#actually writing this was fun LOL

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Living Pictures | BODY BACK Update #1

A writing update??? In THIS economy???

Paying homage to my old writing updates, except we're getting 10x more self-indulgent. Let's talk about falling back in love with characters, orbital chapter structures, Harrison's messy redemption, God as memory, and of course, the first chapter of my novella, BODY BACK. With lots of excerpts of course. 😈

Post starts under the cut!

BODY BACK background:

Here's a summary if you missed the chaotic conception of BODY BACK: it's a literary fiction novella that occurs between a duology I wrote a few years ago (book 1 is Moth Work and book 2 is Feeding Habits). The duology follows two men, Lonan and Harrison, who are at the centre of a very complicated relationship.

I talked in depth about this project's conception in THIS post, but the gist is that I re-read Moth Work recently and was so enthralled by Harrison's psychology that I had to extend his story.

This was the first nugget of BB:

[ID: BODY BACK: Harrison's novella in the two months he lived in Las Vegas, 2005 (Oct-Sept, between the events of FH in 2006). Energy: bad decisions, lots of parties, self-destruction but make it glitzy. /end ID]

Logline: It’s 2005 in Las Vegas and 21-year-old Harrison is tired of routines, of gods, of men. On a mission to move past a complicated breakup, he’s about to get recklessly indulgent–and he’s come to the right place.

I'm honestly shocked, but deeply grateful to be writing this project. The last time I wrote a writing update, I'd been deeply struggling with Feeding Habits, and also hated Harrison as a character (shock!). Of course, he was still my baby, but at the time, I just could NOT crack his psychology. It took a full year to really come to terms with where he was in FH, and BB is almost an opportunity to "redo" what I wish I could've given him initially. So BB feels like a redemption for me as much as a redemption for him (albeit... he does zero redeeming in this book lmao).

I think I'm in love... with Harrison

Characterization is complicated for me. I don't think I'm particularly good at it because I have no idea how I characterize. However, BB has been such a wonderful way to fall back in love with Harrison (more than I already admire him as a fictional person in my brain lol). While I've been writing with him becoming a better person in Seventh Virtue, BODY BACK is the opposite of that. He's in his destructive era and knows it. And it's only making me love him more!

In BODY BACK, Harrison is painfully aware of who he is as a person, but simultaneously extremely destabilized in his identity. He understands he's a disaster, but also doesn't know how to be anything else (or what he was before), now that Lonan is no longer in his life. At the end of Moth Work, he willingly walked out of Lonan's life, aware this was what was best for himself. BODY BACK explores what it means to regret the "right" decision. Grey areas, wooohooo!

A smaller note that maybe only means a lot to me, but Harrison & I are the same age in this book! I've never been the same age as one of my protagonists, and maybe I'm being mushy about it, but I feel like I really... get where he is right now. We've always been similar (except he's you know... much cooler than me), but it feels like a real blessing to see him in this state (lmao *fucked up*) while also this age.

Living Pictures

We open BB with "Living Pictures," which is about Harrison perceiving his life as separate from himself, a carefully constructed veneer that he's merely watching.

Thematically, "Living Pictures" is about falsities and also how easily people can fall into--and be trapped by--roles. Harrison also thinks a lot about gods, which is interesting for his psychology because he's an atheist. However, his contemplations of God are deeply rooted in what God means to Lonan, who's an ex-Catholic. I've had a lot of fun exploring these themes also as an ex-Catholic. It's been quite cathartic to recall my memories of God, project them onto Harrison through Lonan, and then have him bastardize them.

The title comes from the literal translation of the phrase "tableau vivant" which appears in the opening paragraph.

Scene A:

Harrison floats fully-clothed in a pool that belongs to a wealthy couple. He is jaded and also thinking about God.

Scene B:

Harrison describes the couple who own the house/pool. The man is a realtor, and the woman stays at home mostly, but walks dogs on the side.

Scene C:

Harrison contemplates his "easy" Las Vegas life since moving in with his mother, Suzanna.

Scene D:

Flashback: Harrison recalls drawing his new sort-of boyfriend, Jeremiah.

Scene E:

Harrison describes his vices (smoking and his ex, Lonan lmao, comparable)

Scene F:

Harrison recalls a recurring dream/nightmare of his aforementioned ex.

Scene G:

Distracted by the dream, Harrison is caught by the couple. The man seems unimpressed by him, though the woman (Sadie), perhaps realizing how young he is, invites him inside for tea.

Scene H:

Harrison observes the couple's "catalogue" home while Sadie makes tea.

The writing process & orbital structures

This first chapter took about two weeks to draft start to finish. Total word count is at about 3k. The scenes are very short, almost like vignettes!

Across MW and FH and BB, I use what I call an "orbital plot structure." I've been using this method for years now for this particular duology.

Essentially, we have a core theme (the "satellite") that every single scene "orbits" around. Here's a horrific drawing of what that visually looks like in my head:

Instead of thinking as these chapters as a three-act structure, I think about them on a deeply thematic level. What is the core of this chapter, and how does every single scene lead back to that core theme?

If this diagram is unreadable, dw, I'll make a video explaining this soon, LOL.

Excerpts

I've shared a number of these, but enjoy this repeated content! Also this is... most of the chapter LOL. I'm going for this extremely shimmery prose style to mimic Harrison's mindset.

Here's the opening scene, which is... the best opening I have ever written LMAO. CW: blasphemy??? So sorry.

Harrison doesn’t need a god. Fully clothed in a stranger’s pool, he pities people who do. So what if he’s alone? The sunless sky is carbonated with stars, another stranger’s backyard smelling like burned cedarwood and marijuana. And he likes it here, star-fished on water that doesn’t belong to him, inventing constellations while someone else’s cigarette hangs from his lip. What god could manage this miracle? Take this drowsy tableau vivant: a man cloaked both by the sky’s navy and his own jacket’s leather, his eyes as wide as spoons. Harrison is fine art and God isn’t. He wins.

Here's a chunk of Scene B:

This isn’t the first time he’s done this. This means a couple of things: 1) challenging God and all his righteousness, and 2) breaking into the pools of wealthy suburbanites. The latter really isn’t that hard. Since mid-September, he’s stalked the houses plotted along Paradise and learned routines. This is even easier—people who fringe their homes with crisp lawns often stick to the same schedule. The pool he floats in belongs to a young couple. The man works real estate according to the signs Harrison’s seen of his face peppered around the neighbourhood. He’s wondered if that’s ever humiliating, to constantly see pixelated versions of yourself everywhere. But that doesn’t matter. His wife walks dogs in her free time, which means always. Last week, Harrison watched her jog with a vizsla, and just yesterday she spent the morning on their gable-roofed veranda brushing a wispy Alaskan malamute.

Here's the entirety of Scene C (CW: suicidal ideation):

Technically, everything in Harrison’s life is easy. He lives in an easy apartment, sleeps on his mother’s easy chesterfield, eats over easy eggs for breakfast, watches easy infomercials every night from midnight to 3:00AM. (Technically, the infomercials aren’t necessarily easy because he watches them in French without subtitles, but it’s entertaining to make up slogans: Cut Away Your Problems with Our Wrapping Paper Cutter! Yeehaw!, so he doesn’t really mind.) And he’s grateful for this, how unassuming his life has become barely a month after Lonan. Perhaps this is how he views things, in two simple parts—not Before Christ, but Before Lonan, which now that he considers it, might be the same thing. Anyway. Before his fawny portrait face, just like Renaissance men in oil on canvas. Before his blunt hands. Before his raven hair, glassy as dark water. Now there’s only one place left to go: after. And how can Harrison complain? His easy mother has insured his easy sedan which means he could get around the city easily if he wanted to. She’s even offered to use her easy money to set him up in his own easy apartment— “Imagine the view!” she’d said as a selling point. And Harrison did. As Suzanna unclogged the kitchen drain, he painted an easy coastline in watercolour and surrendered to the image of his easy, independent life. Easy trees like the date palms pinched against this couple’s home. Easy skies, never a cloud in an easy haven of blue. Easy walk to an organic farmer’s market for easy pancetta if he wants it, or easy cinnamon butter that he has no purpose for, so eats straight from the jar. Easy morning coffee in an easy alternative garden right out his back door, easy sand where there should be golden columbine, easy gravel where there should be soil. And the easy neighbours to greet—them going, “Hello!” and then him going, “Hello!”

Harrison doesn’t like easy. He’d rather walk all the way back to Brooklyn with nothing but an empty backpack and a sleeve of cigarettes, scale a silverish high-rise with his bare hands, struggle onto the vacant roof, stare out at the blinking, vulgar city, then climb onto the building’s railings, let the wind ripple his jacket, his hair, and jump right off.

Here's some of Scene D, ft. Jeremiah:

The cigarettes belong to another man. As Harrison sucks its filter, blowing out remaining plumes of smoke, he’s enthralled by him. Skin velveteen, hair always tediously puffed like dandelions. Jeremiah is more than a man in Harrison’s eyes, the way he speaks like a cross between the frontman of a nineties alternative band and John the Baptist. “You’ve got the soul of a cypress,” he said once, while Harrison sketched the fake rhododendron perched on Jeremiah’s nightstand. He crouched lower over his sketchbook, fingers blackened by a slim rod of charcoal.

This is also from Scene D, ft. Harrison being an Artiste. Screaming at the last line:

Jeremiah quirked a brow, his smile dopey like his glazed eyes, but didn’t move. He could’ve been one of those tawny art mannequins, flat-faced, poseable. But he was so much more than that. As Harrison approached him, setting his sooty hands on his chin, shifting it slightly to the left, pushing his ring finger slightly up so it eclipsed the koi’s eye, his silver signet ring pinging a circle of light onto the opposite wall, Harrison understood Jeremiah wasn’t just a model. More than a man, yes, but not a god either—the creator’s creator, maybe, or perhaps a private natural wonder meant only for this room. Or maybe he was just beautiful, and that was enough too.

Harrison continues to reflect about God (also CW: blasphemy!!!):

In the pool, he doesn’t look at the moon because how cliché would that be? So what if it’s a wide bend in the sky like the parenthesis of cantaloupe his mother ate for breakfast this morning? So what if it looks also like a good bite in a wrist, molars and all? He’s not in this pool to be poetic. He doesn’t care about godly creations, miracles, divine epiphanies. Sure, God said let there be light, but why should Harrison give a fuck? He’s not a romantic. He’s not a dreamer. Not anymore.

This is the entirety of Scene F, which is a direct continuation from the above. I love how the "dreaming" element is immediately brought over.

There’s this one dream though. It hovers over him nightly, a thorny memory warmed by sun. He holds a face like a sculptor holds a brick of clay. This is a face he knows. A face he loves. Soft light dredges both their jaws, firm and ready to rear into the other’s, two animals feeding, or laughing, or breathing. Sometimes, the dreams add birdsong, sometimes a black cat named Beatrice who mews in the corner. Sometimes, the face’s hands become Harrison’s hands, and he searches for his own pinkie to find someone else’s. They don’t need to touch more than this. Even as the sun hazes the room gold, looking is more than enough. Are there mirrors in his eyes? Harrison isn’t always certain. Is he a mirage? He could be—a chromized distant object. He’s a masterpiece in some moments, a man growing into soapstone, buffed marble. Sometimes he’s haloed like Jesus in citrine stained-glass portraits. A saviour, mid-ascension, a shadow of flesh. But sometimes he’s just there, wide-eyed, a simple body. In those cases, Harrison wakes up screaming.

This is from the beginning of Scene G:

Sure, he is a floaty man in this pool, his clothes bloomed around him. He could be petals of blood dispersing in open water, or the unspooling ribbon on a Maypole. His cigarette has burned down nearly to his knuckle, smoke chalk white and feathery like cirrus clouds.

Just going to leave this extremely Lonancore excerpt here:

And then a voice. At first he thinks it might be Lonan’s. One of the last things he’d said: How long will you be gone? Gone. How easily Harrison had stood in that apartment, aware of what he’d do just like he was aware of the mouth Lonan had touched the night before, the palms Lonan had imprinted with his own like Eucharist imprints a tongue before being swallowed.

(????? bruh ???)

This paragraph continues the previous:

And then he’s gasping on water, and there’s the voice again, and it’s not a friable whisper but a shout. “Who the hell are you?” it’s saying over and over again, a godless prayer, except scratch that—when God speaks, he does it with violence.

And the end of Scene G:

Harrison is dragged out of the water by the realtor like he’s a plastic bobber attached to the end of a hook. His cigarette butt smolders in his hand, curlicues of white trimming the tarry night. On the concrete pool deck, he coughs water, the world spitting around him like a skipping VHS. His soaked hair drips into his eyes, down his mouth, half his weight bent on his wrist, his waterlogged jacket heavy like a body on his shoulders.

The man’s got a bony hand hooked around his collar and hides his struggle to let go with more shouting, something about grabbing a home phone, about police, about changing the locks. Really, Harrison should care more, but he’s focused on the man’s drawn face. He looks different than he does in his signs around the neighbourhood, his thin mouth clefted, his hair mousy without its Dippity Do shell. Did his wife fall in love with him, or the glossy image in the ads?

The man is trying to yank him up by the arm, manages to get halfway before Harrison says, “You’re the guy in the ads,” his voice hoarse as he wipes a hand over his slack mouth. And this must be surprising to him because the man immediately loses his grip. Harrison could ask him about that—why expect not to be noticed if your face is everywhere?

“What did you say?” asks the man. What’s his name? Something generic, but with an edge. Trevor Slade. Sean Horton. Brody Spencer. A gingery light pulses behind his head—a lamppost from the street. Harrison pants like one of the woman’s dogs. If he were a dog breed, which one would he be? Mastiff, German shepherd, golden retriever? He’s about to ask when the woman speaks first.

She’s got that same rainy look in her eye from before, a pointed pity that’s soft at the edges like highlight bloom. “Do you want to come inside for some tea?” 

In Scene F, Harrison dangerously flirts with the idea of being punched in the face:

“I like your place,” Harrison says, pinching the ceramic kitten that sits on the coffee table. This isn’t a lie unlike everything else he’s told them—his name is Harold Fraser, and the number Sadie dialed into their home phone is his personal assistant’s, not his mother’s. In here, the walls are tangelo orange, each entryway arched instead of severely right-angled. Suz would like the warm wood, the army of rubbery philodendrons on the windowsills. Harrison cranes his finger up the kitten’s paw, as if shaking its hand. Across its domed belly, translucent letters: JESUS IS STILL THE ANSWER.

“Don’t break that,” says the man, whose name is actually Nash Baker.

Harrison quirks a brow, his mouth twitchy. In five minutes, he’ll need another cigarette. “Family heirloom?”

“Do you take any sugar?” asks Sadie, perhaps at the right time because Nash Baker’s fist is agitating like a fighter fish’s tail through water. Harrison wouldn’t blame him if he did punch him in the face—to be frank, that would be the most interesting thing to happen to him all week.

Harrison relates to Sadie's apparent feelings of being trapped in a picturesque life:

Sadie walks dogs, sure, but what else does she do? A beaded tapestry of a blue heron hangs in the foyer—did she make it? The bird’s eye is onyx black, something unfurling there—maybe the urge to spear a minnow, maybe just deadness. If Sadie didn’t make it, what did she do in this house? Nearly everything is handmade but certainly purchased—the pottered mugs shaped like seasonal fruit that she vigorously plops teabags into, the rust Chobi rug that snags under Harrison’s socks, the ringed vases fluted with dead baby’s breath. How does she know life in this catalogue home? Besides the numbing daily walks with dogs, the repetitive brushings. She’s as fucked as he is, isn’t she? Trapped in this living picture.

And finally, another mildly blasphemous excerpt! We return to the "easy" metaphor from above.

Tomorrow, Harrison will again wake up in Suz’s easy apartment, eat her easy turkey bacon, drink an easy cup of dark roast. He’ll do this for the rest of his life, probably. For Yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever, amen. Harrison’s got no kingdom. The best he can do is steal Jeremiah’s cigarettes, float in an aquamarine pool that doesn’t belong to him any more than Lonan’s aquamarine eyes ever belonged to him. He’s got no more power than a dead car battery, no glory. That’s right. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever amen.

Harrison, basically:

And that's it! Chapter two is going to contain the trigger into destruction territory, so look out for update #2!

Rachel

[idiotsonlyevent]

i wonder where the idea of chilchuck being a deadbeat came from when theres like. no textual evidence for it ?

he knows what all of them are up to; he still writes to flertom and she sent him his neckwarmer, so that to me implies that they at least have a somewhat positive relationship?

its more ambiguous with meijack and puckpatti, but since meijack is also a picklock, i wouldn't be surprised if he taught her himself, considering how trades are often passed down through families, and because he talks about sending people to her if he dies.

also the way he talks about puckpatti is very like... it's obvious he wants her to take things more seriously, but he's accepting, and his tone here reads more fond to me than anything else.

like, he keeps his daughters' old toys under his desk? that doesn't scream 'deadbeat' at all, it screams 'empty nester' who doesn't know how to reach out or is scared to do so

EDIT: i know a lot of the 'deadbeat dad' stuff is jokes, but some people are Not joking and genuinely think chilchuck is a bad dad. this post is not saying that you cant joke about it; it is just outlining what canon shows regarding his (clearly positive) relationship with his kids.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[ro-bee]

lamb's family and life timeline i guess idk

[wolfsnooze]

in which hunter’s possession goes a whole lot worse

[literallyjusttoa]

"Sunny!" you cry, "Why did you draw the entire Trojan royal family from oldest to youngest in two days? That seems wildly unhealthy!"

"hurghhhhhhhh" I reply.

Anyways here's the full family portrait

(Only four of these people survive the Trojan war btw :D)

[criticalrolo]

I had a post a while ago about making sure your dnd character WANTS to be an adventurer a while ago, something else I’ve been thinking about is the importance of making a dnd character that WANTS to be in a group and have some sort of relationship with other PCs. the Group Nature of ttrpgs means lone wolves just aren’t feasible. if you really want to play a lone wolf or antisocial character at the beginning then I highly recommend telling your dm and the others players that you plan on forming bonds along the way and growing out of that mindset. otherwise why are you playing dnd, a group activity that involves cooperation and building relationships? Just Write A Book if you don’t wanna be in a group

[tezzbot]

Blues Clues we just got a letter playing in another room 10hrs rain sfx

[dreamdripdistance]

heres a scribble of these guys again smiles grins

[gwyns]

elain archeron & koschei the death god

"similar to a lamb making its way to slaughter, you haven't yet grasped that you're already on the chopping block. you think to be my end, my lovely fawn? my sweet seer? how can you bring upon my end when your end is already beginning."

[mintypsii]

guys i love them i promise i just have the urge to put them through the grinder sometimes

umm on the bright side here's the alternate good ending version lol!!!!!

[sysig]

You're still standing off to the side. Somehow, center stage has shifted from under your feet without you realizing, and you're standing in the wings, performing to no one.

Starring Role (Patreon)

[radioelly]

early shuake v third sem shuake based on this meme:

[hailsatanacab]

I'll ask after that secret number 8!

I only remembered secret number 8 because I saw your wip here! I'd started this one based on the same prompt, then lost said prompt and stopped working on it 😅

Instead of a snippet, I'm just dropping it all here - maybe that way I'll feel inspired to finish it?

———

It’s a full house for dinner tonight and, really, that should have tipped him off.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, smiling softly as he watches over everyone’s antics. Damian is regaling Dick with everything they saw at the zoo that day (Danny had been so happy to see Delilah the purpleback gorilla again, and her new little additions to the troupe, too!) and how well they are implementing the grant the Wayne Foundation had gifted them. Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke are all engaged in a thumb-war tournament which Danny has no interest in participating in. It just wouldn’t be fair on them.

Danny loves that look. The one where Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he thinks none of the kids can see him. It oozes love and it makes Danny’s heart, his core, ache. 

It’s been a little over a year since Alfred found him on the street and managed to wrangle him back to the manor to stay—even after the whole biting thing when he realised how rich they were. 

A little over a year here and Danny’s starting to feel like family.

Starting to feel like he might, just maybe, like to make it official.

“Danny,” Bruce says, drawing everyone’s attention. Danny starts at his name, but Bruce’s voice is warm and calm, and his shoulders lose their tension almost immediately. “Danny, I have something I would like to tell you.”

“Uhhh…” is all Danny can croak out, eyes flicking back and forth between Bruce and the rest of them. Smooth. Looking good, Danny.

Except… they’re all happy. All smiles, all relaxed body language, all radiating calm and love and acceptance. Well, not Damian—his face is as thunderous as it always is—which at least means it’s nothing too out of the ordinary.

“Danny, first of all, I just want to impress upon you that this is in no way something you have to do. You are under no obligation to join us and, no matter what, you shall always be welcome with us in the manor.”

Wait, what? Danny squints at Bruce, trying to parse exactly what he’s saying… Is he—is this them asking to adopt him? Do they want to make it official, too? 

It’s been a little over a year and of course Danny has imagined calling Bruce ‘Dad’. Of course he’s imagined being part of the family, of course he wants to make it official!

He can’t help the beaming grin or the bright and bubbling “Yes!” already waiting on his lips. All Bruce has to do is ask, all Danny needs to hear is—

“I’m Batman.”

The smile freezes on Danny’s face.

His lungs stop working, his heart stops working, he stops working, he just—

“And I’m Nightwing,” Dick smiles, breaking the awkward silence. 

Danny’s eyes snap to him, and then down to Tim when he admits to being Red Robin. Duke is Signal, Steph is Spoiler. Damian begrudgingly tells him he’s Robin, but Danny can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“I’m Black Bat.” Cass cocks her head, almost looking concerned. It always felt like she understood him the most. Whenever he was feeling low, too in his memories, or stewing after a nightmare, she was always there, ready to card her fingers through his hair and never mention his tears. It makes his heart ache to think of it now. “It’s okay, Danny.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but how—how can it be okay? How? 

Danny’s spent a little over a year with them. A little over a year with Batman. 

Batman, who works with the Justice League, who works with…

A little over a year. 

Just under 16 months since he escaped.

“Danny? Are you alright?” Bruce asks

Finally, his lungs kickstart and suck in a shuddering breath, only for everyone to drop their smiles.

Didn’t take them long, did it? Now that their ruse is up, there’s no kindness in their eyes, they’re just… cold, calculating. Evaluating. 

“Why?” Danny gasps, his fingers tingling, his heart in his throat.

Just under 16 months since he—has he escaped? Or was this just another one of their experiments?

"I... I trusted you, why—" Danny chokes back a sob, gritting his teeth as his shoulders shake. Why? Why would they do this? "I was happy here, with you. I thought... Weren't you happy?"

"Danny..." Bruce is looking at him, eyes narrow and eyebrows pinched, in some cruel facsimile of confused concern and all Danny can think is how much of an actor he is. How well he can play the part of a doting father. How much he made him want that.

"I don't understand, why..." 

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, I can imagine that it comes as a shock. We shouldn't have lied to you, Danny, but—"

"Stop it!" Danny slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up on wobbly legs. Even standing, he feels so small. Smaller than Bruce, than all of his adopted siblings. They crowd above him when they all stand, too. "Just stop it! Why are you doing this, why are you still pretending? Stop it!"

It was easier, with Danny's biological parents. The knowledge that they'd do anything to get him on a lab table, to open him up and see what makes him tick, to rip him apart molecule by molecule, had always been there. He knew they hated ghosts. He knew they hated Phantom. He knew they hated him. It was easier because it was something he'd known all his life. When he died, when he became a ghost, he knew what to expect from them. It hurt, of course it did.

But it was easier than this.

"Danny, I'm going to need you to take a deep breath. You're having a panic attack and you need to breathe."

"Breathe?" Danny laughs, the sound harsh and choking, too high pitched in his hysteria. "You're joking, right? Or is this just more of the—the experiment?"

"Danny, please, we don't know what you're talking about, you—"

"You don't know? You're Batman! You work with the Justice League, you work with—" His words choke off as his stomach churns, bile rising in his throat. His whole body itches, screaming at him to leave, he can't go back, he can't, he can't, he can't!

Bruce takes a hesitant step forward and Danny scrambles back, his feet catching on the chair behind him and sending him careening to the floor. Where are the agents? Why aren't they swarming in, ready to apprehend him, strap him back on the table, carve him from the inside out.

"Please, Danny, calm down. We don't—"

Danny stops listening. His back hits the wall and he pulls his knees into his chest, his shoulders dipping down as he begins to sob. His heart throbs inside his throat, too painful to swallow around. Tears fall hot and heavy on his face.

Sure, he could run. He could phase out through the wall and he could be out of Gotham in a couple of hours. He's escaped the GIW once, he can do it again.

But that was before Batman knew who he was. Before he had the World's Greatest Detective on his tail.

Before he... 

He really thought this would be different, you know?

He wanted to make it official.

"Why did... Why were you so nice to me? Why did you make me like you? I really—I really liked you. I-I thought we could be a family."

"Danny, we are a—"

"Don't lie to me!" Danny snaps, but the force of his anger leeches all the fight from him, and suddenly all that's left is a bone-weary tiredness. There’s a lump in his throat that hurts. There’s a line down his chest that burns. "I don't care. I don't care anymore, I don't. Just... don't make me go back there. Please." 

Is it futile? He thought he knew how the GIW operated by now, the depths that they would go to achieve their results, but this... this was a whole new level of pain that Danny thought he had left behind him in Amity.

"We're not going to make you go anywhere, Danny, you're safe here, I promise."

"Safe? Safe? You must have—" he takes a deep breath, tries to stop the quivering of his voice. It’s all starting to make sense, now.  "The reason you're telling me who you are is because you must have told them everything already. I know the Justice League—I know you're working with them, which means the ex-experiment is over now, and they're coming to take me back. And I can't go back."

"Danny—"

"I can’t!” Danny glares at Bruce with all the rage he can, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m not going back!"

"That's right, you're not going back, Danny. I won't let that happen." Bruce crouches down in front of Danny, his hands open and raised as if he's trying to say he's not a threat. "I don't know who you're talking about, and I'm sorry about that, but I can promise you that you’re not going back there. We will keep you safe."

Danny pulls himself closer, tucks himself further into the wall, eyes flickering all across the room waiting for that tell-tale flash of white as the agents start to swarm.

He should take his chances now and run, he should go, he needs to go!

The rest of them, his brothers and sisters of a little over a year, are spread out, giving him and Bruce some space. The same concern colours all of their faces. Why are they still pretending?

Steph is chewing on her thumb. 

Danny liked Steph and her brash confidence, her jokes. She's been promising to paint his nails for months now, they've just never found the time. He was going to go for green and black, or maybe a galaxy theme, depending on what she felt comfortable doing.

He likes them all.

"You were supposed to be my family." His mouth turns down at the corners and his voice shakes like a child. "You were supposed to—why? Why would you—I don't understand why you would make me like you..."

"This isn't an experiment, Danny," Bruce's voice is steady, soothing. "I promise."

"But you work with them and—"

"Who do I work with?"

"The Justice League."

"Yes, I do, but we—"

"And the Justice League works with them. The GIW." Danny trembles with the name, clutching tightly onto his hoodie. "I'm not going back there, Bruce."

Danny doesn't miss Bruce's look over his shoulder, nor Tim's nod in return. Tim turns slightly to the side to hide his movements, but Danny bets he has his phone in his hand, probably letting them know they can take him now. Guess this is it, then. They'll be here soon, and he'll be gone.

"Kill me."

"Danny? What do—"

"If you ever had any kindness for me, if you ever cared, kill me. Please, Bruce. I can't do it again."

"Danny..."

"End me now. Take my core out and break it, please, before they get here."

[merakiui]

going back to read your contractual fwb azul cause it’s my favourite fic ever and i have to wonder; what would azul do if you never used his wishes to your own advantage? like it was always small stuff, so you ended up having to get a new job (sex is banned and let’s pretend like theres some random cafe on sage island or something like that you’re picking up shifts. just not the monstro lounge) and the hours you work there give him less time. would he beg you to use his money? to take advantage of him? it feels like the terms he picked also come from a domestic standpoint of wanting to provide for you. and your new job is really getting in the way of that. rely on him and no one else >:(

(also i’d like to imagine you falling asleep sitting in his lap in his office chair sometime before the confession so he carries you back to his room and you spend the night. the next morning you wake up to him pulling away and in your extremely sleep deprived mind you get upset that he’s leaving. cue him promising he’ll be back—maybe a quick round just so he can get you to wish it and no it’s definitely not because he wants sleepy morning sex—and eventually he comes to wake you back up with flowers, tea (you know the one), and telling you you have a day off somehow.) thank you for listening to my tiny brain rambles

hiiiiiii this is just a question i forgot to add to my last ask that i submitted like 2 seconds ago.

how does your relationship with azul go now that you’re actually in one and not just fwb? like does he still spoil you with whatever you ask for in exchange for sex or just give it to you and sex happens whenever? (more than the average couple cause, cmon) he gave you the fish shoes even though you lost so it stands that he’d spoil the hell out of you whenever he can

- - -

Hi hiiii!! :D omg contractual fwb tako..... I miss thinking about that fic. Peak Azul is him developing a relationship with darling via contractual means and slowly but surely the feelings shift (through dubious efforts hehehe). >:D that dynamic is just so *chef's kiss*!!!!!

Oooo if reader got a job!!! If not at the lounge, which is secretly what Azul hopes, then the place better pay good wages and the hours and work better be reasonable!! >:( he won't have his angelfish struggle. Maybe he'd even visit you during your shifts on occasion and make up some excuse like "I need to know what sort of competition the lounge has" blah blah blah etc etc even though it's quite clear he's checking up on you. T_T I like to think Azul wants you to take advantage of him because it's a deal in which you're both using the other for certain things, so wouldn't that make the most sense?? That's how the logic works in his give-and-take, equivalent-exchange brain.

Azul gets really particularly when it comes to giving gifts and he always seems to want a valid reason for the exchange (like in Glomas where he buys souvenirs for his dorm so that they can remember this good deed and know that they are technically indebted to him even though to Deuce and Epel it appears as though he's just being a kind Housewarden). But also,,, he's so iffy when it comes to accepting gifts himself and always seems to think there's some underlying reason behind it. ^^;; perhaps he'd just feel more comfortable if you were openly using him and this deal to your benefit just as he's doing the same with you. It's probably why he even makes the terms so domestic because, beneath all of the pompous showmanship and businessman flair, he genuinely wants to provide for you and make your life better and be your beloved. <3 but because he's Azul he can't just tell you that. >_<

AAAAA FALLING ASLEEP IN HIS OFFICE!!!!! OTL waking up in his bed all bleary-eyed and sleepy....... grabbing at his arm and begging him to stay,,, the sleepy morning sex... maybe it's the one moment he allows just some of his defenses to fall because most of yours are nonexistent in this moment. Having sex just to have sex without any thoughts about your contract..... of course he's still going to remind you later and insist you use one of your wishes/favors since you technically indulged him with sex, but then you wanted it, too. He's so fussy!!!! Please just ask him for something—anything! He isn't going to beg, but sometimes you really do make him contemplate it when you're so determined to not make use of him and his connections.

You're one of Azul's greatest weaknesses and if you know this then you can easily exploit this because this tako adores you. He is so utterly whipped. Whatever you want, you can have it. Spoiling you is one of his many love languages. He loves giving you gifts, especially when he knows they'll make you happy. Like those silly fish slippers. They are so dumb, but they make his angelfish smile and that's enough reason to purchase them for you. I think once you're in a real relationship the fwb contract is dissolved, but a lot of what you did during those two months still occurs into your relationship. Like the smoldering tension and the chemistry. The silly banter and smart quips. The attraction. And of course lots of love (real and potion-induced mwahaha) and sex. He railed you once in mer form and you better believe he'll do it again now that he's slowly finding the confidence to do so with you.

[skyward-floored]

I still hold that this part from this fic is one of the funniest things I’ve ever written