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straight people shut up challenge

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The potions made him roil. Made him seethe. 

The first time Jaskier had seen him like this, Geralt had expected him to run. He didn’t.

“Does it hurt?” He asked instead, wide-eyed with concern. 

Geralt was able to incline his chin towards his chest, grimacing as the shudders danced under his skin. It felt like he was using all of his control just not to fly apart. 

“Can I help?” Jaskier asked. Then he did what no one had ever done before. 

He walked closer. 

Geralt’s fingers uncurled. He heard the sound of his blade clanging to the earth, a wetter noise as the drake head in his other hand slipped from his grasp. Jaskier didn’t seem to care, chattering soothing nonsense as he began to unbuckle Geralt’s armor, his fingers warm where they brushed against Geralt’s skin. 

“I … need,” Geralt grunted. His body was vibrating like a struck chord. He leaned onto Jaskier because he looked solid. He grasped Jaskier around the waist, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s warm neck. 

“Oh,” Jaskier said. He smelled surprised, but there was no fear. He slid his arms around Geralt’s neck and held him tightly, pressed Geralt against his heart like he had never known fear. 

Until slowly, slowly, his warmth washed Geralt’s painful agitation away, leaving only exhaustion and relief. 

–

It became an unspoken ritual.

Grounding, Jaskier called it. Primarily to himself, because, again, Geralt didn’t seem to want to discuss it much. After hunts that left him black-eyed and frenzied, breathing through his teeth as he clawed off his bloodied armor with fingers as cold as ice. After hunts that left him dull-eyed and hurting, forced to pick up coin hurled at him through curses, the crying of those he had disappointed still ringing in his ears. After hunts where the stroke of a blade, the arc of a claw had come much too close, and he could feel his concentration unravelling like an untethered rope. 

No questions. Geralt came to Jaskier and Jaskier held him close. 

He held him tightly, warmly, ever fiercely. Sometimes he hummed or talked, sometimes he just closed his eyes and slowed his breath, knowing that Geralt was listening to the beat of his heart. Jaskier tried to make it steady and solid and sure as he hands swept soothingly over Geralt’s shoulder-blades, feeling the twitch of Geralt’s skin under his fingers. 

They had stood there for more than an hour, the first time, and when Geralt finally let go, Jaskier had almost collapsed. Jaskier learned that after the initial rush of jitters, Geralt could be maneuvered to a more comfortable position. 

(Lying down, in a mossy hollow or a sand-filled grotto. Sitting, Jaskier found, was a little too intimate. His heart could just about handle holding so close the object of his silent, hopeless love. Straddling Geralt’s lap would probably make it burst in his chest.)

Geralt was usually silent while he grounded, liked to press his face against Jaskier’s neck or shoulder and just breathe. Jaskier took to wearing open tunics, and clothes in general he expected to muss when he anticipated Geralt returning from a hunt. 

It was, he thought, just what good friends did. 

–

When Geralt turned his head and pressed a clumsy kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, Jaskier stiffened. 

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbled, pulling back. “I thought …” 

He thought Jaskier smelled of arousal. Perhaps he was wrong. 

“No! I mean,” Jaskier’s fingers scrabbled at Geralt’s shoulders, tugging him forward. His eyes were large and bright and blue. “W…why did you do that?” 

Geralt swallowed thickly, trapped by Jaskier’s gaze. He was not in a state to explain himself, not yet. How could he say that Jaskier’s body, his scent, had become inextricably linked to safety and warmth and love?

“Is this … to release some tension?” Jaskier’s voice faltered. “Or … you think you need to thank me for doing this?” 

Geralt shook his head sharply. “Just … you,” he managed to force out. He shouldn’t have tried this, he thought, he had been so foolish, pressing where he wasn’t wanted. What would he do now if he lost-

“Oh,” Jaskier said, a smile breaking over his face, “oh.” He pressed his palms against Geralt’s cheeks and guided him forward.

The warmth of his lips melted the last of the darkness away. 

(now on AO3!)

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I see all your pretty fancasts of The Raven Cycle, and I raise you this. Please imagine how sweaty and awkward these weirdass teenagers must actually be.

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I just imagined Blue and Gansey having a child and Blue being like, “This is your grandmom. She’s a psychic! And this is your grandpop. He can turn into a tree! And here are your other grandparents…..they’re republicans.”

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I just imagined Blue and Gansey having a child and Blue being like, “This is your grandmom. She’s a psychic! And this is your grandpop. He can turn into a tree! And here are your other grandparents…..they’re republicans.”

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”Fight back,” Adam growled at Ronan, thin, desperate, an animal dragged by the neck. He grabbed Adam’s wrists. They felt frail, snappable, cold. The choice was death or hurting Adam, which wasn’t much of a choice at all.                                                                                            "Stop me!” Adam begged. 

It seemed it should have been simple: There were four of them, one of Adam. But none of them wanted to hurt Adam Parrish, no matter how violent he had become.

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Any part of TRC that described Ronan’s feelings for Adam (or vice versa) destroyed me emotionally in the best kind of way. 

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I think a lot about the early days of Adam and Gansey’s friendship… There are so many ways this exchange could go, please send me more captions.

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The story of the Lynch family was this

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

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This piece I did for the Raven Cycle fanzine. Had so much fun and so greatful I got to be part of it!

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gansey: pardon me

adam: pardon me ma'am

noah: excuse me miss

ronan: move im gay

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“In that moment, Blue was a little in love with all of them. Their magic. Their quest. Their awfulness and strangeness. Her raven boys.”

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my favorite thing about trc is that gansey canonically just, carries mint leaves in his pocket whenever he goes

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“what do you want, adam? 

to feel awake when my eyes are open.”

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“Cabeswater isn’t me,” Ronan repeated. “You’re still just you.” It was one thing to say it and another thing to see Ronan Lynch standing among the trees he had dreamt into being, looking of a piece with them because he was of a piece with them. Magician - no wonder Ronan was all right with Adam being uncanny. No wonder he needed him to be.

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Gansey: Hello darkness my old friend Ronan: Stop texting me

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