ectoberhaunt24
day 13- old hero, new world
fandom- dp x dc
tw- none
summary- Danny meets a parka man and a red pajama man
masterlist
ao3
part 2 of TCAB
Danny flew invisible for a while, passing through several cities before he felt a chill in the air.
He dove down toward the city he was flying over. He could hear the sound of fighting and he flew in that direction, feeling the delicious cold increasing. But he had to stop when he got to the fight scene. There was a man dressed in a fluffy coat holding a gun that was shooting ice, and opposite him was a man in a red onsie with zigzag horns coming from his ears. The red man seemed to be trying to run fast but kept slipping on the ice.
He frowned, wondering which one was supposed to be the hero and which one the villain. They both looked rather comical.
Invisibly, Danny made his way closer, subtly freezing both men’s feet to the ground while they were monologuing at each other.
“I’m going to defeat you blah blah blah”
“You'll never win blah blah blah”
“Villainy rules blah blah blah”
“Justice rules blah blah blah”
Then, moving so that he was between the two men Danny made himself visible while cackling madly like a crazy evil mad scientist villain man.
“You both shall lose you losers! For, I am the greatest being of all time. My chilling,” he smirked, “powers are surpassed by none! Mwahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahahahhahahahahahahahahhaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Danny cackled madly, glad that he didn’t need to breath so that he could crackle longer than anyone had ever caclked madly before.
“Ummm…. Who are you?” said the red pajama man.
“Yes, who dares interrupt my legendary defeat of Central’s abysmal defender?” said the eskimo man.
“Hey! I’m going to defeat you!” exclaimed the yellow horned man.
“Never!” yelled the furry, parka obsessed man.
“Neither of you shall win!” Danny said, throwing out his hands and making the ice creep up the men’s legs. “For I am the supreme user of all things cold and icy! None shall defeat me! Least of all a North Pole explorer and a horned red pajama man! Mwahahahahahahhaahhahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahah!” Danny laughed, enjoying the men’s expressions of outrage.
“And since I am the most evil of evildoers, I shall take…” Danny looked around, “That!” he said pointing at the gun furry coated icicle man was holding and levitating it towards himself. “This is mine now!” he exclaimed, holding the gun aloft.
“Hey! Give that back!”
“No! Kid, give that to me! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“But it’s mine! You can’t have it! I built it! Give it back!”
“It doesn’t matter if you made it, you’re using it for evil so it needs to be locked up! Give it to me, kid!”
Both men were struggling to get out of their icy bonds, but they were both failing rather miserably, Danny thought. Then again, Danny’s ice is pretty awesome.
“Well, since both of you cannot free yourselves of your icy bonds then that means that I am the mightiest, and I deserve to have this whatchamacallit! And there’s nothing you can do about it! Mwahahahha–” Danny started but choked on spit and dissolved into a coughing fit.
The men were staring at him, which, rude. They weren’t even asking if he was okay!
Whatever. He had got a cool new toy to play with. He wondered what powered it. All the other fancy guns he’d seen were powered by ectoplasm. It would be cool to take a look at whatever this was.
He turned back to the two men.
“Sayonara, suckers!” he said before going invisible, stifling his giggles as he fled.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
“Wei Wuxian is the son of two rogue cultivators who recently died on a night-hunt,” his mother explained. “We are taking him in as a favor to a friend.”
At least it wasn’t another surprise half-sibling.
It did not take long for Jin Zixuan to reconsider. Wei Wuxian was a gremlin, brought to Koi Tower for the sole purpose of driving Jin Zixuan into insanity.
rating: teen+
pairing: geraskier, brief mention of jaskier/some-other-guy
tags: established open relationship (will I ever write anything else anymore? unlikely.), casual sex, body hair (lots of it), scent kink, sad!Geralt, tooth-rotting fluff and crack
In which Jaskier makes a terrible decision and his Witcher pays the price.
------------------------
Geralt is truly addicted -to Jaskier’s body hair, that is.
When they're in bed the Witcher will nose and scratch at the thick mat of hair on the bardlings front, greedily sucking in the musky rich smell of him like there is no finer scent in all the world. Hell, Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason Geralt hasn’t yet tried to physically roll in it is because such an action would surely crush some ribs and Jaskier needs those intact! Thank you very much!
It is kinda weird. Maybe a lot weird even. But then again, Jaskier is probably even weirder for getting off on it so much. There are few things which can make him as instantly, desperately hard as having his darling lover reduced to a growling mess, pawing at Jaskier’s body eagerly, almost reverently. It makes him feel loved and wanted, deeply flattered at the shameless display of desire from his taciturn companion.
Sadly he takes neither of these things into consideration, when, one rainy summer morning in a tiny village at the ass-end of the world, Jaskier decides to shave it all off .
Geralt is out on a contract, gone for four days and likely not to be back for another two or three. Jaskier would be out of his mind by now, close to death by acute boredom, if it wasn't for the handsome blacksmith with whom he enjoys himself at every possible opportunity (which are many… Jaskier can be quite persuasive).
This blacksmith though, himself a tall, broad, hairy fellow, quite clearly has more of a taste for boyish sort of men. And Jaskier might look the part while all donned up in his colourful, pretty minstrel clothes but not so much when those clothes come off . The smith is too sensible to say anything of course, yet Jaskier can feel the slight hesitation whenever wandering hands encounter a patch of his thick, dark body hair.
So, with literally nothing else to do but wait for the next round of fucking or Geralts return (whichever comes first), Jaskier borrows a nice, sharp knife and goes to work.
After three painful little cuts in his armpits and one by his hips, he wisely decides to leave his pubes untouched. Accidental self-castration would be quite exciting but he’s not that desperate yet.
Otherwise though, the bardling ends up nice and smooth, skin pink and flushed from the unfamiliar irritation. It’s actually quite pleasant to touch and he spends some time exploring the new sensation before presenting himself to his bedfellow. Predictably, the blacksmith goes absolutely crazy, taking Jaskier right where they stand in the middle of his workshop and then twice more on the way back to the bed.
Living in a secluded, mostly conservative little village like this must be an intensely frustrating experience. Jaskier can’t relate but for the time being, he's happy to help out.
Regret sets in 48 hours later, which is when the lovely feel of baby smooth skin has fully turned into the burn of itchy stubble. It becomes complete after yet another day when the clopping of hooves announces his White Wolf's victorious return.
Depending on how a hunt goes and how much distance there was to cover, Geralt will usually be either horny as hell (if it was too easy or just challenging enough to get him pumped but not to tire him out) or exhausted as hell (mostly when customers lie to drive down the price and two drowners turn out to be a whole pack of werewolves). This is one of the horny cases.
Apparently the Nekker nests were both well hidden and unexpectedly large; It took Geralt two whole days to find them, a day to form a plan of action and another four days to prepare, carry it out and return to the village trophies in hand. Not a hard contract but definitely a tedious one. Especially since it's been raining cats and dogs for weeks and every square centimetre of uncovered ground has turned into ankle-deep, stinking muck.
The Witcher standing before Jaskier looks more like a drowned rat than the strappingly handsome hunk that left here a week ago and the bard insists on a bath before any reunion ravaging is allowed to happen.
He feels a bit sorry now for having allowed the blacksmith such frequent use of his body; it will be a few days before his hole can take another pounding (even more so because Geralt’s huge girth is a challenge at the best of times). Luckily though, Jaskier knows about a hundred ways to satisfy the itch under his Witcher’s skin. He will endeavour to make full use of that knowledge tonight. For better or worse, the White Wolf, bless his affection-starved little heart, is not particularly picky about the loving he receives.
What Jaskier didn't prepare for is the look of damn near devastation on Geralt's face when he, scrubbed pink and clean, finally allowed to embrace his much-missed bard, greedily pushes his hands up under Jaskier’s loose white shirt and finds only prickly stubble instead of the usual magnificent pelt.
Oh, it should be funny. And Jaskier will laugh about it later, but at that moment, the utter betrayal on his partners face makes it seem like breaking all four of Roache’s legs would have been the lesser offence by far.
“Uhm, I can explain?” he tries tentatively, “You know, there was that smith that I told you about and he seemed to-”
“What you do with your body is none of my business.”
Hmhm. Yeah, that's what Geralt says and Jaskier appreciates the sentiment, really. But the strangely forlorn way his hands still roam the bard’s belly, dipping under the waistline of Jaskiers trousers and relaxing almost imperceptibly at the still intact thatch of hair they find there is... well, it's just sad and makes Jaskier feel quite terrible.
“If it’s any consolation, my hair always grows really fast?” he ventures, trying to console his distraught Witcher, “I shaved just a few days ago, see, it's already coming back quite vigorously…”
“Hm.” Geralt grunts. It’s not working.
“Oh come onnnn…” Jaskier whines, putting both his hands on his beloved's dour face and pushing at his cheeks obnoxiously in a vain effort to cheer him up. “It’s just some hair. Is it really so important?”
“Smells like you,” the squished Witcher replies with a grumble.
“Uh, yeah. And it's actually kinda rank sometimes. I don't get how it doesn't bother you with your enhanced senses.”
It’s true, Jaskier has been curious about that for a while now. Releasing his hold on the Witcher’s face, he moves to card his fingers through the invitingly soft strands of hair instead. Geralt shrugs lightly in response before turning his head to nose at Jaskiers wrist.
“It's you. So it's good,” he murmurs, muffled against the skin.
It is such a simple explanation but might just cut to the very core of the matter. Jaskier’s chest swells with warmth and adoration. He knows to listen for the words that Geralt does not say.
“Alright,” Jaskier peppers feather-light kisses from the Witchers' cheek down to his mouth. When their lips meet, it’s like rain after months of drought. A week apart was a week too long.
“Tell me how to make it up to you, darling,” another kiss, “Wanna suck my cock? You can fuck my thighs later.”
“Mmmh.”
They’re moving again. Stepping lightly over hastily dropped clothes to the bed allocated to them in one of the empty cottages.
Jaskier will never really get used to staying in the houses of the dead but in villages such as this, where there is no inn or tavern, it’s vastly preferable to whatever barn or stable they’d be offered instead.
“Was he good to you?”
“Hm? Who?”
Jaskier’s last piece of clothing falls to the floor. The bed is soft and Geralt less so, mouth sucking bruises into vulnerable skin.
“The blacksmith.”
“Oh.” Jaskier has already forgotten him, “Oh yes, he was very nice. It’s always amazing to meet someone even less talkative than you.”
The low growl rumbling through the Witchers broad chest makes Jaskier giggle and push closer. He wants to feel those vibrations in his own body, through every centimetre of his skin. Geralt's cock jumps where it’s pressed against his hip, already wet at the tip.
Yielding easily to the bard’s hand pushing on his shoulder, the Witcher soon starts moving downwards, nipping reproachfully at Jaskier’s plucked-chicken chest all the way. The human huffs out a laugh, painfully fond; may the Gods save him from the wrath of this grouchy creature.
Geralt visibly (to the trained eye at least) perks up when he reaches the v between the bardlings legs and settles in, immediately pressing his face into the nest of pubic hair. He hums happily and breathes in deep, nosing at the base of Jaskier’s swelling cock. Propped up on his elbows, Jaskier can see the Witcher’s hips twitching down into the sheets already. He’s sure to come like this at least once, mouth stuffed and all senses overloaded with Jaskier’s taste, his scent and the lovely sounds spilling from his bitten-red lips.
Fucking adorable is Jaskier's last haphazard thought before Geralt swallows him down to the root and stars burst behind his eyelids.
It is September Twelfth and everything is normal when Alec wakes. Magnus is there to remind him, however, that today is one of those days that Alec isn't quite used to celebrating yet; although one he is happy to partake in because he knows how it pleases his husband.
Today is Alec Lightwood's birthday.
AKA: the Alec Lightwood birthday drabble that no one asked for, but that was completely mandatory
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Harry’s eyes widen slightly at that. “We’re friends?”
Louis nods eagerly, smiling even wider. “Of course we are! You’re like, my first ever friend here. We just moved in, you see. Did I already tell you about that? Anyway! Maybe you can stay for dinner and I can show you my toys?”
Harry smiles. “You’ll let me play with you?”
Louis nods again, excited. “Of course!” He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then he’s slipping off the couch and crouching in front of Harry. “Oh, and Mum always kisses my wounds after she fixes them up. It makes me feel loads better all the time, so.” He leans forward and puckers his lips, pressing them over the bandage on Harry’s knee.
(harry and louis first meet when they’re eight and ten. this is their story throughout the years.)
Frey tugged his hood further over his head, casting his eyes into shadow as he browsed the wares. He’d ended up in a town near the farmstead he had stayed at before it was raided by Templars, and was definitely too close to the Circle for his liking. He sighed, chewing his lip as he thought. He had barely any money left from the night at the tavern, and the choice between a better knife and fishing pole was proving difficult to make. He must have taken too long I deciding, as the store owner let out an impatient huff and folded his arms.
Frey stepped further in, inspecting the quarter staffs propped up in the corner. He had seen some of the young men of the town practicing with them, and thought it curious and a little fun. He still felt out of balance without a staff, especially when spell casting. With a nod, he selected one – the cheapest – and turned to leave, but another caught his eye. It looked older than the others, and was cracked in more than one place, but he could just make out faint carvings along its length. He recognised one as the design he had painstakingly inked onto his own chin.
“How much for this one?” he asked the shopkeeper, taking the old staff in hand.
“Ten silver.”
“It’s cracked.”
“7 silver.”
“The bottom is held together with string.”
“6 silver and I’ll throw in some string so you can keep it fixed.”
“Deal,” Frey grinned, setting the coins down on the counter and pocketing the string he was given in return before leaving and stepping back out into the street.
He tucked his hands into his cloak as best he could, head down and sticking to the side of the road. He heard shouting and it unsettled him. It was getting closer. His heart began to race. He tried to make himself ignore it, but it wasn’t working. He could hear footsteps now, running through puddles behind him. “No! Stay there!” came the voice, a woman, shouting. She couldn’t mean him, surely. “Oi!”
A blow between his shoulder blades sent him sprawling onto the floor, face down in the mud, gasping and terrified. He scrambled onto his knees, only to be licked. Licked. He paused, looking up into the giant, slobbering face of a mabari. The dog sat neatly in front of him, tongue out and tail wagging as best it could.
“Stupid dog,” the woman muttered, breathing heavily having chased it for quite some way. “I’m so sorry, he’s not mine, you see. Damn thing can’t be trained.”
Frey ignored her, transfixed by the dog which barked happily before licking him again. Then, it clicked. “Mutton?”
“Boof!” A happy bark. Frey sat up, opening his arms and Mutton the mabari leapt into them, almost crushing the mage.
“You know him?” the woman asked, utterly confused by the situation.
“Yeah, yeah I do.”
“Good. Then take him. He seems to like you.”
“Down, boy. What happened to his owners?” he asked, though he dreaded the answer, steeling his nerves by curling his fingers in Mutton’s collar as the dog sniffed his hair.
“Girl got taken to the Circle. The old man was arrested for harbouring an apostate.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, so they left this thing behind and he’s been nothing but trouble. Won’t stay in the house, won’t do as he’s told. Just growls all the time.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, does it Mutton?” he said, ruffling the dog’s ears.
And that was how Frey found himself with a mabari war hound, albeit a lazy one who’d much prefer to sunbathe than follow his new master through the woods. Nevertheless, Mutton trotted along happily at Frey’s heels, and occasionally brought him a rabbit or something less useful. Frey repaired the staff to the best of his abilities, and added the spare string to the top as a makeshift fishing rod. It was surprisingly successful, and he almost caught a fish two or three times before Mutton leapt into the water and scared them away. He found he couldn’t be angry at the dog, and it was certainly much warmer at night with a mabari on top of him, even if his weight did nearly push all the air out of his lungs. As the made their way further and further from the Circle, Frey started to dare to believe that he might actually be free.
