storm-and-starlight
storm-and-starlight
Grab the Stroud and We'll Roar to the Clouds "Come and Get Us"
Storm | College Student | xe/xem or they/them Unless otherwise stated, everything on this blog is either about Gender or The Witcher Netflix. Mostly The Witcher Netflix. I'm a fandom nerd and proud of it AO3 is stormandstarlight, come say hi!
storm-and-starlight · 4 hours ago
Text
As I understand it red light green light and “what time is it mr. fox” (which is how I learned it) were two separate games? 
Like they both had the “you’re only allowed to move during certain intervals” but red light green light was “you can only move during green lights, and if you’re caught moving during a red light you’re out, first person to reach the stoplight (person calling red light green light) becomes the new stoplight”, and what time is it mr. fox had all the players ask mr. fox what time it was, he would call a number, you would take that many steps forward, and when he called lunchtime it would turn into a game of chase and the person who got caught became the new mr. fox.
I have not seen squid game, though, so idk which version they use.
the first episode of squid game was mildly confusing to me bcos i was familiar w the game they were playing but i'd never heard it called 'red light green light' before and it was very obvious very quickly that that wasn't a direct translation of what the doll was saying and for some reason it took ages to register with me that 'red light green light' is the american name for it
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storm-and-starlight · 5 hours ago
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rb the give garlic bread and a warm hug to the person u rb'd from
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storm-and-starlight · 5 hours ago
Text
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part four, and this bit... it's the smut. That's it, beginning to end. (If that isn't your jam, feel free to skip)
The song for this segment is Jet Pack Blues, by Fall Out Boy
Part One
4
He’s gentle.
He’s so, so gentle.
He’s gentle as he tugs Jaskier out of rough, sweat- and ale-stained clothes, as he tugs the tangled furs and crumpled pillows into something resembling order and settles Jaskier back against them as carefully as he can, fumbles through the nightstand for where Jaskier keeps his various oils (ever predictable, that’s him).
Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t let go.
He thinks he might start crying again, actually, which would be even more pathetic than last night, or fifteen minutes ago, but he’s spent ten years very determinedly not showing a single hint of weakness so he’s probably allowed, at least. Geralt won’t judge.
Geralt, in the meantime, is stripping out of his own clothes. Once upon a time, Jaskier would’ve propped himself up on an elbow and watched, traced the lines of the revealed muscles and carefully avoided the scars, but now he’s reduced to simply wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s wrist and hanging on, like he can keep the witcher close to him for forever this time.
Geralt sets the oil back on the nightstand with the softest of sounds and promptly tucks Jaskier underneath his body, lets him bury his face in the witcher’s shoulder and breathe him in, stroke over the harsh bump of his spine, the winged expanse of shoulder blades. Geralt’s thinner, leaner, but the weight of him is just the same and Jaskier sinks his nails into Geralt’s skin and holds on.
Geralt strokes over his ribs, rocks up against him, presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple the way he always does until Jaskier lets out a long breath and smooths his hands down over the cut of the witcher’s waist. “I’m ready.”
Geralt nods, kisses him quickly, slides back and pushes one of his legs up, stroking over Jaskier’s calf. “Let me…?”
“Anything, darling,” and if it’s not quite as flirty as it would have been a decade ago, it’s a valiant effort. Still, Geralt’s face goes raw, impossibly young, and Jaskier catches him by the cheek, smooths over the rise and dip of the bones underneath.
The oil is unscented, the way he prefers, but Geralt doesn’t touch him quite yet, rubbing gentle circles over the clench of his hole, petting at the most vulnerable part of him until Jaskier is writhing under it, hands flexing and releasing in the bedsheets until he shoves his hips down and Geralt takes pity on him.
He goes-- maddeningly slow.
“Geralt--”
Geralt hums, strokes over that sweet spot he’s always been so damn good at finding, and Jaskier’s hips buck up into the sensation. He’s still tucked up next to Jaskier and the heat of his body is a rising swelter, and Jaskier loves him. Loves him for coming back and loves him for still being alive and loves him for all his immense, impossible gentleness, how even with hands that have shed more blood than any mortal man’s he holds Jaskier so carefully.
“I-- missed you,” and Geralt hums again, leans down to kiss him and tucks another finger in, catching the roll of Jaskier’s spine and guiding him back down to the bed again. “I missed you, I missed you,” and Geralt is shushing him but he can’t stop. His skin feels too tight, overfilled with sparking pleasure, running quicksilver up his spine with every pulse of Geralt’s wrist-- “gods, I missed you.”
“I know,” and Jaskier hiccups out a sob that turns into a shuddering cry when Geralt slips another finger inside him, trying to shove down on it, take as much of him inside as he can. He wants to drag all of Geralt inside his body, tear open his own ribcage until there’s space for them both side by side inside this ruin of a world.
Geralt’s lips press to his calf, there and gone again. “You know I won’t hurt you, Jaskier,” and all he can do is hum, ride the pulse-and-surge of pleasure in his hips and try not to burst at the seams. He’s here and he’s here and he’s splitting Jaskier open until he never wants this to end, even though it has to.
Jaskier might be crying again, he’s not quite sure.
Geralt pulls his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to, unanchored as he is, a drowning man with no ship in sight, and Geralt is there, he’s there, he’s there, arms steady around him and his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hair, breathing hard and harsh and oh, gods, like he never even left. It feels like a dream and not like a dream and Jaskier just wants to lie here and never wake up and also, more importantly, he wants Geralt to fuck him.
Geralt lets out a huff of air, even though Jaskier was sure he hadn’t actually said anything. “You always were impatient.”
Jaskier, for once, has no words, only a desperate, pleading need to have Geralt close and closer still.
Geralt tucks his nose into the hollow space under his jaw, breathes in slow, wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, and slips in, impossibly gentle.
Jaskier digs his nails back into the hollows he left on Geralt’s shoulders and clings, bodies pressed together hip-to-chest. It’s not as easy as it was when he was young and limber but his skin is still too tight, hot and cold and sparking with every rock of Geralt’s hips, every drag of his stomach against Jaskier’s aching cock, and it’s the best he’s felt in an eternity.
Geralt fucks him-- like the sea, Jaskier thinks, neverending.
For the space of a heartbeat, for the hovering eternity before the wave breaks, it won’t and it doesn’t and he will live here forever, caught up in this impossible, incredible dream and Geralt, love, don’t leave--
Geralt lets out a shuddering sound, almost a sob (though you’d never catch him admitting to that), and comes, reaching down to wrap around Jaskier’s cock and tug at it, firm and good and everything Jaskier’s ever loved until the pressure underneath his skin and inside his ribs where his heart has beat its way to the surface overflows and he spills into Geralt’s hand.
In the after, where the winter air is chill against his skin and his throat feels rubbed raw though he’d barely made any noise at all, still he clings to Geralt’s back, holds him down when he’d try to pull away. “Don’t go.”
Geralt only hums, but he’s still held in the clutch of Jaskier’s body, still a mess of tangled limbs and rumpled bedsheets and lips pressed to skin when he settles, and Jaskier winds his fingers through his hair and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
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storm-and-starlight · 11 hours ago
Text
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part four, and this bit... it's the smut. That's it, beginning to end. (If that isn't your jam, feel free to skip)
The song for this segment is Jet Pack Blues, by Fall Out Boy
Part One
4
He’s gentle.
He’s so, so gentle.
He’s gentle as he tugs Jaskier out of rough, sweat- and ale-stained clothes, as he tugs the tangled furs and crumpled pillows into something resembling order and settles Jaskier back against them as carefully as he can, fumbles through the nightstand for where Jaskier keeps his various oils (ever predictable, that’s him).
Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t let go.
He thinks he might start crying again, actually, which would be even more pathetic than last night, or fifteen minutes ago, but he’s spent ten years very determinedly not showing a single hint of weakness so he’s probably allowed, at least. Geralt won’t judge.
Geralt, in the meantime, is stripping out of his own clothes. Once upon a time, Jaskier would’ve propped himself up on an elbow and watched, traced the lines of the revealed muscles and carefully avoided the scars, but now he’s reduced to simply wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s wrist and hanging on, like he can keep the witcher close to him for forever this time.
Geralt sets the oil back on the nightstand with the softest of sounds and promptly tucks Jaskier underneath his body, lets him bury his face in the witcher’s shoulder and breathe him in, stroke over the harsh bump of his spine, the winged expanse of shoulder blades. Geralt’s thinner, leaner, but the weight of him is just the same and Jaskier sinks his nails into Geralt’s skin and holds on.
Geralt strokes over his ribs, rocks up against him, presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple the way he always does until Jaskier lets out a long breath and smooths his hands down over the cut of the witcher’s waist. “I’m ready.”
Geralt nods, kisses him quickly, slides back and pushes one of his legs up, stroking over Jaskier’s calf. “Let me…?”
“Anything, darling,” and if it’s not quite as flirty as it would have been a decade ago, it’s a valiant effort. Still, Geralt’s face goes raw, impossibly young, and Jaskier catches him by the cheek, smooths over the rise and dip of the bones underneath.
The oil is unscented, the way he prefers, but Geralt doesn’t touch him quite yet, rubbing gentle circles over the clench of his hole, petting at the most vulnerable part of him until Jaskier is writhing under it, hands flexing and releasing in the bedsheets until he shoves his hips down and Geralt takes pity on him.
He goes-- maddeningly slow.
“Geralt--”
Geralt hums, strokes over that sweet spot he’s always been so damn good at finding, and Jaskier’s hips buck up into the sensation. He’s still tucked up next to Jaskier and the heat of his body is a rising swelter, and Jaskier loves him. Loves him for coming back and loves him for still being alive and loves him for all his immense, impossible gentleness, how even with hands that have shed more blood than any mortal man’s he holds Jaskier so carefully.
“I-- missed you,” and Geralt hums again, leans down to kiss him and tucks another finger in, catching the roll of Jaskier’s spine and guiding him back down to the bed again. “I missed you, I missed you,” and Geralt is shushing him but he can’t stop. His skin feels too tight, overfilled with sparking pleasure, running quicksilver up his spine with every pulse of Geralt’s wrist-- “gods, I missed you.”
“I know,” and Jaskier hiccups out a sob that turns into a shuddering cry when Geralt slips another finger inside him, trying to shove down on it, take as much of him inside as he can. He wants to drag all of Geralt inside his body, tear open his own ribcage until there’s space for them both side by side inside this ruin of a world.
Geralt’s lips press to his calf, there and gone again. “You know I won’t hurt you, Jaskier,” and all he can do is hum, ride the pulse-and-surge of pleasure in his hips and try not to burst at the seams. He’s here and he’s here and he’s splitting Jaskier open until he never wants this to end, even though it has to.
Jaskier might be crying again, he’s not quite sure.
Geralt pulls his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to, unanchored as he is, a drowning man with no ship in sight, and Geralt is there, he’s there, he’s there, arms steady around him and his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hair, breathing hard and harsh and oh, gods, like he never even left. It feels like a dream and not like a dream and Jaskier just wants to lie here and never wake up and also, more importantly, he wants Geralt to fuck him.
Geralt lets out a huff of air, even though Jaskier was sure he hadn’t actually said anything. “You always were impatient.”
Jaskier, for once, has no words, only a desperate, pleading need to have Geralt close and closer still.
Geralt tucks his nose into the hollow space under his jaw, breathes in slow, wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, and slips in, impossibly gentle.
Jaskier digs his nails back into the hollows he left on Geralt’s shoulders and clings, bodies pressed together hip-to-chest. It’s not as easy as it was when he was young and limber but his skin is still too tight, hot and cold and sparking with every rock of Geralt’s hips, every drag of his stomach against Jaskier’s aching cock, and it’s the best he’s felt in an eternity.
Geralt fucks him-- like the sea, Jaskier thinks, neverending.
For the space of a heartbeat, for the hovering eternity before the wave breaks, it won’t and it doesn’t and he will live here forever, caught up in this impossible, incredible dream and Geralt, love, don’t leave--
Geralt lets out a shuddering sound, almost a sob (though you’d never catch him admitting to that), and comes, reaching down to wrap around Jaskier’s cock and tug at it, firm and good and everything Jaskier’s ever loved until the pressure underneath his skin and inside his ribs where his heart has beat its way to the surface overflows and he spills into Geralt’s hand.
In the after, where the winter air is chill against his skin and his throat feels rubbed raw though he’d barely made any noise at all, still he clings to Geralt’s back, holds him down when he’d try to pull away. “Don’t go.”
Geralt only hums, but he’s still held in the clutch of Jaskier’s body, still a mess of tangled limbs and rumpled bedsheets and lips pressed to skin when he settles, and Jaskier winds his fingers through his hair and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
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storm-and-starlight · 17 hours ago
Text
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part four, and this bit... it's the smut. That's it, beginning to end. (If that isn't your jam, feel free to skip)
The song for this segment is Jet Pack Blues, by Fall Out Boy
Part One
4
He’s gentle.
He’s so, so gentle.
He’s gentle as he tugs Jaskier out of rough, sweat- and ale-stained clothes, as he tugs the tangled furs and crumpled pillows into something resembling order and settles Jaskier back against them as carefully as he can, fumbles through the nightstand for where Jaskier keeps his various oils (ever predictable, that’s him).
Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t let go.
He thinks he might start crying again, actually, which would be even more pathetic than last night, or fifteen minutes ago, but he’s spent ten years very determinedly not showing a single hint of weakness so he’s probably allowed, at least. Geralt won’t judge.
Geralt, in the meantime, is stripping out of his own clothes. Once upon a time, Jaskier would’ve propped himself up on an elbow and watched, traced the lines of the revealed muscles and carefully avoided the scars, but now he’s reduced to simply wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s wrist and hanging on, like he can keep the witcher close to him for forever this time.
Geralt sets the oil back on the nightstand with the softest of sounds and promptly tucks Jaskier underneath his body, lets him bury his face in the witcher’s shoulder and breathe him in, stroke over the harsh bump of his spine, the winged expanse of shoulder blades. Geralt’s thinner, leaner, but the weight of him is just the same and Jaskier sinks his nails into Geralt’s skin and holds on.
Geralt strokes over his ribs, rocks up against him, presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple the way he always does until Jaskier lets out a long breath and smooths his hands down over the cut of the witcher’s waist. “I’m ready.”
Geralt nods, kisses him quickly, slides back and pushes one of his legs up, stroking over Jaskier’s calf. “Let me…?”
“Anything, darling,” and if it’s not quite as flirty as it would have been a decade ago, it’s a valiant effort. Still, Geralt’s face goes raw, impossibly young, and Jaskier catches him by the cheek, smooths over the rise and dip of the bones underneath.
The oil is unscented, the way he prefers, but Geralt doesn’t touch him quite yet, rubbing gentle circles over the clench of his hole, petting at the most vulnerable part of him until Jaskier is writhing under it, hands flexing and releasing in the bedsheets until he shoves his hips down and Geralt takes pity on him.
He goes-- maddeningly slow.
“Geralt--”
Geralt hums, strokes over that sweet spot he’s always been so damn good at finding, and Jaskier’s hips buck up into the sensation. He’s still tucked up next to Jaskier and the heat of his body is a rising swelter, and Jaskier loves him. Loves him for coming back and loves him for still being alive and loves him for all his immense, impossible gentleness, how even with hands that have shed more blood than any mortal man’s he holds Jaskier so carefully.
“I-- missed you,” and Geralt hums again, leans down to kiss him and tucks another finger in, catching the roll of Jaskier’s spine and guiding him back down to the bed again. “I missed you, I missed you,” and Geralt is shushing him but he can’t stop. His skin feels too tight, overfilled with sparking pleasure, running quicksilver up his spine with every pulse of Geralt’s wrist-- “gods, I missed you.”
“I know,” and Jaskier hiccups out a sob that turns into a shuddering cry when Geralt slips another finger inside him, trying to shove down on it, take as much of him inside as he can. He wants to drag all of Geralt inside his body, tear open his own ribcage until there’s space for them both side by side inside this ruin of a world.
Geralt’s lips press to his calf, there and gone again. “You know I won’t hurt you, Jaskier,” and all he can do is hum, ride the pulse-and-surge of pleasure in his hips and try not to burst at the seams. He’s here and he’s here and he’s splitting Jaskier open until he never wants this to end, even though it has to.
Jaskier might be crying again, he’s not quite sure.
Geralt pulls his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to, unanchored as he is, a drowning man with no ship in sight, and Geralt is there, he’s there, he’s there, arms steady around him and his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hair, breathing hard and harsh and oh, gods, like he never even left. It feels like a dream and not like a dream and Jaskier just wants to lie here and never wake up and also, more importantly, he wants Geralt to fuck him.
Geralt lets out a huff of air, even though Jaskier was sure he hadn’t actually said anything. “You always were impatient.”
Jaskier, for once, has no words, only a desperate, pleading need to have Geralt close and closer still.
Geralt tucks his nose into the hollow space under his jaw, breathes in slow, wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, and slips in, impossibly gentle.
Jaskier digs his nails back into the hollows he left on Geralt’s shoulders and clings, bodies pressed together hip-to-chest. It’s not as easy as it was when he was young and limber but his skin is still too tight, hot and cold and sparking with every rock of Geralt’s hips, every drag of his stomach against Jaskier’s aching cock, and it’s the best he’s felt in an eternity.
Geralt fucks him-- like the sea, Jaskier thinks, neverending.
For the space of a heartbeat, for the hovering eternity before the wave breaks, it won’t and it doesn’t and he will live here forever, caught up in this impossible, incredible dream and Geralt, love, don’t leave--
Geralt lets out a shuddering sound, almost a sob (though you’d never catch him admitting to that), and comes, reaching down to wrap around Jaskier’s cock and tug at it, firm and good and everything Jaskier’s ever loved until the pressure underneath his skin and inside his ribs where his heart has beat its way to the surface overflows and he spills into Geralt’s hand.
In the after, where the winter air is chill against his skin and his throat feels rubbed raw though he’d barely made any noise at all, still he clings to Geralt’s back, holds him down when he’d try to pull away. “Don’t go.”
Geralt only hums, but he’s still held in the clutch of Jaskier’s body, still a mess of tangled limbs and rumpled bedsheets and lips pressed to skin when he settles, and Jaskier winds his fingers through his hair and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
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storm-and-starlight · 23 hours ago
Text
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part four, and this bit... it's the smut. That's it, beginning to end. (If that isn't your jam, feel free to skip)
The song for this segment is Jet Pack Blues, by Fall Out Boy
Part One
4
He’s gentle.
He’s so, so gentle.
He’s gentle as he tugs Jaskier out of rough, sweat- and ale-stained clothes, as he tugs the tangled furs and crumpled pillows into something resembling order and settles Jaskier back against them as carefully as he can, fumbles through the nightstand for where Jaskier keeps his various oils (ever predictable, that’s him).
Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t let go.
He thinks he might start crying again, actually, which would be even more pathetic than last night, or fifteen minutes ago, but he’s spent ten years very determinedly not showing a single hint of weakness so he’s probably allowed, at least. Geralt won’t judge.
Geralt, in the meantime, is stripping out of his own clothes. Once upon a time, Jaskier would’ve propped himself up on an elbow and watched, traced the lines of the revealed muscles and carefully avoided the scars, but now he’s reduced to simply wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s wrist and hanging on, like he can keep the witcher close to him for forever this time.
Geralt sets the oil back on the nightstand with the softest of sounds and promptly tucks Jaskier underneath his body, lets him bury his face in the witcher’s shoulder and breathe him in, stroke over the harsh bump of his spine, the winged expanse of shoulder blades. Geralt’s thinner, leaner, but the weight of him is just the same and Jaskier sinks his nails into Geralt’s skin and holds on.
Geralt strokes over his ribs, rocks up against him, presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple the way he always does until Jaskier lets out a long breath and smooths his hands down over the cut of the witcher’s waist. “I’m ready.”
Geralt nods, kisses him quickly, slides back and pushes one of his legs up, stroking over Jaskier’s calf. “Let me…?”
“Anything, darling,” and if it’s not quite as flirty as it would have been a decade ago, it’s a valiant effort. Still, Geralt’s face goes raw, impossibly young, and Jaskier catches him by the cheek, smooths over the rise and dip of the bones underneath.
The oil is unscented, the way he prefers, but Geralt doesn’t touch him quite yet, rubbing gentle circles over the clench of his hole, petting at the most vulnerable part of him until Jaskier is writhing under it, hands flexing and releasing in the bedsheets until he shoves his hips down and Geralt takes pity on him.
He goes-- maddeningly slow.
“Geralt--”
Geralt hums, strokes over that sweet spot he’s always been so damn good at finding, and Jaskier’s hips buck up into the sensation. He’s still tucked up next to Jaskier and the heat of his body is a rising swelter, and Jaskier loves him. Loves him for coming back and loves him for still being alive and loves him for all his immense, impossible gentleness, how even with hands that have shed more blood than any mortal man’s he holds Jaskier so carefully.
“I-- missed you,” and Geralt hums again, leans down to kiss him and tucks another finger in, catching the roll of Jaskier’s spine and guiding him back down to the bed again. “I missed you, I missed you,” and Geralt is shushing him but he can’t stop. His skin feels too tight, overfilled with sparking pleasure, running quicksilver up his spine with every pulse of Geralt’s wrist-- “gods, I missed you.”
“I know,” and Jaskier hiccups out a sob that turns into a shuddering cry when Geralt slips another finger inside him, trying to shove down on it, take as much of him inside as he can. He wants to drag all of Geralt inside his body, tear open his own ribcage until there’s space for them both side by side inside this ruin of a world.
Geralt’s lips press to his calf, there and gone again. “You know I won’t hurt you, Jaskier,” and all he can do is hum, ride the pulse-and-surge of pleasure in his hips and try not to burst at the seams. He’s here and he’s here and he’s splitting Jaskier open until he never wants this to end, even though it has to.
Jaskier might be crying again, he’s not quite sure.
Geralt pulls his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to, unanchored as he is, a drowning man with no ship in sight, and Geralt is there, he’s there, he’s there, arms steady around him and his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hair, breathing hard and harsh and oh, gods, like he never even left. It feels like a dream and not like a dream and Jaskier just wants to lie here and never wake up and also, more importantly, he wants Geralt to fuck him.
Geralt lets out a huff of air, even though Jaskier was sure he hadn’t actually said anything. “You always were impatient.”
Jaskier, for once, has no words, only a desperate, pleading need to have Geralt close and closer still.
Geralt tucks his nose into the hollow space under his jaw, breathes in slow, wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, and slips in, impossibly gentle.
Jaskier digs his nails back into the hollows he left on Geralt’s shoulders and clings, bodies pressed together hip-to-chest. It’s not as easy as it was when he was young and limber but his skin is still too tight, hot and cold and sparking with every rock of Geralt’s hips, every drag of his stomach against Jaskier’s aching cock, and it’s the best he’s felt in an eternity.
Geralt fucks him-- like the sea, Jaskier thinks, neverending.
For the space of a heartbeat, for the hovering eternity before the wave breaks, it won’t and it doesn’t and he will live here forever, caught up in this impossible, incredible dream and Geralt, love, don’t leave--
Geralt lets out a shuddering sound, almost a sob (though you’d never catch him admitting to that), and comes, reaching down to wrap around Jaskier’s cock and tug at it, firm and good and everything Jaskier’s ever loved until the pressure underneath his skin and inside his ribs where his heart has beat its way to the surface overflows and he spills into Geralt’s hand.
In the after, where the winter air is chill against his skin and his throat feels rubbed raw though he’d barely made any noise at all, still he clings to Geralt’s back, holds him down when he’d try to pull away. “Don’t go.”
Geralt only hums, but he’s still held in the clutch of Jaskier’s body, still a mess of tangled limbs and rumpled bedsheets and lips pressed to skin when he settles, and Jaskier winds his fingers through his hair and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
36 notes · View notes
storm-and-starlight · 23 hours ago
Text
WIP Wednesdays
Love’s Worth Running To: 25,564 words total, 3,039 words written. I finally figured out where I wanted to go with chapter 6 on this fic, and everything’s starting to smooth together -- figuring out how to get characters to fall in love is hard. 
Jaskier gasps awake, tumbling out of his pile of spare blankets and nearly ending up in the fire, squinting in the dark at the blur of moving shapes around him. He can make out Geralt’s hair, flying unbound behind him, and the starlight-glint of his sword, and the glowing yellow-green eyes of… things in the darkness, making soft chittering noises and prowling around their camp on limbs just a touch too angular. They’re not wolves, and despite the eyes they’re certainly not cats, and he can’t really think of anything else they could be besides monsters.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, voice deeper than he’s ever heard it, and something in his gut starts trembling. “If I say run, run.”
While the Crown Hangs Heavy on Either Side (Warlord!Jaskier): 12,323 words total, 3,456 words written. I finished this fic off pretty quickly and am currently in the process of posting it to Tumblr, so no snip here, but part 1 is linked above! Warning for... really quite a lot of angst, though no MCD.
Stars Above Us (merfic): 11,299 words initially, 8,476 words final total. I... didn’t really like how the first chapter (of two written) turned out all that much, so I’m currently rewriting it so it falls more in line with what happens in the show. The first draft more or less removed Torque, Filavandrel, and the rest of the elves and turned Geralt’s contract into one for a selkimore, but that didn’t give as many opportunities for character introduction as I would have liked, so back to the original it is!
Jaskier shivers.
Oh, he is most definitely going to do something stupid here.
He darts past the witcher's cubby on his way back down the spire, but there's still only the glimmer of golden eyes from the inside, no sound, barely even a whisper of current to let him know that there is something living nearby. It's haunting, enticing, makes him want to swim closer (he's always been reckless but this probably takes the cake), but he only flips his tail and swims away. Better to take his time, not rush in too fast, give him a bit of time to settle.
And yet the witcher's eyes still glimmer from the green-dark shadows.
Jaskier swallows and slips forward.
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storm-and-starlight · a day ago
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So my husband is back on his medieval warfare and tactics special interest lately, and he was telling me about how so many battles were lost because the knights would just disobey orders and break ranks because they got too excited and just went full Leroy Jenkins. Prey drive switches on and they see somebody running and they just blank out and go.
Which seemed really dumb to me, like people couldn’t be that stupid, until I got walloped in the face by a memory from freshman year of college.
It’s almost 10pm in the dead of winter right before Finals, I’m out at college in a high altitude desert in the biggest city I’ve ever been in during my life. My dorm is on the second floor of one of the newest buildings, which are still surrounded by construction zones for the other new buildings going up. Just past the construction zones is one of the city’s major roads. There is still snow on the ground outside, the sidewalks are ice and rock salt, and the parking lot is a slush pile. (All of this is relevant in a minute I swear, stay with me here.)
We get a knock at the door. One of my roomies answers it. There’s 2 creepy looking muscle dudes asking for another roommate, E. E is creeped out and doesn’t want to go see them, but they won’t leave, insisting they see her and talk to her out in the hall. My spider senses are tingling, the social anxiety override kicks in, and I go full Mom Friend and ask them who they are and how they know her. And dudes just take off for the stairwell.
And I took off after them.
I need y’all to understand that I was an asthmatic at altitude in a mountain city in winter at night in shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes whatsoever, and I somehow made it down two flights of stairs, out the door, down the sidewalk, across a construction zone, across the parking lot, and halfway to the road screaming at two beardy dudebros twice my size to “get back here you little creeps”, all before I had consciously realized that I had left my apartment. Something about watching two creepy guys run for it triggered something in me, some latent instinct to Search and Destroy. Like Fight or Flight but I wasn’t the one being threatened, they were the ones doing the Flight, and I had this deep, ferocious need to FIGHT.
I full on blanked out, y’all. I literally have no memory of getting down the stairs or across the parking lot or anything at all until I was watching the headlights on the road thinking “wait, where are my shoes?” It’s a little black hole. I was in the apartment, they took off running, and then bam, there I was. It was like an out of body experience, I was hearing myself shout at them and thinking “I sound like such an idiot right now omg,” and then I realized What I Had Done.
Not only was it stupid, it was super dangerous. Even aside from all the environmental dangers, if they were some kind of kidnappers they could totally have snatched me. And yet there I was, barefoot in the snow and road salt with no phone, no inhaler, and I was still hollering after them like a dog on a chain when one of my roommates came down in boots and a coat to drag me back inside.
And honestly? I’m still miffed I never caught the guys. That was my takeaway from that incident.
So yes, I believe it now. People are so unbelievably dumb and the prey drive instinct is absolutely real.
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storm-and-starlight · a day ago
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1.) it’s called dynamics 2.) you’re right it’s sorely lacking in a lot of modern pop music and it really makes their stuff hit more.
There's this thing The Amazing Devil does where they play with the various levels of their voices—all singers do it, but not to the extent that Joey and Madeleine do where they prioritize storytelling over polish—that really makes listening to their albums a whole fucking emotional Journey.
They go from the wavering near-whisper of The Rockrose and the Thistle, like singing any louder would crack open a fragile thing that they're trying to keep safe
to Joey's defiant fuck-you roar of "I promise you I'm not broken; I promise you there's more...more to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door!"
Then there's That Unwanted Animal, which feels like a whole cinematic experience just from the tour de force that is Madeleine's dynamic vocals
and Fair, which drives me insaaaaane, because Joey's not fully projecting, he's just keeping it soft and tender, like he's singing to no one else but the person he's holding in his arms.
And so on. This makes it a trip and a half to listen to their songs on really good headphones or through an immersive sound system, because you can hear every growl and gasp, which is an Experience I was not prepared for the first time I did it.
They're not just singing the songs—they're living them in the moment, which I guess is what happens when musicians are also actors and storytellers and possibly spell-weaving fae creatures, and they decide to hold back exactly none of those things when making a record. By which I mean, thank you. More please?
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storm-and-starlight · a day ago
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While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part three, in which we find out what happened to Geralt and Jaskier. There's softness, but it hurts.
Once again, the song for this segment is Battle Cries, by The Amazing Devil.
Part One
3
Jaskier wakes, and he isn’t alone.
There’s no impossible moment between sleeping and waking, now, no time when he can pretend to himself that he’s back on the Path again, that all the past ten years have been a dream and nothing more, no, he is just-- here, in his goosedown bed with the blue curtains and Geralt’s arm warm around his waist.
The headache hits a second later.
He shoves his face into the pillows, freshly-laundered as they always are (the maids are paid a fair wage, and a clean bed every night is apparently an emperor’s privilege), and groans. His stomach is a sick knot, all of last night’s anxieties and the last decade’s worries tangled up with far too much Skelligan ale and-- and Geralt.
Gods, Jaskier’s missed him.
The witcher’s already moving around, sitting up with a creaking stretch and checking the room for his swords, and the movements are so familiar it hurts. The knot in his stomach has moved up into his chest, his throat, and Jaskier thinks he might start crying again. He wants to. He want to tuck himself up into Geralt’s arms and cry like he did when they passed through another of his brother’s doings, but the ale’s long worn off, leaving him dead-sober and with no good excuse to be sobbing in a lover’s arms -- not a wife’s, not a mother’s, not a husband’s, but only… only someone he loved once, a very long time ago.
Geralt runs a soothing hand down his side, brushing over the thin cotton of his shirt, and clambers out of the bed. Jaskier tries to ignore the way that stings, burying himself further into the furs and ignoring the mess it makes of his hair. He even looks different, lines worn into his face, his hair longer and silver-streaked -- not the man he was, not the bard Geralt remembers.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him onto his back, and a mug of water at his lips, gentle as anything. He makes a face, but drinks anyways, and heaves himself up to sitting, propped up against the heavy headboard.
Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded limply in his lap, and Jaskier hasn’t seen him look this-- flayed-open in a long, long time. He wants to tuck the flyaway strands of hair behind his ears, wants to smooth out the rough lines between his eyes, wants to pull him down into the softness of a goosedown mattress and forget everything, ever, until it’s just the two of them underneath the furs--
He breathes out, slow, remembering the wind through the winter branches and the faraway sky. “What time is it?”
“Middle of the night,” Geralt rumbles, expression unchanging.
Jaskier drums his fingers against the side of the mug, one-two-one-two-one-two-three, and doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“We should. Talk,” he says, eventually, when the silence has become too heavy to bear, and Geralt finally lets out a breath and settles further into the mattress.
“Do we have to?” and it’s so very Geralt that Jaskier can’t help but bark out a laugh. It feels… foreign.
“I think we do,” Jaskier says, wry, and thumps his head against the stone of the wall, enjoying the coolness against the throbbing hangover. “Why are you here?”
“Redania,” Geralt grunts, and at Jaskier’s sidelong glance lets out a heavy breath and elaborates. “I was clearing up some of the villages near the Pontar when a few of Radovid’s soldiers took me captive. Didn’t know why until they dumped me at your feet.”
“Damn,” but it was really to be expected. It had never been a secret, exactly, that Lord Julian de Lettenhove and Jaskier the Bard had been one and the same, only an uncommon bit of knowledge, and he hadn’t thought that he would need to hide it. Another of his idiocies. Like coming here in the first place.
Geralt is looking at him, sideways, the way he always used to do when there’s something Jaskier isn’t saying, and even a decade later he still has all the witcher’s little tics and tricks memorized.
“You know about my brother,” he says, and Geralt hums, reaches over almost… tentatively, like he’s not sure what Jaskier will do.
Damn it all, and Jaskier grabs him by the wrist and tucks himself into the curve of the witcher’s ribs. Might as well make the best of it, while he still can. “I came here to try to salvage… something, out of all this mess, and once I had I couldn’t get away. Had to do… a lot of things. A lot of them bad. If I’d known--”
“You would’ve come back anyways,” Geralt says, tracing tiny patterns over Jaskier’s ribs.
“--yeah, I would’ve.”
“And you can’t leave now.”
“No, I can’t. There’s--” there’s too many things to count, too many problems, his brother’s generals and the lords used to their privilege and fucking Redania and the rebels and the massive fucking necrophage problem that he hasn’t even had the resources to try to address when had his forces refuse to go anywhere near witcher’s work-- “stuff.”
Geralt kisses him on the temple, softly, and leaves his lips resting there, where the pulse beats fragile under the skin.
“Still?”
“Always.”
“I’m not a good man anymore, Geralt,” Jaskier warns, but there’s not enough of a bite to it. “The things I’ve had to do…” There’s as much blood on his hands as any of the lords he’s learned to so despise, most of it people who placed their trust in his family line and had it flung back in their face when his brother died of a wound from a rusted spike on ship.
Geralt just looks at him, and then hands him the entire pitcher of water. Jaskier contemplates dumping all of it over his aching head, but settles for sipping at it instead.
“You fell in love with me,” Geralt says.
Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“I was the Butcher of Blaviken. A monster. And you fell in love with me anyways.”
“That I did,” Jaskier breathes.
“You fell in love with half the people we met, and you-- cared. For everyone.”
“Soft-hearted, that’s me.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. You hated what they did.”
“What, the armies?”
Geralt dips his head, slowly. “Them, but the nobility, too. The people who wouldn’t lift a finger to save a starving village, who’d lock an injured witcher out in the cold, who’d… abandon a child in the middle of nowhere. And you loved them, too, because they were people, all the same. You loved me.”
“I do.”
And you loved him, too.”
There’s no need to specify.
Jaskier can’t speak, the words all tangled up in his throat, because it’s not-- quite true -- he’d never been able to muster up any sympathy for the kinds of people Geralt described, but the rest of them -- the lords who cared and the sweet merchant’s daughters with a passion for music and the old countesses and duchesses and queens with spines of steel -- them he’d loved. And--
“He was my brother.” The words are a sob. “He was my brother and I loved him because of it and he had to go and do all of--” there’s a flailing gesture meant to encompass the entire mess the world’s in but mostly only managing to nearly smack Geralt in the nose, “that and then he died and I had to-- had to take care of it, all on my own, and you, damn you--” he can barely breathe, “--you left.”
~
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved Geralt more than he’d ever loved anything else in his life and given how many song-worthy (in his opinion, anyway) romances he’d had, that’s saying something special.
It was easy, loving him -- he’d been doing it for four years, after all, but knowing Geralt loved him back, that there was someone in this world who wanted him by their side -- oh, it’s bliss.
The fucking incredible sex didn’t hurt, either.
There was a bit of a ragged edge to it, still -- the wars were still on, and getting worse, the fields sown with blood and salt, packs of monsters ready to catch the unwary traveler. Geralt would hold him bruising-tight sometimes, like he was afraid that Jaskier would be stolen out of his arms by some hungry warg or coin-desperate bandit. Nights like those, Jaskier held him back just at tight, dug his nails into his shoulders and wished with everything he had that he weren’t born into the family he was.
But there’s not much he could do about it, besides singing Geralt’s praises to all and sundry, bringing what cheer he could into the world, tending wounds and mending clothes and being quietly, impossibly, all-consumingly grateful for Geralt’s simple presence when the pain of everything and everyone around him tumbled down onto his shoulders as though it would drag him into the earth itself.
“It’ll be all right,” Geralt offered, under the smoke-stained sky when Valdo started torching Kaedwen’s forests. Rough comfort, but it had been enough. “You’ll be safe.”
“Fuck, I love you,” Jaskier told him, and dragged him down until he could drown out the scent of smoke with the feel of skin on skin.
~
“You left,” Jaskier says, and he really does start crying now, horrible hiccupy noises that make his head pound, right into the cool ceramic of the pitcher that he still hasn’t let go of. “You fucking left, and I’ve been here this entire time on my… on my own. I had to kill people, Geralt, just to keep the entire world from collapsing into ruin, and you. Weren’t. There.”
The room is filled up with Jaskier’s choked noises, no space for anything else, and Geralt doesn’t seem to want to try. He leaves his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, tucks his face into his throat, and Jaskier cries, really and truly, ignoring the way it makes his head pound, ignoring the way that he’s the Emperor of the fucking Western Reach and he should really be better at this whole etiquette thing right now, because right now he feels like a ragged eighteen-year-old again with only a signet ring and a crappy lute to his name.
And Geralt… holds him. Just as tight as he did a decade ago.
Jaskier cries until he’s hollowed out, an empty thing where his heart used to be, and leans heavily into Geralt’s chest. The witcher supports him, same as he always did. Does. Did. Whatever.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, tatter-edged and soft. “...I’m sorry.”
“Gods, look at me,” Jaskier says, wiping at his nose. “Thirty-three years old and crying like a child. I must seem pathetic.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t give me that, I know how you thought of me when we first started out.”
Geralt snorts. “I haven’t thought that in a long time, Jaskier.”
“If this is your idea of sweet-talking me, you’ll have to do better than that.” He does feel better for having had a good cry, more willing to slip into the easy banter between the two of them. They had good reasons for parting, all those years ago, and they still hold up even now, but it still hurts like a knife to the chest to wake up alone, every morning.
To think about how Geralt told him he had to go alone.
Gods, he’s missed him, like he’d miss his heart if it were cut out of his chest, his lute if it were lost.
Geralt rumbles, amused. “Because sweet-talking was how I got you into my bed in the first place.”
“Fuck off.”
Geralt hums, again, and shuffles lower in the tangle of bedding, dragging Jaskier with him. “I’m sorry.”
“You said.”
“Not like that.” He pauses, one of the kind where Jaskier has learned that he’s struggling to reconcile a life without words into grammar and sentences and phrases. “I-- shouldn’t have done it the way I did.”
“Mm?”
“I thought it would be… better if we made a clean break. If I let you go, and didn’t look back.”
“And look how that turned out.”
Geralt hums, one of his melancholy ones. Jaskier can’t quite pick it apart this time -- I know and I’m sorry and you’re right, I should have done differently -- it’s never been a common thing for Geralt to admit that he was wrong. “I thought you would have forgotten about me years ago.”
“As if I could forget the man who made me famous,” Jaskier says, and it’s mean to come out lighthearted, teasing, and instead it cracks right through the middle and opens up on the raw insides of his heart, whispered into soft black wool that smells like Geralt does, herbs and musk and monster guts and him.
“I tried,” Geralt admits, blunt as ever.
“Didn’t work, I take it?”
“I never could stop loving you.”
Fuck, he’s going to start crying again.
Geralt’s hand is on his chin, tipping his face up. The room is dimly lit, only the embers in the fireplace and the burned-down candles to show the shape of things, but his eyes are still brilliantly golden, just the same as they were.
He doesn’t think about what he does next (never has, not when it comes to Geralt), just lunges upwards and kisses him, hard and bitter-bright and oh, gods, it’s everything he thought he’d never have again.
Geralt kisses him back, cups a hand around the base of his skull and one around his waist and kisses him, gentles it until Jaskier is panting into his mouth, fingers hooked into the material of his shirt. “Jaskier…”
“Fuck you.” Jaskier hooks his fingers into the row of buttons along Geralt’s front, fumbling them open and nearly shoving the shirt off his shoulders. “You don’t get to just-- show up after ten fucking years and then ask me if I really want to do this--” his hands are on Geralt’s chest now, the skin scarred and warm and so, so familiar, “and you-- you can’t tell me you never stopped loving me and kiss me back like that and then say you don’t want to do this,” and Geralt’s hand has slipped around to cup his cheek again, thumb brushing over the worn skin.
“Damn you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, impossibly soft, and leans in to kiss him again.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
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storm-and-starlight · a day ago
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i keep telling myself i can’t handle longer projects but in the last four days i wrote 23,377 words just totally by the seat of my pants
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storm-and-starlight · a day ago
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tbf with the way TVTropes has kind of taken over, it’s also often the only way to discuss more specific tropes without having to circumlocute around them all and try to explain exactly what you mean without it. I know @darth--nickels was joking, but it actually does feel a little like it’s the same principle in effect (also they have renamed some of the less self-explanatory ones, like I know Spikeification became Villain Decay)
TVTropes is such a weird website because the language (and I guess the 'culture') of the site was codified in an extremely specific era of internet use (mid to late aughties), and by members of an extremely specific and insular subgroup (nerds) that it codified all the tropes in what is effectively a dead language. No one talks like that anymore and yet because there's no renaming or updating, and in the 2000s we thought the future was forever babyyyy etc, it all continues to chug along as part of a world where self-respecting adults use words like "woobie". It's remarkable to me because its not a relic or preserved in amber (an online Pompeii like an abandoned geocities page), people are actively using it! Like finding an island where everyone speaks English in the style of Chaucer. I would be just as surprised if a man on the street greeted me "Hail and well met" as if someone in casual conversation deployed the phrase "crowning moment of awesome".
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storm-and-starlight · 2 days ago
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While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part three, in which we find out what happened to Geralt and Jaskier. There's softness, but it hurts.
Once again, the song for this segment is Battle Cries, by The Amazing Devil.
Part One
3
Jaskier wakes, and he isn’t alone.
There’s no impossible moment between sleeping and waking, now, no time when he can pretend to himself that he’s back on the Path again, that all the past ten years have been a dream and nothing more, no, he is just-- here, in his goosedown bed with the blue curtains and Geralt’s arm warm around his waist.
The headache hits a second later.
He shoves his face into the pillows, freshly-laundered as they always are (the maids are paid a fair wage, and a clean bed every night is apparently an emperor’s privilege), and groans. His stomach is a sick knot, all of last night’s anxieties and the last decade’s worries tangled up with far too much Skelligan ale and-- and Geralt.
Gods, Jaskier’s missed him.
The witcher’s already moving around, sitting up with a creaking stretch and checking the room for his swords, and the movements are so familiar it hurts. The knot in his stomach has moved up into his chest, his throat, and Jaskier thinks he might start crying again. He wants to. He want to tuck himself up into Geralt’s arms and cry like he did when they passed through another of his brother’s doings, but the ale’s long worn off, leaving him dead-sober and with no good excuse to be sobbing in a lover’s arms -- not a wife’s, not a mother’s, not a husband’s, but only… only someone he loved once, a very long time ago.
Geralt runs a soothing hand down his side, brushing over the thin cotton of his shirt, and clambers out of the bed. Jaskier tries to ignore the way that stings, burying himself further into the furs and ignoring the mess it makes of his hair. He even looks different, lines worn into his face, his hair longer and silver-streaked -- not the man he was, not the bard Geralt remembers.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him onto his back, and a mug of water at his lips, gentle as anything. He makes a face, but drinks anyways, and heaves himself up to sitting, propped up against the heavy headboard.
Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded limply in his lap, and Jaskier hasn’t seen him look this-- flayed-open in a long, long time. He wants to tuck the flyaway strands of hair behind his ears, wants to smooth out the rough lines between his eyes, wants to pull him down into the softness of a goosedown mattress and forget everything, ever, until it’s just the two of them underneath the furs--
He breathes out, slow, remembering the wind through the winter branches and the faraway sky. “What time is it?”
“Middle of the night,” Geralt rumbles, expression unchanging.
Jaskier drums his fingers against the side of the mug, one-two-one-two-one-two-three, and doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“We should. Talk,” he says, eventually, when the silence has become too heavy to bear, and Geralt finally lets out a breath and settles further into the mattress.
“Do we have to?” and it’s so very Geralt that Jaskier can’t help but bark out a laugh. It feels… foreign.
“I think we do,” Jaskier says, wry, and thumps his head against the stone of the wall, enjoying the coolness against the throbbing hangover. “Why are you here?”
“Redania,” Geralt grunts, and at Jaskier’s sidelong glance lets out a heavy breath and elaborates. “I was clearing up some of the villages near the Pontar when a few of Radovid’s soldiers took me captive. Didn’t know why until they dumped me at your feet.”
“Damn,” but it was really to be expected. It had never been a secret, exactly, that Lord Julian de Lettenhove and Jaskier the Bard had been one and the same, only an uncommon bit of knowledge, and he hadn’t thought that he would need to hide it. Another of his idiocies. Like coming here in the first place.
Geralt is looking at him, sideways, the way he always used to do when there’s something Jaskier isn’t saying, and even a decade later he still has all the witcher’s little tics and tricks memorized.
“You know about my brother,” he says, and Geralt hums, reaches over almost… tentatively, like he’s not sure what Jaskier will do.
Damn it all, and Jaskier grabs him by the wrist and tucks himself into the curve of the witcher’s ribs. Might as well make the best of it, while he still can. “I came here to try to salvage… something, out of all this mess, and once I had I couldn’t get away. Had to do… a lot of things. A lot of them bad. If I’d known--”
“You would’ve come back anyways,” Geralt says, tracing tiny patterns over Jaskier’s ribs.
“--yeah, I would’ve.”
“And you can’t leave now.”
“No, I can’t. There’s--” there’s too many things to count, too many problems, his brother’s generals and the lords used to their privilege and fucking Redania and the rebels and the massive fucking necrophage problem that he hasn’t even had the resources to try to address when had his forces refuse to go anywhere near witcher’s work-- “stuff.”
Geralt kisses him on the temple, softly, and leaves his lips resting there, where the pulse beats fragile under the skin.
“Still?”
“Always.”
“I’m not a good man anymore, Geralt,” Jaskier warns, but there’s not enough of a bite to it. “The things I’ve had to do…” There’s as much blood on his hands as any of the lords he’s learned to so despise, most of it people who placed their trust in his family line and had it flung back in their face when his brother died of a wound from a rusted spike on ship.
Geralt just looks at him, and then hands him the entire pitcher of water. Jaskier contemplates dumping all of it over his aching head, but settles for sipping at it instead.
“You fell in love with me,” Geralt says.
Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“I was the Butcher of Blaviken. A monster. And you fell in love with me anyways.”
“That I did,” Jaskier breathes.
“You fell in love with half the people we met, and you-- cared. For everyone.”
“Soft-hearted, that’s me.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. You hated what they did.”
“What, the armies?”
Geralt dips his head, slowly. “Them, but the nobility, too. The people who wouldn’t lift a finger to save a starving village, who’d lock an injured witcher out in the cold, who’d… abandon a child in the middle of nowhere. And you loved them, too, because they were people, all the same. You loved me.”
“I do.”
And you loved him, too.”
There’s no need to specify.
Jaskier can’t speak, the words all tangled up in his throat, because it’s not-- quite true -- he’d never been able to muster up any sympathy for the kinds of people Geralt described, but the rest of them -- the lords who cared and the sweet merchant’s daughters with a passion for music and the old countesses and duchesses and queens with spines of steel -- them he’d loved. And--
“He was my brother.” The words are a sob. “He was my brother and I loved him because of it and he had to go and do all of--” there’s a flailing gesture meant to encompass the entire mess the world’s in but mostly only managing to nearly smack Geralt in the nose, “that and then he died and I had to-- had to take care of it, all on my own, and you, damn you--” he can barely breathe, “--you left.”
~
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved Geralt more than he’d ever loved anything else in his life and given how many song-worthy (in his opinion, anyway) romances he’d had, that’s saying something special.
It was easy, loving him -- he’d been doing it for four years, after all, but knowing Geralt loved him back, that there was someone in this world who wanted him by their side -- oh, it’s bliss.
The fucking incredible sex didn’t hurt, either.
There was a bit of a ragged edge to it, still -- the wars were still on, and getting worse, the fields sown with blood and salt, packs of monsters ready to catch the unwary traveler. Geralt would hold him bruising-tight sometimes, like he was afraid that Jaskier would be stolen out of his arms by some hungry warg or coin-desperate bandit. Nights like those, Jaskier held him back just at tight, dug his nails into his shoulders and wished with everything he had that he weren’t born into the family he was.
But there’s not much he could do about it, besides singing Geralt’s praises to all and sundry, bringing what cheer he could into the world, tending wounds and mending clothes and being quietly, impossibly, all-consumingly grateful for Geralt’s simple presence when the pain of everything and everyone around him tumbled down onto his shoulders as though it would drag him into the earth itself.
“It’ll be all right,” Geralt offered, under the smoke-stained sky when Valdo started torching Kaedwen’s forests. Rough comfort, but it had been enough. “You’ll be safe.”
“Fuck, I love you,” Jaskier told him, and dragged him down until he could drown out the scent of smoke with the feel of skin on skin.
~
“You left,” Jaskier says, and he really does start crying now, horrible hiccupy noises that make his head pound, right into the cool ceramic of the pitcher that he still hasn’t let go of. “You fucking left, and I’ve been here this entire time on my… on my own. I had to kill people, Geralt, just to keep the entire world from collapsing into ruin, and you. Weren’t. There.”
The room is filled up with Jaskier’s choked noises, no space for anything else, and Geralt doesn’t seem to want to try. He leaves his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, tucks his face into his throat, and Jaskier cries, really and truly, ignoring the way it makes his head pound, ignoring the way that he’s the Emperor of the fucking Western Reach and he should really be better at this whole etiquette thing right now, because right now he feels like a ragged eighteen-year-old again with only a signet ring and a crappy lute to his name.
And Geralt… holds him. Just as tight as he did a decade ago.
Jaskier cries until he’s hollowed out, an empty thing where his heart used to be, and leans heavily into Geralt’s chest. The witcher supports him, same as he always did. Does. Did. Whatever.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, tatter-edged and soft. “...I’m sorry.”
“Gods, look at me,” Jaskier says, wiping at his nose. “Thirty-three years old and crying like a child. I must seem pathetic.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t give me that, I know how you thought of me when we first started out.”
Geralt snorts. “I haven’t thought that in a long time, Jaskier.”
“If this is your idea of sweet-talking me, you’ll have to do better than that.” He does feel better for having had a good cry, more willing to slip into the easy banter between the two of them. They had good reasons for parting, all those years ago, and they still hold up even now, but it still hurts like a knife to the chest to wake up alone, every morning.
To think about how Geralt told him he had to go alone.
Gods, he’s missed him, like he’d miss his heart if it were cut out of his chest, his lute if it were lost.
Geralt rumbles, amused. “Because sweet-talking was how I got you into my bed in the first place.”
“Fuck off.”
Geralt hums, again, and shuffles lower in the tangle of bedding, dragging Jaskier with him. “I’m sorry.”
“You said.”
“Not like that.” He pauses, one of the kind where Jaskier has learned that he’s struggling to reconcile a life without words into grammar and sentences and phrases. “I-- shouldn’t have done it the way I did.”
“Mm?”
“I thought it would be… better if we made a clean break. If I let you go, and didn’t look back.”
“And look how that turned out.”
Geralt hums, one of his melancholy ones. Jaskier can’t quite pick it apart this time -- I know and I’m sorry and you’re right, I should have done differently -- it’s never been a common thing for Geralt to admit that he was wrong. “I thought you would have forgotten about me years ago.”
“As if I could forget the man who made me famous,” Jaskier says, and it’s mean to come out lighthearted, teasing, and instead it cracks right through the middle and opens up on the raw insides of his heart, whispered into soft black wool that smells like Geralt does, herbs and musk and monster guts and him.
“I tried,” Geralt admits, blunt as ever.
“Didn’t work, I take it?”
“I never could stop loving you.”
Fuck, he’s going to start crying again.
Geralt’s hand is on his chin, tipping his face up. The room is dimly lit, only the embers in the fireplace and the burned-down candles to show the shape of things, but his eyes are still brilliantly golden, just the same as they were.
He doesn’t think about what he does next (never has, not when it comes to Geralt), just lunges upwards and kisses him, hard and bitter-bright and oh, gods, it’s everything he thought he’d never have again.
Geralt kisses him back, cups a hand around the base of his skull and one around his waist and kisses him, gentles it until Jaskier is panting into his mouth, fingers hooked into the material of his shirt. “Jaskier…”
“Fuck you.” Jaskier hooks his fingers into the row of buttons along Geralt’s front, fumbling them open and nearly shoving the shirt off his shoulders. “You don’t get to just-- show up after ten fucking years and then ask me if I really want to do this--” his hands are on Geralt’s chest now, the skin scarred and warm and so, so familiar, “and you-- you can’t tell me you never stopped loving me and kiss me back like that and then say you don’t want to do this,” and Geralt’s hand has slipped around to cup his cheek again, thumb brushing over the worn skin.
“Damn you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, impossibly soft, and leans in to kiss him again.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
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storm-and-starlight · 2 days ago
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(Insp by @hannibard )
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storm-and-starlight · 2 days ago
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“some people need a quiet room, and some people need things to be loud enough that they can hear.”
Thoughts after a shittastic 24 hours:
My experience in groups that experience a lot of oppression, like the LGBTQ+ community, is that you basically have a lot of trauma survivors all in the same space, and theoretically being together in this space will all help us somehow with our trauma. But a lot of times that trauma just ends up running up against other peoples’ with the ragged edges out 
It is really hard to tell the difference between what will help one, single individual person, what will help a different person, and what will help an entire community. Especially because if you’ve been systematically taught by the world that you, as a person, do not matter, that your individual thoughts and feelings do not matter, it can be easier to identify with a group and focus on what that group needs, because it will often result in you getting what you need.
But when what you need is different from what other people need… oh boy. That’s tough. I say “you just need to focus on making yourself feel safe and curating your own experience” but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Sometimes it’s like regrowing a burned-over forest.
And for people who are very used to there being Good vs Evil situations, it can be really hard to deal with the fact that something may be Good vs Equal But Contradictory Good.
In the disability community, this is what we call Competing Access Needs. It’s well-known to be a difficult problem with no easy solutions. Different people need different things (and sometimes an INDIVIDUAL person can need competing things). 
The one consistent rule of competing access needs is: Nobody in this situation is inherently wrong. The answer is not for one of the people in question to swallow their needs and give up being important as a person. The answer is about engineering a solution that can respect and address the competing needs equally.
It’s okay to need to be sheltered from types of trans rep that are upsetting and harmful. It’s also okay to need to be able to explore things that might upset other people. This is not mindbending and contradictory–this is “some people need a quiet room, and some people need things to be loud enough that they can hear.” If we approach the situation with the assumption that this is a solvable problem, we’ll start getting places.
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storm-and-starlight · 2 days ago
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... @a-kind-of-merry-war​
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