#elf writes stuff

[kudowo-shinitchy]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

shameless self-promo but please do check out the best fic I’ve ever written

[hunkjasontodd]

Slow

Everything seems to be moving slowly with my school projects, and I’m frustrated as hell with my group. 

Prompt: Damian wants time to slow down, because his school project partner can have his whole life.

Most of the time, Damian abhorred school projects. They were annoying, slow, and he had no choice but to depend on the useless peons for a grade. It was ridiculous how nothing he did could get his teammates to be as invested as he was in the work. 

He wanted to crawl into a bloody hole and die when projects were being handed out.

But this... this may not be as bad as he’d thought. 

His new partner was beautiful, in an odd manner.

His name is Jonathan Kent, but was more comfortable with the nickname “Jon”. There were freckles across the bridge of his nose, apparently from too much sun exposure, which could only be seen if one paid close attention to him. Jonathan talked with a slight tick, whereas most students would talk with a flat accent, he had a slight Kansas accent, curling his “r”s and running through his “ch”s. It was slightly endearing. He’d laugh loudly, as opposed to the soft giggles and amused smiles of everyone else, making it known how happy he was. 

Damian may have been paying too much attention to Jonathan Kent.

‘Damian, are you done with your parts yet?’ Jonathan wore a slight frown on his face, brows furrowed. The deadline for their project was in a few days, and they were nowhere near halfway done with their draft. 

Fumbling slightly, Damian apologises, saying that he needed another hour or so to perfect his parts. Jonathan sighs, face softening into a bright smile -- truly, beautiful. 

In truth, Damian had far more than his own parts, covering several paragraphs of research Jonathan had trouble with. However, he was reluctant to place everything in the shared document. It meant that they would have to cut their meeting short, and reduce the number of times they needed to meet to discuss the project. 

He spent the next hour admiring Jonathan, slowly transferring paragraph after paragraph to the document, watching Jonathan’s face light up with amazement at the contents. 

How he wished his art supplies were next to him right now!

(How he wished time would slow down, so that he could admire Jonathan more.)

Their meeting came to an end when they were both satisfied with their draft.

Disappointed, Damian packed up his belongings, fingers itching for a pen and paper. ‘I will see you in class tomorrow, Jonathan,’ he says his farewell, wondering if he’d done it as Grayson had taught, giving an awkward little wave (which Drake had mentioned made one friendlier) before turning to walk out the library. 

‘W-wait, Damian!’ A desperate shout echoes in the silence, startling him. Jonathan grabs his wrist, tugging him with enough force to turn him around. 

Panting lightly, Jonathan takes a huge breath. Damian noticed how there were flecks of violet in sky blue eyes. Damian also noticed how close they were. 

‘U-uhm,’ Jonathan stutters, averting his gaze, stumbling back. ‘I was wondering... if we could hang out tomorrow, after class?’ 

Dumbfounded, Damian nods. ‘Are we not done with our project?’ 

Jonathan’s cheeks turn pink, confusing him even more. 

[yellow-wine]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

thanks @fuckyeahfoodfantasy for helping me study last night hjgibrngrjg

[ankh-o]

Trapped Under Rubble

So @desolationofzara and I were talking about something, which led to us discussing Damian's kinks — and we both decided that our boy has a strength kink. Particularly, when Jon uses his strength unknowingly. Their age isn't stated in this, but they're definitely legal!!

----

A distant wailing of sirens from approximately twenty-five meters away. Damian wriggles his fingers, trying desperately to get them to react properly. His eyesight is clearing up, and all of his previously optimistic hopes had been crushed.

He was trapped in a pile of debris. Splinters of sunlight filtered in from the cracks, and Damian used it to try and get his body out from under the pile of rubble. His thigh had been punctured by a steel pole, and was bleeding out profusely. He was sure he was suffering a minor concussion. Four out of ten fingers were bent crooked. His right arm was twisted at a weird angle.

Father would be disappointed if he saw the state that Damian was in now.

Collecting what was left of his strength, he drags his legs close to his body. The pain is immediate, a million pulsing shocks wracking his spine and setting his body aflame, his eyes prick with tears. He breathes harshly and heavily. Damian refuses to make a pained sound. Several minutes pass before his legs are tucked up against his chest. His left hand inspects the small hole in his thigh, as well as check for other minor injuries, and he sighs in relief when he finds that the pole had made a clean wound. Patching it up would be slightly easier.

The moment he tried to extract his injured arm, though, a wave of unexplicable pain crashes into him. The nausea he feels disorients him, and he whimpers helplessly, body crouched over his right arm.

'Damian!' A familiar voice shouts. Superboy — Jonathan. Relief courses through him instantly. Jonathan would get him out of here. And since when, a small part of his brain questions, did you start relying on Jonathan?

Damian has no time to reflect on it as the rubble is lifted, and sunlight pours down on him — effectively blinding him. Jonathan, whose face is too dark to get a look at, stands tall above him, a large piece of what appeared to be a wall in his hands above his head.

His breath is caught in his throat. Jonathan had never looked.... better.

'Damian! Oh my God! I thought you died! I couldn't find your heartbeat anywhere?!' Jonathan babbles, voice breaking, snapping Damian out of his trance. 'Help,' he croaks weakly, prodding his trapped arm. Jonathan clears the debris easily enough, albeit face wet from tears and an angry look in his eyes. Damian wheezes, lying lifelessly on the floor.

'Stupid Damian,' Jonathan mumbles worriedly, hovering over him like a buzzing bee. After several more seconds, and what Damian assumes is Jonathan using his X-Ray vision to see if there were any more broken bones, Jonathan lifts his battered body in a bridal carry — similar to how Superman would carry Batman.

'Stupid Damian,' Jonathan huffs once more. Damian chuckles dryly, 'I'm sorry. I'll be more careful, next time.'

'There won't be a next time!' Damian ignores Jonathan's angry shout, instead curling into Jonathan's chest; his eyes are heavy. The image of Jonathan lifting the broken wall with ease comes back to him, and Damian spends the whole trip back to Gotham fantasizing about Jonathan's strength.

[kudowo-shinitchy]

A Meddler

so i thought this was supposed to be a joke account but here i am. posting. actual content. 

Pokemon AU; but everything still applies~ 

for more pokemon au!

The nasty's sylveon walks between his feet, purring and scratching its head on his legs. That little shit, using his pokemon to assist in his escapes. 

'He really doesn't care about you, huh?' He mutters, picking up the sylveon -- whose fur looks smooth had a shimmering quality to it, and nails that were recently trimmed -- and rethinks his words. The sylveon did look a little.... chubby. 

It looks at him, blinking bright eyes at him. A playful bark is his only warning, and the pokemon slips out of his arms and runs off, approaching the edge of the roof. 

'Hey! It's dangerous!' The no-longer child shouts, panicking. Shinichi regrets not bringing out his audino; Ranpo would probably be able to calm the stupid thief's pokemon and this would never have happened. 'Wait for me!' 

He takes off after it, feet pattering loudly. His heart drops, probably out of his chest, when it jumps of the ledge, ribbons dancing in the wind. It looks... almost mischievous. 

'Amor!' The thief laughs, gliding up into sight, cuddling into the evil sylveon; 'didn't I tell you to behave in front of Meitantei?' A giant pigeot, pure white -- albinism? -- swoops into the air, covering them both in darkness. 

It's a trick, he thinks. 

'Too late,' the thief whispers, gloved fingers brushing Shinichi's earlobes delicately.

Kaito KID has won again, gaining hold of the night's heist in a simple sleight of hand. 

Shinichi glares, 'you used your sylveon to lure me here!' He accuses, 'how dirty!' 

KID grins, malicious. 'But why would I? Amor simply misses you, Meitantei!' The evil thing trills, barking at him, wrapping a ribbon around Shinichi's wrist. 'See!' 

Shinichi's glare worsens. He really wished he brought Ranpo, or his newly caught Jigglypuff. Another ribbon wraps around KID's sleeves, bright blue against pure white. 

'Vee,' the pokemon purrs, butting its owner's head in an attempt to pull them together. 

'What?' KID's confused, 'no! Amor, we're not gonna-- The taskforce... ' He trails off, weak to the pokemon's pleas. 

'Wait.' Shinichi finds himself talking, staring at the obvious attempt of matchmaking. 'What.'

He was fairly certain that KID usually had a ditto with him, but that sylveon.... was definitely not a ditto. When had KID gotten a sylveon?

[hunkjasontodd]

a love letter, from barris

'there's something beautiful about the way the light spills from the window, splintering into thin weaves of an ethereal dress, spun of silvery gold and seven hundred smiles. and then there's you, who bathes in this presence, blond hair lit up into a shimmering white as you turn your head, sky blue eyes shining in amazement and curiosity as you take all the knowledge that you can, an endless sea of books sprawled around you. 

nimble fingers trace ancient words, ink smudging onto fair skin. however, your attention never sways, not even for a fraction of this endless time. there's something about the way you smile, soft and serene, as if you've finally found the ultimate reason for existence, when you turn yellowing pages of a leather-bound book. 

"these are hard to come by," you whisper to yourself, feeling the coarseness of wearing cattle pelt, marvelling at the binding, face smoothing out into enlightenment as you palm the spine, wrinkles lining the length of the forgotten text. 

and it's in this scene, this poem, that i realise why you're always the best version of yourself surrounded in a whirlwind of words.'

[hunkjasontodd]

Barris Sakan’s No Good, Rather Terrible Day

Don’t ask me how this all started -- I don’t want to explain:”) There are slight mentions and descriptions of blood, so please avoid this if you’re not comfortable with them!

Barris feels a tremor run through him as he shakily steps onto the ice. Oh, oh no -- he feels the ground beneath him slide out of control, suddenly a beast in its own right. Heaving slightly, his grip on the sidebars don't soften, skin bruising at the added pressure. 

Some part of his brain, which was all of his brain, wants to kill all its brain cells and maybe leave him to rot in the rink. 

Why had he lied and said he was a great skater?

Magda's laugh echoes from the other side of the rink, where Blackgloves was twirling her around gracefully (and dangerously, he's sure that if Magda actually let go of the man's hand, she'd get into a freak accident). A bubbling well of jealousy sits, grumpy, at the bottom of his stomach, and he sulks at the joy radiating from the blonde's very being. 

Oh, yea. That's why. He takes the next step onto the rink, ready to storm over to the raven and steal Magda away, his speech on safety and charming lines at the tip of his tongue. Letting go of the handrails, he takes the next step forward --- 

and ends up face down on the artificial ice floor.

Juven's obnoxious chortle greets him in the worst way possible. 

'Great going, old man!' He cackles, face red with laugh lines creasing his forehead. Slapping a hand onto the side of the bed, Juven tries to calm himself down, taking deep, broken breaths as his glee dies down. 

After several moments of heavy breathing, Juven finally offers Barris a hot towel. 'For your nose,' he explains with a croak, eyes teary with amusement. Barris glares, hot shame running through his veins, snatching the towel and slamming it directly onto his nose. 

Howling, Barris flings the offending cloth aside, trying to clutch his nose without feeling like an utter fool. 

Juven collapses, knees giving way into mass hysterics.

Barris' eyes swim with water -- not tears, those aren't painful tears -- when Magda enters the room. Concern floods her face as she takes in the bleeding, red, bent nose and Juven's crumpled form. 

'Uh,' she blanches, 'do you.... do you want me to call a nurse?' She asks meekly, hiding behind the sliding doors of the hospital. Juven takes a deep gulp of air, sounding totally like a vacuum cleaner, wheezing like a whistle. 'Please, don't.' 

Magda's eyes flit between them both, 'uhh.... Mr Barris...?' 

Barris thoroughly wants the bed to suddenly snap in half and break his spine. Maybe if he pressed the button of the controls fast enough, his wish will come true. 

Sniffling (oh dear Heavens, why did he do that?! The feeling of blood sliding back down his windpipe makes him gag and cough, sputtering even more blood onto his hospital gown, which blooms purple in the blue paper dress) and wiping away the blood -- he's sure he looked like a serial killer, oh my Heavens, he shakes his head. 

'Ms Magda,' he begins, dying internally at the sound of his voice thick with unuse, 'if you call a nurse, could you bring a coroner in, as well? I'm afraid both Juven and I are at the end of the line.' 

Magda blinks, concern sliding off to reveal a blank canvas, 'eh?'

Magda exits the room in a daze, swaying in the nonexistent wind. 

Barris wonders if it's alright to leave her alone like that. Shaking his head (which causes him to cough up the blood he sniffed back in previously), he tries to get his nose to stop bleeding. 

Then, he'll deal with his self-esteem. 

Clearing up a nose clogged with congealed blood is awful, but finally being able to breathe, (was this the liberation their forefathers mentioned? To be able to breathe in stale, medicinal air?) to be able to feel his nose (and the bone, eugh), and touch his face without wanting to split his head from his body -- it felt good. 

He applies the hot towel (slightly dirtier) onto his nose, moving carefully to not irritate the injury further, and brings out the portable tray, situating it a perfect centimetre away from him. Then, he slams his head as lightly as he could onto it. 

But, as it turned out, Barris' luck ran out for today, and his nose took most of the hit. 

It's final -- Barris doesn't want a nose anymore.

The doors of his room slide open as his head shoots up from the intense pain. Scrunching his face up in absolute misery, and pain, always pain, he tries to ignore the world in favour of his darned nose. 

He groans, like an unoiled door opening for the first time in a million years, lamenting his loss of facial sensations. A higher pitched, younger girl giggles at his predicament. 

'Barbara,' he pleads, 'kill me; please.' His niece barks, presumably clutching her chest and muffling her shrieks in her scarf. Why does he have such awful family members? What did he ever do wrong? (Well, what he did wrong was letting his dumb Monkey Brain take over, that's what.) 

Boots clack noisily as Barbara climbs onto the bed and helps him relax his face. 'You look like one of those weird stone statues, the ones with no bodies and only a giant head,' Barbara giggles, pressing a cold towel onto his nose to freeze the nerve cells. 

Moaning like a beached whale, Barris agrees. He'd much rather be a statue than alive right now. 

'Kill me,' he begs, opening crusty eyes to reveal two blurry figures. Rubbing his eyes of tears and..... other....crusty things, they sharpen into Barbara.... 

and..... 

Miss.....

Magda....

(Later, he would beg his brother to kill him; only to be chased around with a chainsaw.)

Extra:

Blackgloves is curled up into a ball, shivering with tears streaming down his face. Juven's knocked out cold, snoring like a tractor in the adjacent chair. Slamming his fists into the wood floors repeatedly, the raven seemed to imitate a court judge (probably corrupt). Head suddenly coming up for air, Blackgloves looked like he'd been stung by hornets, face purpling and sweaty. 

'Amazing,' he breathes. hair a crow's nest, 'you're superb, Sakan!' And... down he goes, once more, into the land of No Return. 

Barris rolls his eyes, trying to swim in his own misery. 

'Mr Barris,' Magda politely catches his attention, eyes mischievous, 'I could teach you how to ice skate, if you'd like.' 

(She doesn't mention at a price, but he knows it's there.) 

(The price he pays.....)

(Magda Ellenstein drives a hard bargain.)

[hunkjasontodd]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“Jonathan wasn't one for sports, he'll be quick to admit. But that doesn't explain why he's in the basketball club.”

it’s been a while since i wrote these two!!! i’m testing out a new writing style, and also some basketball au;)