Yet another thing for @shaky-mayhemm and @snowflake-of-destruction, I just can’t stop writing for stuff you guys come up with, I’m sorry.
Also can’t stop writing akuroku... but that’s a given.
Based on this marvelous bit of art by Shaky.
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"Roxas," Axel sighed. "Just what do you think you're doing?" He stared down at the boy in the water. His eyes sparkled with joy, with a smile that Axel could be sure was there, but couldn't see because of the fish in his mouth.
He bit down on the wiggling thing, trying to speak around it. "Brough you a giff." the orange tail beneath him waved through the water so similar to a puppy’s tail.
"I hate to break it to you, but that's a poisonous fish."
"Ii ish?"
"Yes. Now would you spit that out."
Roxas’s face fell a little. "Buh I wash told it would be a delicashy."
Axel sighed. "Would you just give me that?" Axel reached out, half dangling off the dock, but Roxas swam back dodging his grabbing hands."
"Roxas. I swear."
“Buh.”
"Do you want me to have your gift or not?"
"You shaid it was poisonoush."
"Just give me the damn fish."
"No. You won't appreciate it."
Axel sat back on the dock, massaging at his forehead. "Well then, spit it out."
"No." Roxas’s teeth sank into the fish a fraction more. His eyebrows furrowed, and he glared at Axel.
"Roxy, if you don't spit the fish out before I count to three… I'm leaving."
Roxas glared with a defiant look, teeth clutching to the fish, lips curling around scales.
"One." Axel made a show of holding up a finger.
Roxas’s face immediately fell, concern washing over his features.
"Two." Axel pushed up from the dock.
Roxas looked down at the fish with a sad expression, letting out a whine and what sounded like Axel's name.
"Thre—"
Roxas spat the fish out with a 'humph,' pouting as it swam away. Axel laid down on the dock, stretching out over the water. Roxas swam over to meet him.
Axel smoothed the damp hair back from Roxas’s forehead and leaned down further to press a kiss to his cool skin. "See, that wasn't hard." He leaned back, taking in Roxas’s flushed cheeks with a grin. The tail in the water swished around happily. "I appreciate the effort, though." He kissed Roxas’s forehead again. "Maybe next time, no fish?”
Summary: As a new day dawns on Gotham, Damian Wayne contemplates his relationship with his sister and gets his nails painted.
Word Count: 2, 939
A/N: @doc-scrawls THIS IS BASICALLY UNPLANNED NONSENSE, BUT IT’S YOURS IF YOU WANT IT. I wish it was better, but I really wanted to give you something soon. Thank you for all that you’ve done, and know that I love you (even if this fic may make you think otherwise). 💝💖💕
Of all in the family, Damian found Cassandra to be the loudest.
When he'd first arrived, he'd expected it to be the ones that never seemed to be at a loss for words, always prattling on about inconsequential matters like Dick, or ready with a quip or comeback for every situation like Steph; but, no. It had been constantly watchful, deceptively quiet Cassandra.
This had perplexed him, at first. How could someone who had silence etched into her very breath still have such a cacophony of sound within her? It was like a flock of tamed birds, echoing in her every step and broiling at her slightest touch, yet, unless you were looking-- really looking--, remaining entirely undetectable.
Her eyes, he thought, gave it away best, full of expression and barren in their sincerities. They were bright spheres of unutterable thoughts, fierce opinions and relentless ideas that she couldn't, or wouldn't, destroy with the direct simplicity of words; thoughts that couldn't be heard, only felt.
The first time he'd seen her dance was the day he'd first met her, the day he'd allowed a bomb to collapse a building and tackled her to the ground, screaming for acceptance. Her eyes were a mystery to him them, sometimes they still were, and yet she'd silenced him with them anyway. She'd been angry, and the few words she'd said scathed just as much as they'd soothed.
"Don't forget what matters. You're alive."
When she'd come down to find him in the Cave, he'd expected her to reprobate, to inform him of the hundred and one faults and mistakes he'd already been repeating endlessly to himself. To talk as if she was his father. Instead, she'd dropped herself lithely down beside him and stared straight ahead as he continued to fill the subterranean arches with tireless scratches of pencil on paper.
Eventually, his barrier had relented and, in that biting way he'd been so prone to, he'd demanded that she just get on with whatever she wanted to say and be done with it. Her head had tilted fractionally to the side, hair spilling over her cheek like scattered pine leaves across the moon's river reflection, and she'd stated, quite plainly, "He says you're a good artist."
It hadn't taken him even a moment to know that she'd been referring to his-- their-- father. He'd realise later on that she'd been placating him, not wanting to distract him with his previous aggravation on bloodlines and biological rights. It also hadn't taken him long to assume she'd been lying.
He'd realise later on that she hadn't.
Damian had scoffed and turned back to his illustrated world, but it had been almost impossible to concentrate with her huge black eyes now trained expectantly on him. She never asked to see them, had simply waited patiently until the back of his knees had collapsed like a folded bridge on the harsh concrete, and the pages revealed themselves.
It was probably one of the few times he'd ever felt nervous displaying his art. He often held himself in appropriately high esteem, especially when it came to his artistic abilities, but, for reasons that he had not yet come to understand, it was important to him that she was impressed. The famous Cassandra Cain, who had lived up to and gone beyond what was foreseen of her, subjugating her biological father's teachings and overcoming the very League she'd been meant to lead. A mirror of his own upbringing, and the obvious choice for comparison to how little he'd achieved.
She hadn't said a word as her eyes studied the scrawls, pupils darting back and forth as they did while reading, excavating the sketches for some unknown, hidden meaning before flicking up to stare silently at him. If he hadn't been watching her equally as closely, he might have mistaken it for mockery, but, somehow, he understood.
"Thank you." It had been a stumbling mutter, clumsy in their lack of use, but they'd been said. She'd smiled warmly at him and leapt to her feet, dashing to the Monitor to pillage one of the many drawers it sat on top of. He recalled asking her what she was doing, and her lifting up a finger. "Wait."
When she'd returned, cradling a pair of satin shoes in her netted fingers, there had been a bounce in her step and a glow in her eyes. They were a simple pair, without trimmings or embellishments, yet she'd treated them as treasured ornaments, tucking her fingers into the box and ironing out the ribbons between her fingers before lacing them together. Readying herself, she'd taken a breath and begun.
There hadn't been a note in the Cave, yet, once Cassandra had taken the first steps, it had felt like there was an entire orchestra at her disposal. It was difficult to describe her motions, abstract, mesmerising and eloquent, each graceful sweep of an arm and lift of a leg leaving a stroke of meaning behind like paint strewn on by a brush. She'd soared over the pebbled floor on winged feet and wove the stagnant air with an undeniable electricity, molding the subterranean labyrinth into her performance theatre.
As she'd spun and dipped across the room with poise and alacrity fitting of how she fought, understanding had begun to dawn. She had, in the only way she truly knew how, painted for him; but rather than colour and fascinations of the mind, she'd shown him the depth of her emotions and the simple joy she'd found in conveying pictures and words to another person who saw the same way she did. She'd shown him connection and, where he'd found judgement and unattainable expectancy, she'd felt prehension and family.
The applause he'd given, though suitable and true, had felt cheap in the wake of her elan, and she'd picked up on that, too. What she hadn't picked up, or rather ignored, however, was his desire to not join her in another performance; which was how Stephanie had returned to find him vehemently protesting his fate as she'd strongholded him into lifts and coaxed him into helping her perfect her saut de chat.
(Somehow, that had lead to a piano being carried into the Cave, and Damian begrudgingly assisting her with her ballet technique every Saturday morning.)
Tonight, Damian was sprawled on the carpeted floor in one of the Manor's living rooms, accompanied only by a crackling fire, the soft purring of Alfred the Cat lounging on the deep maroon Chesterfield, and a plate of barely touched cookies courtesy of Alfred the Grandfather. He'd shifted positions a total of eight times now, moving from lying across the sofa to hanging from the chandelier, all in an attempt to finely detail an appropriate gift, when Cassandra pattered in and stole a cookie.
His head lolled back to glare, accusatory, at her mischievous brown eyes as she took a large bite from the biscuit, catching crumbs in her palm and dropping lissomely beside him, daring him to take it from her. He refused, and turned away, a waft of a sigh escaping him.
Cassandra quirked an eyebrow at him, careful to not glance down at his page-- she never did unless he gave her express permission-- and he shook his head.
"Didn't you have plans?" He signed, not wanting to speak. Tomorrow would be a family day, which often meant that all the procrastinated upon plans and meetings that had been piling up would be taken care of today so as to ensure there were no interruptions.
Dick was out with Barbara, on a presumed official date (different from the impromptu ones they had nearly every day); Jason had to return a library book, which meant he was breaking in and probably spending the night; Tim was having dinner with his stepmother, a complicated relationship from before Damian; and Bruce was, unexpectedly, out shopping with Stephanie. To Damian's knowledge, he sought her help with a present, though why he still trusted her after the Catwoman themed Hello Kitty soft toy for Tim's birthday, Damian would never know.
(Granted, Tim had actually been quite thrilled with it once it was taken off the shelves due to parental concern, but that wasn't the point.)
Cassandra shrugged her shoulders and smiled lopsidedly in response. Her eyes trailed down to her nails, where Steph had helped her paint little black Bat symbols against yellow sheen at her request. The once clearly defined pictures were now chipped and smudged in an obvious attempt at fixing them. Her shoulders rounded, ebbing disappointment and childlike sadness at the loss.
As he'd found before, Cassandra was the most honest of them all, and this little display was no different. He felt his arms seizing up, and he trained his gaze firmly on his unfinished sketch, pencil tapping rhythmically on the floor. Her huge eyes, eyes that brimmed with a swirling life that he'd tried and failed to replicate, turned to him beseechingly and he scuttled a bit backwards, lips pursing, brows dipping.
"I don't work with nail polish."
Cassandra's mouth slanted upwards in a small smile, the same smile she'd given as she'd devoured the biscuit.
"Don't, or can't?"
His eyebrows furrowed a bit deeper, creating harsh contemplative creases in his forehead. It was obvious, more than obvious, what she was trying to do, but Damian found his pride prickling anyway. He snapped his notebook shut.
"Fine. But I'm not copying Brown's pathetic attempt at art."
The acrid smell of alcohol filled the air, Alfred the Cat lifting his head, ears flattened and eyes narrowed, to cast a disparaging look at Damian as he swabbed away the chipped remains of Stephanie's work, his own nose wrinkling. Cassandra rocked back and forth minutely, knees drawn to her chest as a soundless song propelled her motion.
He surveyed the array of colours, sunshine yellow, deep cobalt, violet, black, white, and a sharp robin breast red. Knowing his sister(s), the choice of pigments and the semantics connecting them to the family was intentional. How they had managed to keep one secret identity between them, let alone two, remained a mystery. Beside him, sat his surgical instruments of cotton gauze, toothpicks, and some strange metallic tools with spheres on their tips.
Damian would rather die than admit it, but he was actually rather excited. There wasn't any point in trying to hide it from her, of course, but he did his best to appear impassive regardless.
"What were you working on?"
He picked up the blue polish, watching the hue shimmer and glean iridescence in the warm light. "Nothing important."
That was a lie, and she knew it, too, her fingers playing an impatient rat-a-tat on the floor, but, as he'd expected her to, she didn't press. Cassandra was fairly private about her art, and she respected him when he chose to be about his.
It had to be perfect. All his other siblings, and his father, had received portraits that he was proud of, paintings that captured the vibrance of their laughter or the enigma of their eyes. He knew Cassandra wouldn't have minded one of similar merit, but it simply hadn't felt right to him. They were gentler in their emotions, more contained and subtle in their openness. Trying to paint Cassandra was like trying to sketch a storm while standing in its eye.
He pulled thin strips of evening sky over her cracked nails, forming a hazy image of a star speckled canvas lit by squares of light from a sleepless city in his head.
He'd decided he was going to do Gotham, complete with their family crest waving in the mist on her ring finger. Never mind the fact that this was his first attempt; he would get this right, even if he could not the other.
She watched patiently as he went about his painstaking task, only occasionally curling her fingers or arching her brow to speak to him. "Two layers", "You need to use the clear one now", "Careful, it drips", and on and on. Particular nothings that stirred the silence.
After an eternity and several back cramps later, Damian set back on his heels and scrutinised his handiwork. It was indelicate, lacking in the fine shading and minor refractions of light he had pictured in his head, but it was, in its own way, beautiful and true. Cassandra, for one, was thrilled, her feet swinging from left to right as she impatiently waited for them to dry, lifting her fingers up to blow on them every couple of minutes.
"Stop it," Damian chided, with a raised palm, fighting back a pleased smile, "If the paint shifts, I'm not doing it again."
She stuck her tongue out at him and then, taking advantage of his fear of ruining his hard work, wrestled him into a hug. He made sure to wretch as her lips connected with his forehead, but even he couldn't stop the bubbles of laughter that burst forth when she tickled him once her nails had dried.
"You're as bad as Richard sometimes," he gasped after, as he tried to heave her carelessly sprawled legs off of his torso. It was meant to be an insult of sorts, but she grinned at him, gratified, and he knew she had caught the fondness behind it. Allowing his back to go flat, he stared up at the spots of light bouncing across the ceiling, watching as they blurred from simple bulbs to drifting fireflies that mingled together. From the corner of his eye, he saw the canvas edges of his discarded pages.
"I was trying to draw you," he said suddenly. "It didn't turn out the way I planned for it to."
Cassandra shifted her weight off him, pulling herself into an upright position. He felt her gaze resting on him, and could map the puzzlement in her unseen frown. His lips compressed, twisting in on themselves. Sometimes, words felt as difficult for him as they were for her.
"I wanted you to know that I know why Father chose you. And that I think it a fine choice."
The others had had the liberty of conversation, of explanation and, to an extent, permission of granting the duty to her; but they'd never been one for wasting words. Occasionally, though, words became necessary, even if they only to gave clumsy tangibility to things already known.
She'd reached her page, he heard it in the abrupt pause between turns, and, just like that, he was two years younger, an unsure child trying to live up to a fictional ideal in a cold and damp cave. His stomach was a Gordian knot, and he twisted to look as her fingers traced over the inky charcoal lines.
It was similar to the images he'd done of Dick and Bruce, but it didn't take much scrutiny to recognise the slender frame and the mix of Cassandra's Batgirl costume with the epitomise Batman one. He'd attempted several versions of her: going between a full cowl and one that only shielded her eyes, a cape that was shredded strips of cloth to the usual one that allowed for gliding, gauntlets or bandages. Though likely the least important part of her evolution, Damian wanted it to be right, to fit her the way it never had Dick, in all her controlled wonder and idyllic wishes of hope.
It was a deceptively unprotected sort of costume, the cape kept from fully covering her front by the pauldrons they were attached to. Her cowl, or helmet rather, was a mix of cloth and armour, with plated stitches connecting the two halves. There were many elements taken from her Batgirl costume, but, in a way, he felt she'd always carry Batgirl with her, even after Stephanie had formally claimed the post.
Cassandra's grinned wryly at him, her fingertips going white on the spine.
"Almost perfect."
"Hah. Far from it."
She rolled her eyes, the way she did when she admonished him, and picked up his pencil. Cassandra was no artist, but he always appreciated her cards and doodles. This time, though, he glowed.
On the page, in a small untouched corner, she'd drawn what could only be a Robin hunched over, a wobbly 'Tsk!' written above him. She tapped the figure and drew a line connecting them to the Batman, then to her heart. "Perfect."
His jaw clenched as he turned away from her, ignoring the warm chuckle that illicited, and cleared his throat loudly. "Well." A touch high. "That does not fulfill the requirements of a gift, so you might as well choose something else."
She tilted her head. "Anything?"
He nodded, then almost immediately regretted it as her gaze darted to the glass vials by his side.
The next day brought with it sloppily matching nails and teasing ridicule from his brothers, but that hardly mattered when they, too, had been thrown to the floor and made the subject of Cass's practice. She didn't make a sound throughout it all, yet her glee and affection was clear for all to see, doubly so when their father obligingly fanned out his fingers to her touch. When the time came for her to make her oath, kaleidoscopic colours layered on top of one another and seen all around, her eyes said all that needed to be said, and her heart was a symphony.
Plastered on the Monitor's corner, her first souvenir as Batman, was an intricate depiction of Batman and a cartoonish doodle of Robin. In the warmth of her joy and embrace, Damian really did think that it looked perfect.
Warnings: Akuroku, mentions of Isa/Isaroku, cheating, not really smut but some kissing, me not knowing what I’m doing
The only thing I could think of for this prompt was @snowflake-of-destruction and @shaky-mayhemm ‘s Grass is Greener AU posts. So have this snippet of I’m not entirely sure how it’s supposed to go.
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Roxas laid across a broad chest, fingers tracing along defined muscles. Beneath him, Axel yawned, wrapping his arms around Roxas’s waist. A large hand ran down his back, hugging him close.
“I could stay like this forever.” Axel’s voice rumbled deep in his chest.
Roxas stretched up to kiss at his neck. “As much as I’d love to agree, Isa’s going to be home soon.” He pushed himself up, straddling Axel’s chest.
“What?” Axel wrapped his hands over Roxas’s hips, giving them a squeeze. “I thought he was supposed to be gone until tomorrow?”
“There was apparently a cancellation, so he caught an early flight. He called just before you came over.” He climbed off Axel, off the bed, grabbing his robe off the back of the nearby chair. He slid it on, watching as Axel pushed himself up. The flex of muscles in those powerful arms nearly had him pulling the robe right back off, but his phone had been buzzing almost non-stop for the last five minutes.
He cleared out the missed calls as Axel came and wrapped arms around his waist. “Huh, his flight was early. Says he’s going to pick up a bottle of wine and dinner on his way home. Well, look at that, he can be romantic.”
“As if wine makes up for leaving you alone for days. Roxas, he didn’t even kiss you before he left.”
“Look, Axel. I wasn’t alone. You were here, weren’t you?”
“Yeah… but.” Axel’s face buried into his neck. “When are you going to divorce him? He obviously doesn’t care.”
Roxas spun, winding arms up around Axel’s neck. “You keep asking that, and I keep trying to tell you, it’s complicated. We have our moments. Besides, he’s bringing dinner. That has to count for something.”
“Still...” Axel lifted him up. He hooked his legs over Axel’s hips, robe falling open. They sank back onto the bed and he pressed his lips to Axel’s for another long while before eventually climbing back off, throwing Axel’s clothes at him.
“Look, Isa’s probably on his way home. And as much as I want to drag you back into bed, you better leave now.” He watched the flex of Axel’s muscles as he got dressed. “I want to keep doing this, and we can’t if Isa kills you.”
He caught Axel in another long kiss before pushing him towards the door. “I’ll see you next week. Isa leaves on another trip next Tuesday. He’ll be gone for a week. We can stay in bed the whole time.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow for more garden work?”
Fictober Day 15, Prompt 16: I never wanted anything else
WineDrunk!Axel is an entire mood. The streak of Akuroku continues. Based on a tweet that the discord kindly shared.
CW: Alcohol and One (1) Drama queen... king?
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It had been a long day.
Roxas was in the current cycle where he low key hated his job. He hated the office, hated the coffee, hated his boss constantly nagging him about this or that.
And so the day had dragged out. No amount of caffeine had made anything better. So now he was annoyed and jittery.
It didn't help that early that morning he'd fought with Axel. They rarely ever fought, but when they did it always sucked. Roxas couldn't even remember what it was they'd fought about at that point. Probably some bullshit thing like who wasn't pulling their weight with the dishes or laundry.
He knew he was running late. Knew that would probably just make Axel more upset, even though he'd sent a message of warning.
And so when he got home late that evening, he wasn't expecting dinner to be ready. He wasn't expecting a cheerful greeting, a kiss on the cheek, an ass grab.
No. He expected Axel to be pouting in their bedroom, lying across the couch, or soaking in the tub, bubbles nearly up his nose.
What he did not expect was for Axel to be sitting cross-legged on the coffee table. He didn't expect the bottles, one empty tipped over on the floor, one mostly empty on the table. He didn't expect Axel to pick up the bottle, completely ignoring the wine glass sitting by his knee, and take a drink before setting it back with a clunk. He’d half expected whiskey. He didn’t even know that Axel liked wine.
He took in the details of the man in front of him. Red hair a mess, looking like he'd been running his hands through it… tugging it. The eyeliner smudged under his eyes, looking almost tear streaked.
A frame laid on the floor, back pried off. Roxas’s eyes went to the spot on the wall where their wedding pictures hung, the large gap in the middle catching his immediate attention.
"Axel," Roxas sighed. "What are you doing?"
Axel appeared to be polishing off what seemed to be his second bottle of wine.
"I love you, Rox." Axel's words slurred slightly. "I want you. I've never wanted anything else… anyone else." The bottle fell to the carpet as Axel’s hands came up to rub at his eyes, and Roxas was thankful that it was a white wine on the beige carpet.
Roxas’s eyebrow went up. "Love you too, Ax?"
"No, you don't. You yelled at me this morning. I yelled back." Axel laid back on the table, draping an arm over his face. His legs stuck off the end of the short table, bending until they touched the floor. "Everything's over. My life is ending."
Roxas didn't remember any yelling. They'd never shouted at each other, raised their voices a little, but never yelled. "Axel… we—"
Axel sat back up, fishing a piece of paper from underneath him. "You're probably going to dump me." He held up a hand, flicking open a lighter. "You can try, Rox."
The lighter flared to life. And he held the paper to it, letting a corner catch fire. Roxas recognized the paper as their marriage license. Or at least the copy that Roxas had hung up with their pictures.
"Axel…"
"Good luck trying to return me without the receipt."
Roxas watched in mild amusement as the paper burned, sending ashy flakes to the glass table top between Axel's legs.
Fire licked higher and Axel swore loudly, dropping the embers onto the table, waving his hand.
Roxas sighed, a slight smile spreading across his face. "Fuck sake, you drama queen. I'm not going to dump you."
"You're not?" Axel looked so much like a confused puppy in that moment.
"No, you moron." Roxas walked over, grabbing the wine glass and setting it on an end table. He turned back, grabbing Axel's face. "I love you. Even in your wine drunk state. Even if you don't help with the dishes or whatever the hell we fought about this morning."
Axel lunged, wrapping his arms around Roxas’s waist, nearly sending them to the floor. "I'm so sorry," he half wailed. "I don't even remember what I did."
"Or even if it was you," Roxas ran his hands through Axel's hair, trying to work out some tangles.
"Well, I'm sorry for whatever I did or didn't do."
Roxas pried Axel loose enough to lean down and give him a kiss. "Don’t be sorry. I still love you. How about we get dinner, get you sobered up, and then I'll get another copy of our marriage license hung up?"
"Another?"
"Ax, babe. The last time we fought I came home to find a waterlogged marriage license and you sitting in the running shower fully dressed." Roxas pulled Axel up, steadying him, and smoothing the hair back from his face. "I believe that time you wailed about how no one would want damaged goods. I love you, but you get so dramatic when you drink."
"No! Besides, I love you more!" Axel let out a hiccupy giggle, leaning down and rubbing his face into blond hair. "I have the best husband in all the worlds."
