#it’s also about the two rips in the fishnet and the lacy band around her thigh !!!!!!’

[urmomsfavelesbian]

*checks notes* step on me

[jaskierswolf]

He Had It Coming

Also on AO3

Geraskier - Chicago inspired Fanfic. Rating: E. Word Count: 2165

Warnings: implied weapon kink, masturbation, general spiciness

_________

Geralt scowled as he peered up at the building in front of him. On the outside it just looked like an ordinary house but the rumours about town said something different. Brothels weren’t unusual in a town like this, but for some reason that Geralt couldn’t quite work out, this one was talked about in hushed tones, whispers in ears, and flushed faces. He hummed and tugged at the strap holding his scabbard in place on his back. His medallion was still on his chest but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of danger. 

He sighed and shook his head. The rumours said that a certain bard had taken up residence at this address. Geralt had been chasing Jaskier around the Continent for months, heading south from the mountains, weaving across the map getting ever closer to Cintra and to the looming threat of Nilfgaard. Geralt’s heart felt tight in his chest, worrying about the bard that he’d tossed aside. He had a remarkable talent for getting in trouble, but this time Geralt wasn’t around to protect him. 

With one last sigh he knocked on the door.

A lady answered, the door ajar, but even through the small gap Geralt could smell the scent of sweat and sex, barely masked by the familiar incense of a brothel. She had short dark hair cropped above her ears, dark skin with thick muscles, more than he would have expected from a whore or a madam. She had silky black bands wrapped around her biceps, a lacy black corset and her skirt, if you could call it that, was shredded. It wasn’t completely unusual for a whore but… there was a dangerous glint in her eyes that put Geralt on edge.

“Yes, witcher?”

Geralt frowned. “I’m looking for Jaskier.”

“Funny place to come looking for a flower,” she narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t close the door. 

“I’ve been told he’s here.”

“The interesting thing about buttercups, witcher, is that despite their pretty appearance… they’re toxic,” she hissed, dark brown eyes challenging and strong. 

“I know, I’ve come to apologise.”

She laughed and pushed the door open. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, Geralt of Rivia. He said you’d come for him.”

Geralt hummed but moved inside. It was dark inside too, barely lit with candles. The air was thick with incense and he grimaced. He’d never enjoyed the stronger perfumes preferred by whores in places such as this. Now he was inside he could see why his sense had been alerted him to danger. Every one of the whores had daggers sheathed in holders on their thighs. They were all draped in lace and silk, some corseted some not, and high heels that could easily be used as a weapon in the right hands. 

Geralt swallowed, looking around the room for his colourful bard amongst all the black lace, but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. 

“He’s getting ready for his performance. Take a seat near the back, witcher, and don’t touch my darlings, they bite.”

Geralt did as he was told, watching her as she glided through the room with enviable grace. The whores, if that was what they were, were of all different races and gender. He noted a pretty blond elf sat in the lap of a client on the opposite side of the room. He had fishnets covering his arms and long hair covered a sheer chiffon chemise, embroidered with flowers, his underclothes were tight and leather, barely covering the man’s cock as he moved sensually in the client’s lap. Geralt tore his gaze away, he wasn’t here for sex, he was here for Jaskier. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think of anything that could distract him from the heat pooling at his core. 

He was so deep in thought that didn’t notice Jaskier appearing on the stage, not until he started to talk. Geralt’s eyes snapped up, Jaskier was partially hidden in the dim light by a set of prison bars. He gripped the bars, one long leg stretched out above his head…

Geralt’s breath hitched. Jaskier was wearing long high heeled boots, and like the elf, he had fishnets covering his arms. Geralt had seen Jaskier shirtless countless times but this… this was something else. His forearms looked like they would rip the netting apart as he gripped the bars. Thick, dark chest hair disappeared into a silky black corset, tied at the front. Geralt adjusted his eyes so he could see better in the darkness of the brothel, and he was not disappointed. There were buttercups shimmering on the black fabric and the corset cinched in his waist. His hair had grown out, now just tickling his chin and he looked… he looked like a nightmare; Dark, dangerous…. perfect.  

“My witcher, Geralt and I had this double act,” Jaskier’s soothing tenor took command of the room in an instant. The background hustle and bustle faded to silence, and Geralt heard a steady rhythmic beat of heels, tapping against the floor. The performance had begun. There was a quiet soft chanting in the background, from the performers all around the room; he had it coming. 

Jaskier’s leg slid down the bars and he sauntered out from behind his cage, hips swaying, blue eyes lined with dark kohl. Geralt’s cursed under his breath as Jaskier’s eyes met his in across the room, and the bard winked, licking blood red lips that took Geralt’s breath away. 

My witcher

Geralt hardly deserved that title anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s witcher, he was alone… as he deserved to be. 

“And this sorceress, Yennefer, traveled round with us,” Jaskier’s blue eyes watched his audience carefully as he strutted around the stage. It was only then that Geralt noticed the holsters strapped around Jaskier’s thighs, twin daggers sharp and lethal, jewelled hilts glittering in the candle light. 

“Now, for the last contract together,” Jaskier tilted his head and smirked as two performers joined him on the stage, the blond elf and a pretty young girl with long raven hair, a silk ribbon tied around her neck. 

“We were summoned to join a terrible hunt. There were knights,” Jaskier put his hand on the blond’s shoulder, “dwarves,” one hand landed on Jaskier’s waist, “Reavers,” legs interlinked,”monsters,” the fake Yen put her hand on her hips “dragons,” the elf’s hand linked with Jaskier’s above his head, and the bard’s eyes closed, his head tilting back, bearing his neck… and it took every ounce of Geralt’s self control not to fight his way to the front of stage to claim Jaskier as his own. 

“sword fights, Hirikkas, mages, one right after the other,” Jaskier turned back and smirked at Geralt. 

Jaskier gently pushed the two dancers away and strolled casually to the edge of the stage, hands sliding down the inside of his thighs as he dropped seductively, shimmying back up again, fingers toying with the hilt of a dagger. Geralt couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away, this was Jaskier; his bard. There was no use fighting the arousal anymore, he was hard in his pants, and his growled as he palmed himself through his trousers, never taking his eyes off Jaskier.

“So this one night before the hunt we were sitting around the campfire, the three of us, drinking, having a few laughs, until it was time for bed, so.. I settle down on my bedroll,” Jaskier slowly ran his hand through his hair, lips parted, he pulled one dagger from its holster flipping it expertly in his hand. “When I woke up, I went to Yen’s tent…”

He crossed the stage, the flat of the dagger pressed against his cheek carelessly, the elf and the raven haired beauty were in shadows behind him but Geralt could see they were close, his heart dropped. He knew what was coming… knew by his own memories and the ice in the bard’s eyes. 

“And there’s Yennefer and Geralt, in each other’s arms, fucking around!” Jaskier’s voice was like thunder; harsh and unforgiving. 

Geralt winced, looking away from the stage, guilt surging through him. He’d known Jaskier loved him, the bard hadn’t been subtle, and yet… he hadn’t allowed himself the chance to be happy with Jaskier, choosing the icy embrace of the Djinn wish instead of listening to his heart. 

The dagger in Jaskier’s hands brushed the bard’s throat in a clear threat. “Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out, I can't remember a thing,” the dagger returned to its holster and Jaskier turned around, as a dancer crossed his path, when he faced Geralt once more his fists were clenched. “It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead.”

Red ribbons fell from Jaskier’s hands, a sinister grin on his face. The chanting got louder and Jaskier joined the song. “They had it coming!” He growled as he sang, and fuck it shouldn’t have been so hot. Geralt knew he should feel bad but all he wanted was to drag the bard from the stage and fuck him until neither of them could remember their own names. 

The dance routine was like fire in his blood, hands were all over Jaskier’s body, in his hair, on his arse, hips, thighs… It wasn’t fair. It should be Geralt, but he’d missed his window. All he could do now was stroke his own cock to the sight of his bard dressed like sin, confident, calculating, deadly. He bit his own hand as he came, the candles in the brothel extinguishing as Jaskier returned to his ‘cell’. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growled as he wiped his hand on his trousers, grimacing at the mess. This was not why he’d come to the house… how could he face Jaskier now?

“Oh dear, witcher…” Jaskier’s voice whispered, light and teasing, in his ear. He shivered and closed his eyes. 

“Jaskier.”

“Why are you here, Geralt? In case you hadn’t noticed… you aren’t exactly welcome.”

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Not dead either,” he groused. 

“Hmm, true… but that’s hardly a good story,” Jaskier chuckled, his hands brushing along Geralt’s shoulders before he straddled Geralt’s lap. “You never answered my question, witcher.”

Geralt swallowed, unprepared for the lapful of bard. He’d expected Jaskier to keep his distance, but this was more torturous, to have what he wanted so tantalisingly close, and yet out of reach. “I came for you.”

Jaskier laughed. “I can see that, Geralt, but why are you here?”

Geralt snorted. “To apologise, I, I miss you.”

“Go on then,” Jaskier cooed, his hands wrapping around Geralt’s neck. “apologise.”

Geralt tried, he really did, but Jaskier was rocking against him, soft moans falling from his lips. Geralt groaned and buried his face in Jaskier’s neck, hands gripping the bards arse. He could already feel himself getting hard again as Jaskier moved so delightfully in his lap. “Jask,” he hissed. 

“Yes, darling?”

“I need you,” he panted “I need you in my life… but right now, fuck. Have you got a room?”

Jaskier laughed and brushed his lips along Geralt’s jaw. “I do, do you deserve an invitation?”

Geralt moaned and shook his head. “No, gods, I fucked up, Jask. I don’t deserve you, want you though, need you.” 

Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his, never quite kissing him. He smirked and pulled away with a tilt of his head, sliding from Geralt’s lap and extending a hand. “Come along, witcher. We will talk about this properly in the morning, I want a full apology or else we’re done. Is that clear?”

Geralt nodded as he was pulled from his seat.

“But, I have been dreaming about this since I was eighteen, so I’m allowing myself one final night of self-indulgence,” he winked. “then it’s judgement day, witcher.”

“One night?”

Jaskier laughed, fingers wrapping around one of the daggers strapped to his thighs. “We’ll see, darling, depends how good your apology is,” the teasing glimmer fell from his eyes. “I loved you, you know that?”

Geralt nodded glumly. “I knew yeah.”

“Good, I wanted you to know,” Jaskier shook his head. “bit masochistic of me, but I needed you to know someone loved you, without destiny or magic, without any expectations.”

Geralt hummed, unable to say the words that were stuck in his throat. So instead he pulled his bard into a kiss, pouring his love into it, hoping Jaskier would hear the words hidden behind his actions. Jaskier seemed startled but soon kissed back, moaning as the kiss deepened, pulling Geralt towards the stairs without letting them break apart. A warmth spread in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier had said he loved Geralt, but he knew now that he still did. It wasn’t too late, it should have been but someone somewhere thought that Geralt deserved a second chance, and it would try his hardest not to fuck it up this time.

________

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[pussymagicuniverse]

And I Don’t Want To Live This Life

for Nancy Laura Spungen (February 27, 1958 – October 12, 1978), and for A.F. & L.A.

1.

I fell in love with Nancy Spungen soon after I got into punk. I admit that when I first read about her, I believed the awful things that everyone said. She was a groupie, a bitch, a junkie slut. She ruined the Sex Pistols by getting Sid hooked on heroin, she killed Sid with sex and drugs. But after a few months, I started thinking—Wait. What? Wait, I thought—he killed her. Heroin may have killed him, but she didn’t; she was already dead, stabbed by her boyfriend. No one knows if it was intentional, or just the end result of a dangerous game played in a drugged-out haze, but either way, he killed her. And wait, I thought—it’s not like Sid didn’t already have problems, and he was a grown man who could make his own choices. She may have offered him heroin, but he chose to use it. It’s not like she held him up at gunpoint and said: “Shoot up or I’ll shoot you.” Wait, I thought—how misogynistic is it, to think that he was not responsible for his own actions? How misogynistic, to always blame the woman for what the man does.

That’s ultimately what changed my mind about Nancy, when I realized all the misogyny bound up in the ways people talked about her. I thought—what if the situation had been reversed? What if she had been the one in an infamous punk band, and Sid had been the groupie who offered her heroin? What if she had stabbed him, and then died of an overdose? What would people have said then? I knew the answer—they still would have blamed her. It was her own fault for getting mixed up with a guy like that, they would have said. And obviously she was already damaged, after all she killed him, they would have said. Because it is always the woman’s fault, never the man’s. Men can’t help themselves. Women should know better. I thought of Yoko and Courtney and how the narratives people told about them were similar—Yoko ruined the Beatles. Courtney caused Kurt to kill himself. The same old story, again and again. Poor hapless Adam meets temptress Eve. Eat, she says, and he does, and destruction is brought upon them.

After I realized all that, Nancy became my favorite. I didn’t even care so much about Sid anymore, or at least, I only cared about him in relation to Nancy. I read everything I could find about her, even if most of it was negative. She became my icon. It’s not that I wanted to be like her—it was more that I felt I already was like her. And I started to find other young women who also loved her. Where the rest of the world despised her, we were like a secret Nancy Spungen Fan Club, defenders of our damaged goddess.

I read this quote, recently—

History has somehow managed to depersonalise Nancy and reduce her to just a sum of negative quotes. For a lot of people noticeably young women (and that’s not being judgmental, its a fact) they identify with that Nancy went through and her aspirations; that here was a damaged ill girl from birth who loved rock & roll and who lived a lifestyle and loved a man and who ended up dead because of it. (source)

And I thought—yes, that’s it exactly. Nancy was mentally ill. She had a troubled life. The only peace she ever found was through music, and she wanted to get as close to the music as possible, so she became a groupie. She slept with Johnny Thunders, followed the New York Dolls to London, and there met and fell in love with Sid. And yes, despite everything, I do believe she and Sid were truly in love. And these were all reasons why I loved her, why other girls I knew loved her—she was ill, messed up, on drugs; she had an abrasive personality and wasn’t conventionally beautiful, yet she still managed to get close to the music she loved, and to find love.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to her if she’d come of age about fifteen years later and could have been part of the riot grrrl thing. Maybe she still would have done drugs and slept around, but maybe she would have found empowerment in that. Maybe she would have written SLUT on her skin in red lipstick, worn a slip dress and ripped fishnets, and started a band of her own where she could sing about the radical possibilities of pleasure. Maybe she would have gotten treatment for her mental illness, gotten off drugs, started a zine about reproductive rights and safer sex. Maybe she’d still be alive.

As it is, though, she died at age 20, and I’ll defend her until the day I die. Nancy Spungen wasn’t a role model, but she was an icon. She wasn’t a musician, but she was a rock’n’roller, a punk. She wasn’t in a band, but she made her mark on the scene. She was reviled, but she’s never been forgotten.

She’s a legend.

2.

We wanted to be beautiful, but on our own terms. Beautiful but also dangerous and wild. We didn’t want to attract nice boys who would keep us quiet, who would tell us to change our ways. We wanted boys who were as bad as we were, who would think our shaved heads felt like velvet, who would see our peroxided hair as heavenly clouds of spun-sugar gold. We wanted boys who would jump in the pit with us, who would think our ripped fishnets and blood-speckled skinned knees were sexy. We wanted boys who did drugs and loved the dark torn edges of the night. Only that dirty-sweet Sid and Nancy romancing could satisfy girls like us. Nancy, Nancy, she was our sister and our queen. Crazy, abrasive, drug-addicted, not conventionally beautiful, but she found a rockstar bad boy who wrote odes to her intelligence, her fashion sense, and her beautiful wet pussy. We wanted that. We wanted the Sids to our Nancys.

Then it turned out the bad boys were just nice guys with leather jackets and bondage pants; it turned out they were afraid of our darkness and our wild, dangerous beauty. They wanted us to stop skinning our knees, stop breaking things, stop doing so many drugs. And they didn’t want to be Sid, they didn’t even like Sid. They told us Sid was an idiot junkie and Nancy was just another groupie slut. They told us our obsession was unhealthy. They didn’t see that it was love. So we loved each other, instead; decided we’d be both Nancy and Sid.

We gave each other padlocks that we wore on chains around our necks, wore until the metal oxidized and tinted our skin green. We gave each other pairs of handcuffs which we then pried apart, each keeping one half on our belt loops or wrists, like punk rock friendship bracelets. We made each other mix tapes that had Sid’s version of “Somethin’ Else” on them. We gave each other tattoos of safety pin-stuck hearts and I Love Sid, did the tattoos the hardcore way—carved the words and symbols into each other’s flesh with razorblades, poured ink into the wounds. We shoplifted gifts for each other, from Walmarts and Targets: lipsticks so red Nancy would have envied them, pairs of lacy leopard-print underwear. We made jokes: “No one ever said ‘I want to be a junkie when I grow up,’ but I did.” We made suicide pacts: if our parents, our boyfriends, the world ever tried to keep us apart, we’d end it all. Because we didn’t want to live this life if we couldn’t live for the bad girls we loved, the wild girls who saw the beauty in our dark, sparkling hearts.

Jessie Lynn McMains is a poet, writer, zine-maker, and small press owner. She’s also a queer womxn (she/her or they/them pronouns), a mama to two wild kiddos, and a witch who practices a blend of paganism and folk Catholicism. Aside from words, music is her favorite thing in the world. She’s also obsessed with tarot, the Midwest/Great Lakes/Rust Belt, ghosts, and the undying spirit of punk rock. Someone once referred to her as the Debbie Harry of poetry, and she still thinks that’s pretty rad. You can find her website at recklesschants.net, or find her on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram @rustbeltjessie.