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emotionally-estarriol · 3 months

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About a year and some change ago, I decided to buy the first three Artemis Fowl books. I don't exactly remember why I wanted to read them. I had never heard anything about them when I was a kid, seeing as I only read graphic novels and historical fiction, but while wondering around Books-A-Million, I saw them, and after some out-loud debating with myself, my mom chimed in and said: "You should get them, I'm happy you're reading again."

The books just kinda sat around for a while until the day I started A Wizard of Earthsea because I also had started Artemis Fowl that same day. I had an audition later in the day, and I wanted to read something easy and fun to shake my nerves, but I ended up only reading a chapter and then forgot about it, trying to finish Earthsea.

Now, don't get me wrong, Earthsea is a phenomenal book that I now love deeply, but at the time, I was struggling to read it. So after a week of trying to brute force my way through, I decided to tell my friend (Who wanted me to read it) that I was taking a break from the book to read something else and while trying to figure out what book I was gonna read I remembered Artemis Fowl. I saw it on my bookshelf and thought, "Oh yeah, I started that, sure why not? It's middle grade. It'll be quick and easy." I then proceeded to take a month to read the first book.

A month, I know!!! Why did it take me so long? Was I not enjoying it? Did I at least pick Earthsea back up? Well, to answer that last one, the answer is no. In the entire month it took me to read Artemis Fowl, I didn't read any other books, much to the dismay of my friend, who just sat with the knowledge that I was literally 4 pages from THE massive turning point in Earthsea, but anyway, that still doesn't answer the first two questions. The simple answer to the first question is things like school, work, and rehearsal and the fact that I'm just a slow reader. The simple answer to the second was yes, 100% absolutely, but there's more to it than just those surface-level answers.

The answer to those questions is why I'm writing this in the first place, and it all starts with what my mom said to me when I first bought the books in the first place: "You should get them, I'm happy you're reading again." Cuz you see, when I was a kid, I was a reading MACHINE; from the ages of 3 to 11, I always had a book in my hand despite the fact that reading was always kinda hard because the words and letters jumped around on the page (They still do that, I'm in the process of seeing if I have dyslexia. I think I do), but I still read with passion and fervor. Reading was my first taste of escapism, full-on "transported-to-another-world" kind of escapism, and I loved it. It manifested as this warm feeling in my chest and a hazy filter on the world around me. When I got so overwhelmed by the world around me and even my own mind, the escapism from books was there to calm me down and put me at ease.

And then, one day, I stopped.

I can't tell you why I randomly stopped reading one day; I can give you some guesses, but I can't give you a concrete answer. But I stopped, and soon I grew sour towards reading, and I mean sour. Reading became "nerd shit" to me, and I held this weird, arrogant achievement of how long it had been since I stepped foot in my school's library, and over time I slowly forgot the comfort reading used to provide me.

Now, in a more cliche but sweet story, I would say Artemis Fowl was the book that got me back into reading and made me fall back in love with it, but that's not this story because the book that got me into it was none other than Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Trust me, I was not expecting it either! But something about that book in my junior year of high school fucking rerouted my brain and sent me back to the library with a new lease on literature. But then why am I talking about Artemis Fowl? Well, let me answer those two remaining questions. I wasn't just enjoying Artemis Fowl; I was savoring it, and that's why it took me a full month to finish it.

When I decided to go back to Artemis Fowl, I often read it at night before bed (On the nights that I wasn't exhausted from a four-hour rehearsal) with a little battery-powered lantern and my cat Finny next to me. The setup was very similar to when I would read as a kid with my Ikea nightlights and my cat Smokey. And the more I read, the more I found myself saying, "This is exactly what I wanted to read as a kid!" I also was saying, "I'd be insufferable if I read these as a kid!" because Artemis was my peak idea of cool so I would've absolutely, without a doubt, adopted him into my personality, but who knows.

I didn't consciously realize it then, but the further I got into the book, the more that warm feeling in my chest returned and the stronger the hazy filter became. When I cracked this book open, I fell into its world, and it caught me in its cool, badass, loving arms, and it happened every time I went to read it. I laughed, I gasped, I cried, I had such strong feelings about it that I couldn't put it into words. It was like I didn't have the words to describe what I was feeling, much like when I was a kid.

I started Artemis Fowl on October 29th, 2022, and I finished it on November 29th, 2022. It was a full and true month in the middle of my very hectic senior year and it was probably one of the best because,

Artemis Fowl handed me a piece of my childhood back.

And it wasn't the usual kind of nostalgia that you get from finding an old toy or seeing an old cartoon from your childhood because I never interacted with Fowl as a kid! It didn't bring me to the past; it brought the past to me. And in a way that I so desperately needed as adulthood stared me down. And though I didn't know it then, I know it now.

I read Arctic Incident a couple of months later, and the feeling returned, and now, as I write this, I'm reading Eternity Code. This whole post came about because I had the idea to live-blog my experience with Eternity Code (because I read the back and WIGGED OUT), but after thinking about it for a bit, I decided against it and wrote this instead. Live blogging felt a little too personal, even though I just dumped out my fucking emotional attachment to these books for the entire internet to see. Still, it felt too personal because stopping to write felt like it would break my warm cocoon of haze, and I don't wanna lose that, not again.

I may talk about Eternity Code once I finish it, I may not (I probably won't), but I just wanted to shout into the void about what this book has done for me.

I don't believe your inner child ever goes away. Sometimes, they just get lost and need help getting back home. It may take a while, they may keep getting lost, hell, they may not even want to come home, but when they do finally come home, something just clicks into place and relief just washes over you.

If I ever meet Eoin Colfer, I'm probably gonna say something silly like, "Nah, man, I read these books when I was 17, I didn't even know they existed as a kid", but at some point, I have to thank him for these books.

Artemis Fowl didn't change me; it brought me home.

#creative writing... i guess #reading #artemis fowl #I nearly cried while writing this #it didn't help that I was listening to the Spiritfarer soundtrack the whole time #funny to think this all came about because the plot for eternity code is my worst nightmare #childhood #i didnt proof read this #felt like it wouldnt be right to edited like raw feelings ya know #sorry to anyone who reads this in bed alone at 2 am #long post #literature

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me-writes-prompts · 5 months

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-: "When are we really going to make things final?” Situationship prompts:-

(People who do these things, leave them. Right now. Lmao, tag me :)

By @me-writes-prompts

“Is this what we do now? Making out and then never talking about it? Great!”

“I thought you wanted more than this. More than what we have right now.”

“It’s like I’m the only one holding on to whatever we have going on, and it’s making me go crazy.”

“You never text me first, why?”

“I asked you if you wanted to go out on a date, but you never responded.”

“Look, I am literally head over heels for you, but here you are, indifferent to everything that I’m feeling.”

“I want to save us, why don’t you understand? Why won’t you try to hold on to us like I am?”

“Is this it? Is this what you wanted? 2 weeks of texting and flirting with me like it was nothing and then friend-zoning me?”

“I cannot believe you. I cannot believe how you are so not into me, but you act like you are.”

“You know what? I’m done with this. I’m done with you, I’m done with us. I can’t do it anymore.”

“That was bullshit back there, you looked at me like I hung the stars for you and now you’re saying that we can’t work out? My day couldn’t get any better.” :)

“Interesting, isn’t it? How you were blushing just from my words two days ago, and now? You don’t even smile at me when you look at me. It fucking hurts.”

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salemoleander · 6 months

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Limited Life Cleo's arc was about the joy and safety of being stuck in a loop. Knowing you'll get to live again, and again, and again, a thousand lifetimes with these people by your side. Death is a momentary blip. Nothing to lose.

Secret Life Cleo's arc was about the futility and devotion of being stuck in a loop and knowing this isn't one where you win. Sure, you'll come back, but you wanted this one. You wanted these partners. You wanted this life. (Even if you won, of course, the result would be the same. An ending. No way to win.)

#slsmp spoilers #secret life spoiler #slsmp #secret life #cleo #salem tag #salem fic #i guess. meta? something. it's creative writing im tagging fic

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deepwaterwritingprompts · 27 days

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Text: As a child, I played with figures of animals that don’t exist, strange black and blue featureless things on four legs. They came from Nightmare Country, where my father grew up.

#creative writing #writing prompts #toys #flora and fauna #i guess #nightmares #second night of oops i forgot to post on time #queue the prompts lilia just qqqq the prommmmpts

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raineandsky · 1 month

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#114

The last thing the hero remembers is someone shoving them into a white van—and frankly, with a last memory like that, they’re expecting to wake up in a grimy jail, or maybe some weird torture basement.

What they aren’t expecting is to wake up in an actual bed, in an actual room. There’s actual windows, for god’s sake, and unbarred. They woke up ten minutes ago, and spent about six of those minutes revelling in how comfortable the bed is before realising they should at least try to get out.

They're in the midst of fiddling with the latch on the window—conveniently impossible to open, they notice—when the criminal behind this weird situation decides to make an appearance.

“Good to see you awake,” the villain says cheerfully, then, with a little more apprehension, “and on your feet.”

The hero at least has the courtesy to stop trying to break out. “What the hell do you want, [Villain]?”

The villain’s bright smile doesn’t move. They carefully shut the door behind them. “I don’t want anything. I’m doing you a favour.”

From the lavish bed and actual walking space in here, the hero can kind of see that. “I seriously doubt you are doing me a favour.”

“When was the last time you slept in a bed that comfortable?”

A long time ago. The hero can even barely remember. It feels like they’ve always been a hero. Always been a little uncomfortable. “Last night, thank you very much.”

The hum the villain gives that is so disbelieving it’s painful. “I don’t like the agency,” they say after a moment, “and as a result I didn’t like you. I just kind of… bunched you in with them.”

“Well, yeah.” The hero shuffles awkwardly. “Probably because I work for them.”

“But exactly! You know I hate the modern working world.” The villain smiles, like everything is obvious. It’s really not. “I saw you as an equal to the agency, but you’re not, are you? You’re under them.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

The villain’s not done. “You’re on their whim. You’re not an ally to them, you’re a victim.”

There’s a long silence in which the hero tries valiantly to process what the villain just said. “I think you’re a little confused, [Villain], I’m not—”

“When did you last have any free time? Enjoy life? See friends? I bet the agency doesn’t let you have friends.”

“I have friends!”

“Yeah? Who?”

“There’s… heroes.”

“Hm.” The villain smirks. “Only allowed to hang out with people they approve of, then.”

The hero returns that with a scowl. “Look,” the villain continues gently, “you can do a lot better than the agency. You’re better than all of this.”

“I’m not becoming a criminal.”

“I’m not saying that.” The villain shifts their gaze to the window the hero was just trying to open. “I’m just suggesting… I don’t know. Go do something that actually puts some good out there.”

“And you’re telling me this, of all people.”

The villain laughs at that. The hero smiles too—it is weird to get a morality lesson from someone who notoriously doesn’t have any. “Hey, you do the good stuff and I’ll stick to the bad stuff. Only good if there’s bad and vice versa, right?”

The villain opens the door, clearly considering their point made. “You really think the agency’s that bad?” the hero blurts.

“I don’t think there’s anything worse.” The villain idly runs their hand over the grooves in the door handle for a moment. “You have a lot of potential, [Hero]. I think I’d like to see what it’s like to fight you in your prime rather than as the agency’s lapdog.”

The hero nods sagely. “This is for personal gain, then.”

“Of course it is!” The villain grins. It’s a lot more genuine than their usual victorious smirk. “Everything I do is for personal gain, you know that.”

The hero can’t help but smile gratefully as the villain shuts the door behind them. Maybe they can think on it. Maybe they can consider their options, here, in this lovely little room that's more than they’ve had in years.

If giving the hero a nice bed and a beautiful view is for personal gain, then the villain should be selfish more often.

#creative writing #writblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain #hey yall. guess whos handin in his notice on tuesday (hint: its me)#i am OUTIE YALL #excited to ditch #long story short they have screwed me over pretty royally and i KNOW how important i am so fuck em! good luck survivin without me!!

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writeouswriter · 1 year

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I love how ominous such basic names like "The Organization" or "The Institute" or "The Initiative" or "The Facility" or etc. are when placed in like a shady sci-fi context, like there's no reason for them to sound that suspicious, but without elaboration, it's like here is a place where they are doing things™ and I am like ooohh, because the blank state, the refusal to give you any more detail makes you think they're hiding something on purpose and leaves the darkest corner of the imagination left to fill in the rest.

#writing #writeblr #names #i want to give my shady research facilities in my stories actual names but some part of me is like #you'll never get the level of unease you get from just naming it the institute rather than the x institute or something #sci-fi #other genres i guess too but usually sci-fi #the barn in haven why is that the scariest sounding thing ever like?#you just know that thing ain't a barn #it is a barn physically outside but oh the creep factor that name gives i can't explain #the shop in firestarter? like f*ck it conjures up images of a workshop and saws building and tearing apart people for some reason #the initiative in buffy it's so nondescript and unassuming just like its soldiers living among the campus and the military power they hold #etc etc etc you know #mayhaps i am not creative enough to come up with better names also mayhaps

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powerbottomsonic · 11 months

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don't rock the boat

an interactive horror story by elliot degrassi

A women's crew team plagued with internal debate over who is allowed to row in their league finds themselves stalked by a river monster.

cover art by @fruityhag

~~ 🚣‍♀️ ~~

hi all i truly never post original content on here (to the point that this is literally my first time using the new post editor... whew,,,,,) but i spent the last week writing this twine about team sports and transphobia and i'm really proud of it and hope people play <3 let me know what u think!!!

#guess who finally learned how to pin a post motherfuckers #twine game #twine interactive fiction #twine story #interactive fiction #creative writing #rowing #lgbtq artwork #art by me #can't use my old art tag because its exclusively drawings i did in 2013.... oy #idk what else to tag this as!!!! enjoy tho <3

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starry-bi-sky · 5 months

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Danyal Al Ghul's missed potential - this kid is not gonna behave like his canon self if he's with the league of assassins until his late formative years, and my reasoning why

(feel free to take this all with a grain of salt this is just my thoughts on it, this is all mostly amusing to me and isn't trying to be negative towards anyone else)

similar to how i was talking about how danny growing up in crime alley would affect him, demon twin aus with danyal al ghul make me laugh a lot (affectionate) because... whose teaching danny to unlearn all the ecofascism he picked up from the league of assassins? whose teaching him to be kind? to be gentle? Not the LoA thats for certain.

(you could plausibly say Jazz but she's only 2 years older than Danny and do you really expect a fellow child to properly explain why X is wrong to another child and have it be 100% effective? i don't doubt it'd help to an extent, but not in the same way an adult explaining it would)

plus a ton of other things, like whose teaching him to value human life? not the LoA. Whose teaching him how to adjust to living with American society after he ends up with the Fentons when he's 8-9-10? Who teaches him that killing is wrong, whose enforcing that?

(not the Fentons if you're going the neglectful parent route, and Jazz can try but i really don't think Danny is going to listen to her, a stranger who isn't even part of his grandfather's league)

How do you teach a child to value human life when the greatest development window for that opportunity has closed and he's already formed his own opinions?

You're not gonna get a Danny whose exactly like his canon attitude if he's staying with the league during his formative years (0-8 years old). you're not. You could get someone LIKE it, potentially, or someone who has traces of it or is similar -- like danny's wit and jokes and sarcasm, and on some level his kindness. but you're not gonna have a carbon copy. Development doesn't work that way. "nature" can only do so much in the face of nurture.

If anything, it doesn't even have to be a major change -- in the league he cans till be kind, but it's probably going to manifest in a different way than what is considered normal. Tough love, for one. But there's gonna be something that affects him negatively. Why make him 'always good/kind' when you can make him a brat who develops into a kinder (if spikier than in canon) person?

TLDR: Danyal Al Ghul would not be like how he is in canon if he's with the league until his late formative years -- not without any lasting pr permanent impacts from the league at least. Missed potential to make him an absolute nightmare like damian was -- especially in his early years when he first arrived to the Fenton house.

(this doesn't apply to danyal al ghul aus where he's either given to the fentons as a baby/is reincarnated/etc. this is mostly aimed for danyal al ghul aus where he fakes his death at like, 7-10 and somehow ends up, personality-wise like his completely canon self by 14 without any differences.)

(and even then if he's five or four, or even three, he would still be traumatized and influenced by the league. he'll just have more time to adjust. the sooner he leaves the league the more likely he is to be like his canon self, but not like an exact copy)

(more under the cut)

Anyways what I'm saying is that there is prime missed Danyal al Ghul potential to make him an absolute NIGHTMARE to the Fentons however way he ends up with them, just like Damian was with the Waynes! Cuz why does Damian get all the fun? Danny got the same training and endoctrine as him! He is also an ex-assassin! Why is Danny the only one who is 'well adjusted and non-violent' hm? Hmm?

Why can't he also be mean, and stabby, and a total stuck-up in some way or another? Have fun with his characterization, its prime opportunity to play play-doh and clay with him! If he starts out as X how does he get the personality traits of Y, and thus become XY?

Like take this with a grain of salt if you will, but make him arrogant. Make him an asshole! Make him a bad person at first! Because he will be! He's the blood son of the batman and you mean to tell me that damian is the only one arrogant about it at first? Make him stabby and mean even at 14 when he's begun to chill out! Have fun with it! If he's with the Fentons at any point past the age of four or five then he's gonna be a nightmare to handle because he still remembers the league and his time there.

(and while it gives him more time to chill the hell out, his time at the league is still gonna leave an impact on him.)

also what im saying as well is have him and sam potentially get along like a house on FIRE. Again, Danny grew up under the views of an ecofascist cult and nobody to challenge those views to him until he got to amity park at whatever age in late formative years he was at. He could be about as intense or even MORE intense about environmental awareness/rights than Sam is!

(also him being supremely unimpressed with Sam's wealth. he gave up a palace in the mountains for this town. because that's funny to me - like let his past have more influence on him! it'll be fun!)

you could have a danny who doesn't kill but doesn't fully understand the value of human life because jazz is like two years older than him and isn't that good at explaining why people's lives are important. he won't kill but he's not morally opposed to it. there's very little chance he actually gets bullied at school because he nearly killed Dash the first time he tried anything.

Danny could have scars, physical ones, because its implied in multiple canon that training starts at toddling (my best bet is 3 at minimum and ~maybe~ 2 but only on the later side of 2. Good fucking luck getting any infant under 2 to do anything you ask, ESPECIALLY assassin training. They're gonna stick the weapon in their mouth sooner than they're gonna do katas. This is coming from a daycare teacher.)

there's more examples of how danny being at the league during his formative years would affect him, but those are just some of them. he could have a sword! An appreciation for weaponry and nature. Maybe he still speaks all shakespearan and formal, does he still make bodily threats to people? If Damian is still threatening people at 14 why can't danny?

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #tldr danyal al ghul has a ton of missed potential of what his behavior would be like if he left the league mid-to-late formative years #this post is specifically directed towards those danyal al ghul posts where he ends up with the fentons when he's like. 8 #like great. who taught him to unlearn all of the LoA's programming #how is he exactly like he was in canon despite being with the LoA during his early childhood #source: i've taken multiple child development classes #this isnt to bash those aus at all its just me thinking its hilarious that danny would even remotely be like his canon personality #especially if he's in the league long enough for damian to remember him #like i love danyal al ghul aus i just think there's not enough being taken into account about how the league would permanently impact him #especially if he leaves later on in life #people are not ponds they are puddles of mud. if you drop a rock into it it's gonna change its shape #its also good creative exercises on how to flesh characters out better and better understand how things in a story may impact a character #good thought exercises with the additional bonus of making danny a violent gremlin like damian is #i dont wanna say this is bashing but i guess it is kinda a criticism on the writing in those aus because you’re telling me this had NO #affect on danny on his personality beyond just ‘oh league bad. league scary’?? cmonnn have some fun #like you mean to tell me that being a child assassin had no lasting impact on him or his personality?? like at all???#he doesnt have an ounce of self-importance/arrogance/anger like damian did?? like none of that *stuck?* he’s just the normal and sane #sibling right off the bat??? five years with the fentons turned him into a complete blankslate?? he has no lasting impact from the league??

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creeps-writes-creepypastas · 8 days

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🪓 Ticci toby relationship hcs

🪓Toby who got almost immediately attached to you

🪓He always wants to cuddle and touch you, not even in a nsfw way either, he just wants to be close with you

🪓He loves it when you run your fingers through his hair

🪓Turns into putty in your hands, relaxing immediately

🪓Will almost always go straight to you after a mission

🪓Will expect you to shower with him, c’mon you gotta, pleaseee?

🪓He will beg you

🪓He likes to just cuddle you after a long day

🪓it helps him calm down

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sunnynwanda · 6 months

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Hi dear, how are you? hope you’re doing okay! Can you write a snippet where the villain is “drunk” and tries to seduce the hero? (At the end we find out the villain is not really drunk, but they just wanted to have fun)

Very vague, but i like your imagination so ik it will be a masterpiece! If it’s not a problem, make it spicy 🫶thankss

Under the influence

Part 2

Warnings: intoxication, slightly? spicy content ig

Hero rounds the corner, shuts the kitchen door and leans over the counter to steady themselves. The party is raging - and it's absolute chaos. If their growing headache is any indication, it is a success. They press the balls of their palms into their eyes to soothe the burning behind them. Hero feels feverish despite not drinking anything that contained alcohol - to their knowledge, that is. They did suspect one of the reporters had tried to spike their drink in search of a sensation, so they threw it onto the ground a couple hours ago and had been drinking orange juice.

The loud bangs of music clash against their eardrums again, returning them to the present when someone opens the door behind their back. Hero turns, about to snap at them to get out, but notices how crooked the smile adorning the striking dumb face of the intruder is.

"Hiiii, daaarrrling!" Villain's excited shriek is followed by an awkward wave. Hero quirks an eyebrow at them which Villain ignores. Their words slur when they speak again. "Happy Birrrthdaaayyy!"

"What are you doing here?" Hero questions, still wary. There's no way you came here to congratulate me, they think.

And Villain... giggles. They giggle!

Hero pauses for a good moment, taken aback by the inebriated state of their nemesis. When did this asshole get here to be this intoxicated already? And how come Hero didn't notice them before? Or anyone else, for that matter? A dozen questions flood their mind as they watch Villain sway when they try to lean against the door, evidently finding it difficult to stand upright.

"It's your birthday," Villain states matter-of-factly. They wave their hand in Hero's direction but are unable to focus their gaze on one thing. "Plus, you mentioned the party, so I thought..."

Failing to find words, Hero nods. They weren't exactly opposed to having Villain attend. In fact, this interaction was the most fun they had all evening. Partying wasn't exactly their thing. When the agency suggested throwing a party to celebrate their birthday, Hero paid no actual mind to it. Until they realised that it was not a joke, that is. They objected profusely for two whole weeks but were ignored for the sake of publicity. The amount of reporters present was a telling sign the event had nothing to do with celebrating them.

Seeing as they remain silent, Villain sighs, running a hand over their face. "I can leave if you want?"

Hero shakes their head. They can't help the soft smile that tugs at their lips when Villain does a little cheer dance in response. Except the idiot loses their footing in the process, and is about to plant face-first onto the floor. Hero catches them on pure reflex, wrapping an arm around their waist and grasping their forearm with the other.

"Woah..." Villain looks up at Hero, relying on their support to remain standing. "That was hot!"

Hero's eyes widen quite comically, so Villain giggles again, unbothered by the fact that they are still in Hero's arms. They are warm and smell of cinnamon and apple, so Villain leans in, sniffing them with a humm of appreciation. Hero can feel the heat rising to their ears and chooses to blame it on the air con not working properly.

"You're sloshed." The conclusion is obvious, judging by their flushed cheeks and hazy eyes. It's a shocking discovery, nonetheless.

Villain huffs, pushing against Hero's chest with open palms to detangle themselves from their embrace. "I'm not that drunk."

The claim fails to sound convincing because Villain hiccups halfway through it.

"Yes, you are," Hero can't help the chuckle that escapes them. They are flabbergasted by the absurdity of the situation and irritated by the fact that Villain manages to look stunning despite their state. It feels surreal. "Absolutely wasted."

"Am. Not." Villain's eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment, Hero thinks they'll leave. They don't want Villain to leave. And that is another shocking discovery of the day. "Got it?"

"Okay, fine," Hero raises their arms in defeat, contemplating possible action. "You're not drunk, just incredibly silly."

Villain huffs again, crossing their arms over their chest but not objecting when Hero hooks an arm around their shoulders to lead them towards the sink. They pour a glass of water and hand it to Villain. There is no way they will allow them to drive; taking them home is not an option either - seeing that Hero has no idea where they live. And Villain would prefer to slam head first into a wall than reveal the location of their lair.

"Now let's get you in bed so you can continue not being drunk," Hero suggests, gesturing towards the stairs. Keeping the enemy in their home isn't the best solution, but at least they'll be safe. As well as the city.

"In bed? That soon?" Villain's murmur drags them out of their thoughts in a rather pleasant manner. "Impatient, I like it!"

"What?" Hero's ears turn an adorable shade of red. They shake their head vehemently as crimson patches begin to cover their neck. "That's not what I meant, I..."

Alas, it's too late. Villain springs forward with astonishing speed and latches onto their lips before Hero has the chance to react. They fail to protest due to shock and... well, desire to be kissed by the worst possible choice in their life. Not that they would admit to it, of course.

Hero dissolves into the kiss quicker than anticipated, kissing Villain back the second Villain's hand wraps around their shoulders. They lose all sense of self as Villain's lips ghost over their throat, leaving a rough kiss below their ringing ear. They can't hear the party anymore, though they assume it's still swinging somewhere far away. Their kitchen feels detached from the world, coursing through the silent void on the other side of the universe.

Villain fists their shirt, and Hero picks them up, taking a few steps forward and placing them on the countertop. Villain draws them closer by the buckles on their belt, wrapping their legs around Hero's waist and earning a growling moan from Hero's chest. They pull Villain closer to feel them flush against their own body and meet their parted lips in a hungry kiss. Villain smiles against their mouth, swallowing every short gasp that escapes them as they draw a hand down Hero's toned stomach, lifting their shirt and flattening their fingers into the muscles beneath.

The reality crashes onto Hero's head like a bucket of cold water. Their eyes shoot open in terror as their whole body goes rigid with scorching flames of shame that flood them. They stop Villain's hand and pry it off of them.

"No! Stop!" Villain grabs their face, capturing their mouth again, so Hero pushes them away, restraining their hands at their sides. Their voice fills with panic as they speak. "We can't. We can't."

"Why not?" Villain leans back to take in their face in the dim light.

The uproar of the party is still muted in their ears, despite their return to the real world in which Villain is a) their irritating yet beautiful archnemesis and b) too befuddled to consent to whatever they were getting down to.

"I can't do this," Hero whispers, although it comes out a whimper. They shake their head for good measure and step back to distance themselves from the ravishing menace.

This time, Villain does not try to stop them, shrinking under Hero's gaze. Their eyes are vacant, and they make it a point to look away. Hero fails to decipher their expression until they jump off the counter.

"I'm sorry," they whisper, biting into their lower lip to suppress whatever emotions are raging behind their empty stare.

"No, Vil, I am," Hero interrupts, but Villain ignores their apology altogether.

"I didn't realise..." They pause for a moment, running a hand through their hair and finally facing Hero. "I should have asked if you wanted it."

"Of course I wanted it!" Hero's pitch reaches an uncomfortable height, scratching their throat through every word - they cannot bring themselves to care anymore. "I still do. I want to kiss you. But not like this. Not when you're not fully conscious."

Hero's words wipe the hurt expression off of Villain's face, illuminating it with a cunning smile that sends Hero's heart aflutter.

"Except, I am," Villain claims, crossing their arms over their chest and watching their nemesis with unexplained curiosity.

"Hm?" Hero knows they are missing something important here - they can't grasp what it is yet.

"I am perfectly sound of mind," Villain shakes their head, chuckling softly. Hero looks positively lost. "In all respects."

It strikes them then that Villain no longer looks intoxicated. Their speech is clear, their movements are controlled, no longer stumbling or swaying, and their eyes are no longer droopy or musky. And when they stride towards Hero, their steps are firm and deliberate.

"What the everloving fuck is this..." Hero's complaint is cut short when Villain cups their cheeks, silencing them with a kiss.

A smug smile blossoms on Villain's face as they pull away, resting their forehead against Hero's as they whisper to their stunned nemesis. "Happy birthday, darling."

Part 2

Masterlist

Hi love!

I'm doing okay, thank you! I hope you are well too. I had an absolute blast writing this and hope you'll like what this idea ended up as.

Thank you for this request :) I had so much fun writing it!

Sunny

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peachcitt · 4 months

Text

from: thirteen by @anna-scribbles

art by me :)

start from the beginning // read the november chapter // read the most recent chapter (january)

hey listen. look me in my eyes. have you read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think if you want your life to be forever changed you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think if you are a person who is breathing and alive you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. thank you

#thirteen #miraculous ladybug #ml art #emilie agreste #adrien agreste #miraculous ladybug fic #ml fic #ml fic rec #my art #THIS IMAGE HAS BEEN HAUNTING THE INSIDE OF MY BRAIN EVER SINCE I READ THE NOVEMBER CHAPTER BACK IN NOVEMBER #now. listen. in an ideal world i would've done this way back in november but uhhhhhhh i don't know what happened. suddenly it was december #and now it's february! not sure how that happened. anyway my goal is to be making a piece of art for each chapter to convey #just how fucking INSANE this fic makes me feel. like how crazy and insane and awesomely constructed it is. anna just GETSSSS ITTTTTTT #(and is using her 'get it' ability to hurt me bodily)#like with every chapter i read i am just assaulted with this intense desire to Make An Image which is not really an impulse im used to #since i don't draw a ton but anna's voice is just so evocative of images in a way that just. inspires every creative impulse inside of me #i took forever to read the december chapter but the moment i read it i already had an idea of something i wanted to draw for it.#my idea is. well. complex for me to say the least but as i told anna i am determined to make my skills match whatever i need to do because #the way she writes it is literally haunting me it is shooting me with a gun it is so something i have no idea how to handle #except i guess to repeat her themes and ideas and imagery in a collage of sorts #i don't know that's what my october chapter comic felt like- a collage. and this one does too in a way even though it's very different #i just like connecting the dots. and then smashing the dots together in an image #anyway. read thirteen. it is changing me all the way down to the dna

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the-modern-typewriter · 1 year

Text

The Gallery of Broken Things

“Don’t you get it yet?” Victor’s voice cut cruel with pity. “They are never going to love you, not like I can.”

Adam swallowed against the lump in his throat. He willed himself to say something, anything. It didn’t even have to be snappy and clever, just something. Nothing would come out.

Lightning flashed above them, illuminating Victor’s handsome features in the storm, and their eyes met. Victor’s voice grew softer as the wind howled louder, but Adam heard him all the same. “After all,” he traced a cold fingertip along the scar on Adam’s cheek. “How could they?” Victor clicked his tongue. “Look at you...”

Adam didn’t want to look, he never wanted to look. His shoulders hunched in protectively.

Victor waited too, eyebrow raised, for Adam to say something.

“I—” Adam didn’t finish. He couldn’t pick out the right words from the maelstrom.

Victor’s lip curled, and he dropped his hand. Adam felt colder than ever, and he didn’t think it was the chill of the rain soaking through his clothes.

“Come inside,” Victor said, “and stop being ridiculous. Before someone sees you.”

He turned and walked back into the house.

And, as always, Adam followed him.

***

The first time that Victor left him, Adam wrote out a list of broken things that he thought were beautiful. He’d only ever learned how to love something beautiful, after all, and it was inconceivable to consider himself as whole.

The initial list contained: stars, in all their dying light; mosaics in their fragments; glowsticks that only shone once cracked; kintsugi; and stained glass windows. It was not a perfect list – but it would do, in a pinch.

London, in the year 2094, was a perfect enough sort of place already. A Victor sort of place. Everything was smooth shining lines of glass stripped of any unsavoury edges, and neatly lush gardens for those who wanted to enjoy wildness without the danger of anything too unruly ruining the view. Adam could admit it was lovely, idyllic even.

It had never once felt like home.

The first time that Adam left Victor, he found The Gallery of Broken Things.

A woman, who he later learned was Margaux, had been handing out flyers on a street corner.

She’d been tiny enough that Adam felt like even more of a freak of nature than he usually did around Victor, and Victor was six foot of lean muscle and magnetic presence. It had almost been enough to make Adam apologise (for existing) and shrink back.

People could be threatened by height, by bulk, Adam knew.

He was not the kind of man that anyone wanted to meet in a dark street, or possibly even a well-lit one. Margaux didn’t seem to notice that.

She’d marched up to him with a pretty wicked smile, like they were in on some private joke together, and an air of whirlwind determination. She shoved the flyer in his hand and asked him to come.

She hadn’t flinched at his face once.

The Gallery of Broken Things was not, Adam learned, a traditional art gallery. It was more of a support group for people trying to figure out how to put themselves back together again.

They rented out one of the more ramshackle buildings on London’s outskirts, and met on Tuesday and Thursday evenings to drink copious cups of tea, chat, and make art. The day Adam went, curiosity tugging at him despite his best efforts, they were working on patchwork quilts.

“I know the name is weird,” Margaux said, plonking down onto a chair next to him. “I don’t mean, like, that none of us have anything to fix. Or that we’re something to be gawked at, though people do. Or to, like, you know, romanticise being broken.” She set the sewing kit down on the floor, along with the unwieldly tower of mismatched fabrics she was holding. “I just…” she bit her lip and looked at him, finally going still for the first time since he’d arrived. “I just got so sick of people saying there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I will never be like everyone else, and maybe, just bloody maybe, that’s fine.”

Adam blinked at her, not sure what to say.

Margaux grimaced.

“I’m messing this up. I just mean, if we were broken, would that be so bad? Would that mean we had no value? Other people telling me I wasn’t broken didn’t make me feel less like there was something wrong with me. It just made me want to, I don’t know, love myself anyway. Screw them.” She tried for a smile. “All this to say, really, broken things deserve love and it doesn’t have to be good. Your quilt. Just, uh, try and have some fun making it.”

Adam found himself smiling back, shyly, as he sifted through the odd ends of material. He had never made a quilt before.

Victor always said that crafts were a woman’s hobby; the lowest branch of art when art was already a pursuit only suited for people not serious or clever enough to pursue science instead. Still, as the weeks turned into months with no sign of Victor, Adam learned two things:

Not everything beautiful was worthy of admiration.

He really loved making quilts.

***

“It’s this idea,” Adam said, “that you can take all the bits that nobody else wanted and still make something good.”

Victor looked at the quilt on their bed, and there was something so unbearably sad in his expression. He said nothing.

“Some of them get really intricate.” Adam shifted on his feet, mouth starting to go dry. “And they have a lot of historical value too. They’re sometimes passed down through families, with every generation adding a patch, until they have this massive blanket. It can tell us a lot about values, tradition, community.” He wanted to punch himself in the mouth, because he could hear that ‘desperate, kicked puppy, please love it please love me’ edge creeping in and he hated it. “I like it.” There, he’d said it.

“You would,” Victor replied, and his expression was unreadable once more. “Patchwork for a patchwork person.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Victor’s gaze snapped to him. “What did you just say?”

Adam sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tightening around the edge of his quilt.

Margaux had encouraged him to make it as ugly and cheery as he liked, but Adam hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t think he could do that, not yet and maybe not ever.

It was one thing relishing in ugliness when one was already beautiful, and was spitting in the expectation of it all, and another when Adam had never got to be beautiful in his life. At least it felt that way. Was it shallow to want that for a second?

The quilt resting on his and Victor’s bed was small, but Adam had spent hours on it. He’d learned how to embroider, and stitch, and yeah – yeah maybe it was patchwork for a patchwork person. But it was the prettiest damn bit of patchwork Adam could come up with, and maybe he didn’t know how to love himself and maybe Victor was right and no one else ever would after everything, but Adam could love the stupid blanket. Screw Victor.

“I said,” Adam’s teeth gritted, “that you don’t have to be a dick about it. At least I did a better job on these stitches than you ever did on me.”

“I saved your life! You wouldn’t even have a body to whine about if it wasn’t for me.”

Except, well, it was never Adam complaining. The realisation hit him low and sour in the pit of his stomach. He may not have liked what he’d become when he woke up to new life in Victor’s medical wing, but he wasn’t the one who made such a point of it. He tried to remember when Victor had first made a point of it. It hadn’t always been like that, had it?

Adam squared his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Vic. Maybe if you’d spent some more time on arts and crafts you wouldn’t hate your own creations so much.”

Victor stiffened.

“That’s it, right?” Adam pressed.

He watched as Victor’s dark gaze travelled up him, lingering on the places beneath Adam’s clothing where the stitches lay. The pieces of Adam clustered together from everything that the esteemed Doctor Victor Frank had once thought ideal.

“You were supposed to be my perfect thing,” Victor said. He picked the quilt up off the bed, folding it with care. “I know it’s my fault,” he added, with a small bitter sort of smile, “for not stitching you together well enough. But I bloody well tried, alright? You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“That’s not—” That wasn’t why he’d made the quilt. Did Victor really think Adam had done this to rub it in his face or something? “I didn’t mean—you started—I like the quilt.”

Victor scoffed. “Do you know what you get when you put together things that no one else wants? Something that no one else wants. If they did, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

The room felt airless.

Adam reached to take the quilt from Victor, because he clearly didn’t think it was worth anything, or at least not worth enough. To Victor, the quilt could only be a broken thing making some lame attempt at pretending otherwise, couldn’t it? He couldn’t see the love of making, of creating, anything anymore.

Adam’s ears were ringing.

Victor shifted the quilt out of reach.

“Would you?” he repeated. “You’d leave me in a heartbeat if you could. Even after everything I’ve done for you.”

“And what about you!?” Everything in Adam wanted to crumple, to retreat, to mutter apologies until he didn’t even know what he was apologising for anymore except for – well, everything. “As if you’d still be here if you hadn’t made me this.”

Victor’s silence smothered every corner of the room.

They’d met before the accident, Adam had seen the pictures and heard stories, but he couldn’t remember any of it.

They’d been together for two years apparently. Then, the accident happened. His body had been in pieces, the shrapnel of a person, when Victor stepped in. It had been an incredible feat to ensure he survived, some miracle of modern science, but…

Adam straightened to his full height and snatched the quilt from Victor’s hands.

It seemed to occur to Victor then, for the first time, that Adam was a head taller than him and much, much stronger. No. It wasn’t the first time, was it? It was something someone at the gallery had mentioned, once: if they actually thought you were small, they wouldn’t spend so much time reminding you of it.

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

The silence stretched, and stretched—

And then Victor laughed, shaking his head. He closed the gap between them, and wrapped an arm around Adam and the quilt.

“You know what?” He pressed a kiss to Adam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.If you want to spend your life collecting things that nobody else wants, then that’s just fine. It’s even sweet. You’re sweet. I think it’s an admirable hobby.”

The breath, the everything, deflated out of Adam.

“Thanks,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was entirely what he wanted to say. He didn’t think Victor meant that as a compliment.

“But maybe let’s not keep it on the bed where people will see it, yeah?” Victor took the quilt once more and moved over to the wardrobe, cramming it into the storage space at the top. “We’ve got that dinner later this week, remember? It’s an important opportunity for me. A chance to get everything back on track. You know how judgy people can be.” The wardrobe door closed. “It can stay in here, just until after that.”

“Right.”

“Don’t be mad, I like it! I do. It’s just - it has to be perfect, you know?” Victor stopped in front of him again, cupping Adam’s face in his palms. “I have to be perfect.”

But we’re not perfect. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if we were perfect.

Adam didn’t say that though, because the viciousness had sucked out of Victor and left only pleading.

Victor could already see the hurt, the unsaid things and broken edges, couldn’t he? Then Victor looked away, as if scalded by the reminder, and busied himself smoothing out the bed sheets again. Without the quilt it looked like it was still straight out a home catalogue, pristine and colourless.

“It’s just a hobby, Adam,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m doing this for us.”

Adam said “right” again, even when the word tasted like blood in his mouth.

It was a hobby. Of course, it was only a hobby, so it didn’t matter. Not as much as Victor’s job at any rate. If things got back on track again, then maybe…

***

When Adam told Margaux that he wanted to make the gallery a, well, gallery, Victor had just left him for the fifth time.

It seemed to be their pattern, weaving in and out of each other’s lives. Victor left, and Adam trailed after him. Adam left, and eventually Victor hunted.

Margaux had lit up at the idea, though there were considerations to bear in mind. Space and time and what could be called the law against hideous things. London 2097 was perfect. It stayed that way by excising anything that didn’t fit. A Gallery of Broken Things was not the kind of exhibition that city council would approve of. Still.

The gallery space they managed to grab was a small, cluttered room which they all filled with an assortment of different objects and artworks.

There were patchwork quilts along one wall, of course. Some of them told stories, others were simply pleasing in colour and texture. Then there were other pieces too - a list full of ‘broken things’.

There were the shattered pieces of pottery glued back together in new forms, only more lovely for the fracture. In the corner, by the window, a shadowy ghoul made of garbage bags haunted the breeze.

Adam drifted around the space, adjusting lights, only to put them back. It had taken several months to get everything ready but they would be opening the gallery to the public tomorrow. Everything was set. There was nothing left for him to do.

He didn’t know if anyone would come. He didn’t know if anyone else would find value in broken things, or maybe they’d come but they wouldn’t get it. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“You okay?”

Adam turned to find Margaux standing in the threshold of the exhibit, grey rain clouds blustering behind her before the front door swung shut.

It was late, and everyone else had long since gone home. He’d thought she had too, though it didn’t exactly surprise him that she hadn’t. She’d clocked in as many hours and pieces to the gallery as he had, if not more.

Margaux’s main installation was a whole bunch of glowsticks painstakingly tied together into the shape of a human skeleton. The body glowed poison green and bloody red. Margaux had liked the thought of a chemical reaction being the base of her piece, even if it was different to where she had started out.

Adam shrugged, because, well. “Getting there.”

Margaux moved to stand next to him, overlooking their work. She buried her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat and swayed a little with the same restless energy that Adam could feel twitching in his own bones.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, next. “You did a good job.”

“You hate beautiful.”

“I hate that we live in a world that sometimes priorities beauty over kindness, that’s not the same thing.”

Adam laughed under his breath at that, shaking his head. Even though she undoubtedly meant it. They exchanged a glance; Adam’s smile a little less shy now than it had been when they first met.

“Come on.” Margaux held out a hand, waggling her fingers in offering. “Let’s go for a drink. We’ve been much too busy. I’m now terribly deprived of chocolate biscuits.”

“You don’t have to be at group to have chocolate biscuits.”

“It’s not the same on my own.”

He hesitated, but took her hand.

Outside it was drizzling, a noncommittal grey that slicked the streets and left the world hazy. The forecasts said that by tomorrow it would be storming. Adam couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad omen – his new life had started with a storm, or so Victor had always told him. Would there be a time when everything didn’t make him think about Victor?

Margaux squeezed his hand, bringing him back to himself.

She wasn’t looking at him so he didn’t know how she knew. She always seemed to, though. Not just with him, but with everyone who had come to her gallery. Maybe she knew what to look for or maybe she simply paid attention. Maybe both. They’d talked a lot in the years they knew each other, sometimes about the big things but mostly about the little. It was nice.

“You invited him,” Margaux said. “Victor.”

“How did you—”

“It’s what I would have done, once.”

Adam quietened at that. He stroked his thumb along the backs of Margaux’s knuckles, and it was her turn to snap back to the present. They shared another smile.

“Yeah.” Adam turned towards one of the pubs they sometimes went to, eager to escape the rain before it got worse. “I wanted him to see. To – I don’t know. Maybe he won’t show.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to him.”

“I know.” Adam did know that, now, at least in theory. In his guts was always a different matter, but it was a start. “I still want to feel…to feel like he did right by saving me. He lost his job over it, you know? Lost everything. It wasn’t ethical what he did. But I lived, probably when I shouldn’t have done. I guess I want him to know it was worth it. That I was…”

“Doctors don’t only save people who go onto do amazing things. It’s not their place to call that.”

Adam grimaced at her.

She snorted, sitting down in one of the more shadowy booths in the corner, for his comfort. She studied him from beneath a fiery fringe, drumming her fingers against the table, before she seemed to make an effort to stop.

“Besides.” Her voice was deliberately casual, in a way that from Victor might mean an oncoming barb and from her meant – not that. “You’ve done amazing things, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re…amazing.”

Adam swallowed hard, and resisted the urge to clear his throat. She cleared hers, scrambling to pick up the menu. Heat rushed to both of their faces.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are too.” It seemed like a dumb, too pale thing to say, because she was so much more than amazing.

Their eyes met.

The rain outside began to pour.

“So,” she said. “Fancy splitting some nachos?”

***

“Adam.”

Somehow, Adam really hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that Victor would come. He thought he’d look at the invite, not bother to show, and then either way Adam would have done his part. He turned to face the other man, standing alone by the entrance of the exhibit.

Victor looked as impeccable as he ever did; more impeccable if that was even possible, as if even the swelling storm didn’t dare to touch him.

“Victor.”

Adam’s heart hammered in his chest, ever a reminder of what Victor had done, what Adam owed him, the blood that tied them both.

He watched as Victor pivoted on the spot to examine his surroundings.

They hadn’t officially opened yet. Margaux was in the backroom somewhere and the others would be on their way.

Victor paused by the wall of quilts, one hand rising as if to touch but stopping halfway. Dropping. Victor stuffed his hand into the pockets of his expensive coat.

“A gallery of broken things.” Victor hummed, swinging to face Adam once more. “You could do better.”

“Maybe,” Adam said, softly. “Maybe not. But I don’t want to.”

Victor’s brow furrowed at that, his head tilting to the side.

“You’re early,” Adam said. “We’re not opening until 11. I said that, right?”

“Are you really going to invite people to come and look at…this.” Victor stepped closer. “At you. Shouldn’t you at least be in the backroom or something? I’m just worried,” Victor added, quickly, taking his hand. “People can be cruel.”

“Yeah.” Adam looked down at his hand, huge and patchworked in bits of skin and sinew, strong but hideous in comparison to Victor’s. “People can.”

“So don’t do this.” Victor squeezed his fingers. “Come with me. That’s why you invited me, right? You mess up, I fix things.” He took a step back, as if to tug Adam out of the door.

Adam didn’t move. Victor may as well have tried to tug stone.

“I invited you because this is something I’m proud of.”

Victor stopped tugging.

Adam let go of Victor’s hand.

Maybe, it clicked, it finally clicked, that there was never going to be a point where he was good enough for Victor.

Because it was him.

Because if Adam did something for himself, then he wasn’t doing it for Victor.

Because he wasn’t some controlled experiment, eternally grateful for what he’d been given, but something – someone – alive. Victor had admitted himself, once, that when he saved Adam he’d wanted to know that he could do it. It had been scientific, not heroic. And when it worked too well…

Well, Adam was alive. Living people were not perfect, they messed up all the time.

Victor talked about their past relationship like it had been something wonderful, like they’d been the happiest people on the planet, like they’d had been perfect.

Once upon a time, Adam had believed it. He didn’t anymore.

Victor stared at him.

“That’s what people do, Vic.” Adam’s voice cracked. “Don’t you get it? When they want someone in their life, they invite them to the important things. They support each other. They say they’re proud, even if they think the art’s a bit rubbish.”

Maybe Adam had reasons, other reasons, which all seemed stupid now. Had he really thought Victor would approve? That he might have changed? Maybe he’d hoped.

“I support you,” Victor protested. “I’m supporting you now, even if you’re too—”

“No.”

“…what do you mean no?”

“I really hope you know what no means.”

Victor folded his arms. “I’m trying to help you. If I’d known this was what you’d been up to, I would have come sooner.”

Adam shook his head. He almost wanted to laugh, except it wasn’t really funny. Maybe it hadn’t been funny for a long while. “You’re trying to help you, like you always do, because you think what I do reflects on you.”

“Oh, come on!” Victor sighed, like Adam was being ridiculous. “So, what, you invited me here to lie to you? I don’t lie to you. Tell me one time that I’ve ever lied to you.”

“You said this was only a hobby. It’s more than that to me.”

Victor rolled his eyes.

Adam released a shaky breath, and part of him still wanted to wilt. He forced it down. “This was clearly a mistake.”

“This is a mistake, yes.” Victor’s expression grew colder, and he seemed to regroup himself. “They are going to hate it. They are going to hate you, and then you’re going to break, and then I’ll have to derail my life to put you back together again because that’s what I do.”

“No, you won’t.”

“What, because this time is magically different to all of the times before when you thought you could survive without me?”

Adam’s mind flashed back to Margaux, to the group, to nachos and – if not peace, then belonging.

People who wanted him around, who liked him, who didn’t act like if he got hurt it was his own fault for not being careful enough. People who didn’t say ‘the world is cruel’ as just another excuse for cruelty.

“Yeah.”

Victor outright snorted.

“So,” Adam said, “I think you should go. For good.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Victor blinked at him, like he couldn’t comprehend what exactly was happening, like he didn’t recognise Adam anymore.

“Adam,” he began.

“Is there a problem here?”

The two of them both turned, to find Margaux had appeared from the back office. Her eyes were cold in a way that Adam hadn’t seen before, murderous even, as they fixed on Victor.

“We were just leaving,” Victor said.

“No,” Adam said. “We weren’t.”

“Is this gallery yours?” Victor held a hand out to Margaux, charming smile pinned back on his lips. “I’m Victor, Victor Frank. I’m Adam’s—”

Margaux ignored Victor, coming to stand by Adam’s side, studying him. “Are you okay?”

Adam managed a nod.

Victor’s dangling hand curled into a fist. He looked between them, at the way they stood close and comfortable with each other, as if he expected Margaux to be shrieking and reaching for a pitchfork.

“Is there a particular reason,” Victor’s voice was much too light, “that he would not be okay with me? Because, you know, this was a private conversation. I care about Adam a lot, and if you’re encouraging him to—”

It was Adam’s turn to take Margaux’s hand gently in his own.

Victor faltered for only a second.

“I can’t believe this.” His gaze flicked down, scalpel sharp, and then back up. “I really can’t believe this. Are you bloody well kidding me, Adam?”

“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “that you think everything has to be perfect, because you’re never going to be. And I’m sorry you think the world is full of people like you, because it’s not.” He squeezed Margaux’s hand and Margaux squeezed back. “I’m not sorry for leaving you.”

Victor’s mouth clicked shut. He opened it again, but didn’t speak. For once, he really seemed to have nothing to say at all. Then he walked out.

Adam felt like he could finally breathe.

It was time to break the cycle.

***

The opening of The Gallery of Broken Things was not a stupendous success, but as far as Adam was concerned it was a moderate one.

There was a steady stream of traffic and conversation throughout their opening hours, and while some people were less than complimentary about what real art was supposed to look like, others were…different. Maybe lots of people felt a little broken, sometimes, even if they didn’t appear that way.

The lot of them celebrated after hours, with cups of tea and chocolate biscuits. Eventually, again, it was only Adam and Margaux left.

They sat together on the floor, between the installations, the glow of Margaux’s skeleton beginning to fade. She’d have to remake it every so often to keep up the look.

It had been a busy day, so there hadn’t been too much time to talk if talking was even required. Still, he’d felt her eyes on him every so often.

“Thanks,” Adam said, eventually. “For, you know. Helping out with him.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You did enough.” More than enough, even if Adam still didn’t quite know how to wrap his tongue around all the words.

Beyond the gallery doors, the storm had finally broken.

Because, maybe Victor was right about thing, maybe no one would love Adam like he did.

They would do it better.

#The Gallery of Broken Things #frankenstein #retelling #writing #fiction #some of you will have seen this before #I live in fear of my computer finally breaking on me so this is going here for now I guess #my writing #story #creative writing #frankenstein retelling

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