉｼヾ)ﾉｼ

Commissions are open again!

Please, be sure to read the information below before sending me your email!

Information:

● Contact me at bumblebee@outlook.fr (I only accept mp if you have any question but the commission must be discussed via email)

●Payments via paypal only, send as “Close friend” at this email: daphnee-pirker@hotmail.fr in Euro (EUR) in one go. Ref sheets can be paid in two times (before starting and after the sketch is done)

●Tell me as many details as you can think of when you commission me (so I can get closer to what you have in mind). If you want a commission for your OC, send me their reference as well. If you don’t have any reference (ex: only text, or seperate pictures to describe the character(s)) and you want me to design it, additonal fees may apply (usually between 10 to 25 EUR).

●I can refuse a commission if I judge it too disturbing for me (this is for both nsfw and ships)

[lumidotexe]

EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS!

COMMISSION INFO/SHEET HERE!

so yeah a fake commissioner scammed me and it got so bad that my bank is closing my account.

Commissions are 20% off through the end of the year! Rules and info about commissioning me are on the sheet! Please read it carefully if you're interested in commissioning! Due to the nature of this scam, I will only be taking Paypal during this period, no exceptions. DM me if you're interested!

If you can't commission, then REBLOGGING/SHARING IS ALSO GREATLY APPRECIATED!!

Even Rainfall has Shadows Masterpost has been temporarily relocated to here. Thank you for your patience!

[soularsss]

emerges from cave with cool togruta designs

back from my holiday so hopefully i can get my lazy butt back into a regular posting schedule!! I have a couple zine pieces in the works but i want to do some personal work as well

ALSO!! if youve read this far, i'm thinking about starting commission some time in the next few months, if you have any tips or just want to say youre interested, please do let me know :3