...Oh hi!

And the update

1. Is the author dead? x

2. Is your baby in the bathwater? x

What do I mean by those things? Let’s start with #1. The Death of the Author is a type of literary criticism, the extreme cliff notes version of which is that art exists outside of the creator’s life, personal background, and even intentions. I’m using it slightly differently than Barthes intended, but that’s okay, because the author is dead and I’m interpreting his work through my own lens.

In fandom, the author is dead. In fact, the author was never alive in the first place, not really. The author has only ever been the idea of a person, because unlike published fiction, the only thing we know about a fanfic author is that which they choose to tell us about themselves.

Why is that important?

Because it might not be true. Hell, that happens in real life with published authors, who have SSN’s on file with their publishers, who pay taxes on the works they create and have researchable pasts. If the author of A Million Little Pieces could fake everything, why can’t I? Why can’t you? Why can’t the writer of your favorite fic in the whole wide world?

Stop me if you’ve heard this before: “you can only write about [sensitive subject] if [sensitive subject] has happened to you personally, otherwise you’re a disgusting monster that deserves to die!!” Or maybe “you can only write [x racial or ethnic group] characters if you’re [x racial or ethnic group] otherwise you’re racist/fetishizing/colonizing!”

You can play this game with any sensitive subject you can come up with. I’ve seen them all before, on a sliding scale of slightly chastising to literal death threats.

Now, I could tell you that I’m a white-passing Latina whose grandmother was an anchor baby. I could tell you that I speak only English because my family never taught me to speak Spanish, something which I’ve been told is common in the Cuban community, though I only know my own lived experience. I could tell you that I’m mostly neurotypical. I could tell you that I’m covered in surgical scars. I could tell you lots of things.

Are any of these true? Maybe! I could tell you that my brother has severe mental development problems, so uncommon that they’ve never been properly diagnosed, and that he will live the rest of his life in a group home with 24-hour care. Is that true? Am I allowed to write about families struggling with America’s piss-poor services for the handicapped now?

Am I allowed to write about being Cuban? After all, I did just say that I’m Cuban. But is it true? Can I instead write a character that’s Panamanian? Maybe I really am Panamanian, not Cuban. Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m really French Canadian. Should we require people to post regular selfies? I can’t count the number of times I’ve had someone come up to me speaking Arabic, and I’ve been told that I look Syrian. What’s stopping me from making a blog that claims that I am Syrian? Can you even really tell someone’s race and ethnicity from a photo?

Am I allowed to write about being a teenager? Am I allowed to write about being a college student? Am I allowed to write about being an “adulty” adult? Can I write a character who’s 40? 50? 60? How old am I?

All of this is to say: you can’t base what someone is or is not “allowed” to write about on a background that may or may not be real. No matter how good your intentions. And I get it - this usually comes from a place of well-meaning. You’re trying to protect marginalized groups by stopping privileged people from trampling all over experiences that they haven’t suffered. I get that. It’s a very noble thought. But you can’t require a background check for every fic that you don’t like.

If you say “you can only write about rape if you’re a rape victim,” then one of three things will happen:

Real survivors will have to supply intimate details of their own violations to prevent harassment

Real survivors will refuse to engage and will then have to deal with death threats and people telling them to kill themselves for daring to write about their own experiences

People who aren’t survivors will say “yeah sure this happened to me” just to get people to shut up

Has that helped anyone? I mean really - anyone??

So now let’s get to point #2: is your baby in the bathwater?

If your intention is to protect marginalized people from being trampled upon, stop and assess if your boot is the one that’s now stamping on their face. Find your baby! Is your baby in the bathwater? Which is to say: find the goal that you’re advocating for. Now assess. Are you making the problem worse for the people you’re trying to protect? Does that rape victim really feel better, now that you’ve harassed and stalked them in the name of making rape victims feel safe?

Let’s say you read a fic that contains explicit sex between a 16 year old and a 17 year old. Is this okay? Would it be okay if the writer was 15? 16? 17? Should teenagers be barred from writing about their own lives, and should teenagers be banned from exploring sexuality in a fictional bubble, instead of hookup culture? Is it okay for a 20 year old to write about their experiences as a teenager? Is it okay for a 20 year old to write about being raped at a party as a teenager? Is it okay for a 30 year old? How about a 40 year old? Is it okay so long as it isn’t titillating? Is it okay if taking control of the narrative allows the writer to re-conceptualize their trauma as something they have control over? Is it okay if their therapist told them that writing is a safe creative outlet?

Is your author dead?

Is your baby in the bathwater?

Now let’s take a hardline approach: no fanfiction with characters who are under 18 years old. None. Is the 16 year old who really loves Harry Potter and wants to read/write about characters their own age better off? Should they be banned from writing? Should they be forced to exclusively read and write (adult) experiences that they haven’t lived? Will they write about teens anyway? Should they have to share it in secret? Should 16 year olds be ashamed of themselves? Should we just throw in with the evangelicals and say that the only answer is abstinence, both real and fictional?

Let’s say that no rape is allowed in fiction, at all. None. What happens to all the hurt/comfort fics where a character is raped and then receives the support and love that they deserve, slowly heal, and by the end have found themselves again? Are you helping rape victims by banning these stories? Are you helping rape victims by stripping their agency away, by telling them that their wants and their consent doesn’t matter?

Is your baby in the bathwater?

Fandom is currently being split in two: on one side, the people who want to make fandom a “safer” place by any means necessary, even if that means throwing out all of the marginalized groups they say they want to protect - and on the other, people who are saying “if you throw out that bathwater, you’re throwing the baby out too.”

The whole point of fandom is to be able to explore all kinds of ideas from the safety and comfort of a computer screen. You can read/write things that fascinate you, disgust you, titillate you, or make your heart feel warm. This is true of all fiction. People who want to read about rape and incest and extreme violence and torture can go pick up a copy of Game of Thrones from the bookstore whenever they want. Sanitizing fandom just means holding a community of people who are primarily not male, not straight, not cis, or some combination of those three, to higher and stricter standards than straight white cis male authors and creators all over the world.

There is nothing you can find on AO3 that you can’t find in a bookstore. Any teenager can go check out Lolita, or ASOIAF, or Flowers in the Attic, or Stephen King’s It, or Speak, or hundreds of other books that have adult themes or gratuitous violence or graphic sex. The difference is that AO3 has warnings and tags and allows people to interact only with the types of work that they want to, and allows people to curate their experiences.

Are these themes eligible to be explored, but only in the setting of something produced/published? Books, movies, television, studio art, music - all of these fields have huge barriers to entry, and they’re largely controlled by wealthy cishet white men. Is it better to say that only those who have the right connections to “make it” in these industries should be allowed to explore violence or sexuality or any other so-called “adult” theme?

Does banning women from writing MLM erotica make fan culture a better place?

Does banning queer people from writing about queer experiences make fan culture a better place?

Is M/M fic okay, but only if the author is male? What if he’s a transman? What if they’re NB? Who should get to draw those lines? Should TERFs get a vote? What if the author is a woman who feels more comfortable writing from a male character’s perspective because she’s grown up with male stories her whole life, or because she identifies more with male characters? What about all the transmen who discovered themselves, in part, by writing fanfiction, and realized that their desires to write male characters stemmed from something they hadn’t yet realized about themselves?

How can we ever be sure that the author is who they say they are?

Who is allowed to write these stories? How do we enforce it?

Is it better for none of these stories to ever exist at all?

Have you killed your author?

Jaskier only realizes he’s gaping like a fish when Vesemir turns towards them. He closes his mouth with a click of teeth under the gaze of the glowing, cat-like eyes.

“Vesemir.” The way Geralt says his name is as close to a relieved sigh as Jaskier has ever heard him.

Vesemir, on the other hand, does not seem to be relieved or impressed the least.

“You don’t practice footwork, Geralt,” he says curtly instead of a greeting, looking the younger witcher up and down critically. “It shows.”

“Oooh, burn,” Jaskier stage whispers, wincing when Geralt elbows him in the ribs.

“I didn’t expect you to meet you on the Path,” Geralt replies evasively, as Vesemir sheathes his sword.

“Where else should I be?” Vesemir counters, his smile showing sharp canines and pearly white teeth. He takes one graceful, predatory step towards them. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”

“He’s not lovely and he’s not—” Geralt starts just as Jaskier extends his right hand and says,

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

“A viscount,” Vesemir repeats with as much admiration as if he just met the king of Redania and not some lesser nobility with a tiny patch of land. He takes Jaskier’s hand delicately in his own glowed one and presses a kiss to his family’s signet ring. “Vesemir di Carrera, Sword Master of the School of Wolf, at your service, your excellence.” When he looks up at Jaskier he finds him blushing. “Apologies if my poor manners caused you discomfort, it’s been a while the last time I attended court.” He does not sound apologetic at all, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind or feel inclined to pull his hand out of his grip either.

“It’s quite alright,” he chuckles a little, biting his lip. “It just went a bit out of fashion in the last century to greet nobles so.” Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “But I could get used to it,” Jaskier adds, his eyes bright with delight, and damn, Geralt starts to wish he died in the fight with the wraiths.

Vesemir smiles, still not letting go of Jaskier.

“With your looks I’m surprised you’re not already used to it.”

“Oh, he’s good,” Jaskier croons to Geralt. The younger witcher groans with exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose. Death definitely would have been better.

“Please,” Vesemir murmurs. “My student here is good,” he says, gesturing with a tilt of his chin towards Geralt. “As a master I’m professionally obligated to be better than good.”

Now that was enough.

“Vesemir, it was good seeing you, but we better be on our way,” Geralt says, snatching Jaskier’s hand out of Vesemir’s light grip, ignoring the bard’s pout as he’s trying to usher him towards the side of the clearing where they left Roach. Vesemirs voice stops him in his tracks.

“Where are you heading?”

“Novigrad,” Jaskier supplies eagerly before Geralt can shut him up.

“As it happens,” Vesemir starts, and Geralt already feels this is going to be trouble. “I was also on my way there.”

“What a coincidence,” Geralt mutters.

“I see you only have one horse and she’s already loaded with too many bags for two riders.” That is not true at all and they all know it and Geralt does not like where this is heading, but surely Vesemir would not— “We can’t have poor Roach here injured. I could give you a ride if you like, your excellence.”

“Absolutely—” Geralt starts protesting just as Jaskier says,

“Yes!”

“Good,” Vesemir says, considering the matter settled, then sharply whistles. “Tornado!”

A black stallion, swift and graceful jumps out of the bushes at the call and trots obediently to his rider.

“Wow,” Jaskier gasps with undisguised awe and wiggles out of Geralt’s grip on his shoulder to approach the horse.

It’s a nice horse, even Geralt begrudgingly has to admit that, the soft waves of the stallion’s mane nearly reaching down to the grass, his coat shining like black silk in the moonlight, but that’s the least he expects from a horse Vesemir won from an elven king in a fencing match, and which is, quite probably, immortal, considering that Tornado looks every bit of the beast that nearly bit off Geralt’s ear when he tried to steal him for a ride in his student years.

Right now though, Tornado seems perfectly docile as Vesemir helps Jaskier into the saddle and effortlessly flings up, sitting behind him.

“Bye, Geralt!” Jaskier waves to him with a bright smile. “Please be careful with my lute— woah!” His breath hitches when Tornado whinnies and raises on his hind legs, but Vesemir has a firm hand on his waist and keeps him from falling until the horse settles again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Geralt,” Vesemir says in the same dismissive tone he used when he finished a lecture and was particularly unimpressed by the results, then they canter off into the night.

Geralt stares after them for a while, something in his chest aching a little (he must have pulled something when he fought the wraiths).

Eventually, he whistles and calls for Roach.

Eskel and Lambert overhear one of their conversations, where Geralt asks Jaskier to "restrain his affections in public". Because they are very good brothers, Eskel and Lambert decide to add a bit of truth potion to Jaskier's ale, just to see him being all sweet and affectionate towards their brother (and also to see Geralt getting embarrassed).

They think it works at first: Over the next few days, Jaskier stares at Geralt adoringly, calls him sweet names and even pecks his cheek in front of the others. Geralt grumbles something in response, but doesn't push him away.

One evening, during dinner, Lambert says sometning sarcastic to Geralt and Geralt growls at him. Jaskier, who is sitting beside him, places a hand on Geralt's arm and says softly "Don't listen to him, dear heart. Sure you can be a little grumpy sometimes, but most of the time you're the sweetest and softest man I know". Eskel and Lambert burst in loud laughter at their brother's embarrassed expression.

One day the run into Geralt and Jaskier moving their stuff from Geralt's room to another room in the keep. When Eskel asks why they're moving, Geralt mumbles something about his room being "too cold for Jaskier". Jaskier, who's walking after Geralt and doesn't hear his answer, gives his own reply. "Oh, we broke the bed. Geralt isn't exactly, you know, gent- Hey!". Eskel and Lambert laugh as an almost red-faced Geralt pulls Jaskier after himself, quickly dragging the younger man out of their sight.

One another occasion, Geralt walks into the dinning room, covered in dirt and mud after practice. Lambert is just in the middle of commenting about Geralt's smell, when Jaskier walks directly to Geralt, gently wipes the mud from his nose with his sleeve and pecks Geralt's nose. "Still gorgeous" Jaskier whispers to him, but the others still can hear him. Geralt rolls his eyes, but takes Jaskier's hand nonetheless and follows him out.

Geralt's brothers enjoy seeing this new side of their brother. Soon enough they realize in shock that none of them really put the truth potion in Jaskier's ale. Eskel thought Lambert would do it and Lambert thought the opposite.

i’ll keep you warm an evening in october, after the hunt 

because i thought that this might make a cute lockscreen 

i’ll keep you warm an evening in october, after the hunt 

You know what, Nonnie? Today is a good day to have Jaskier cry some more. This time it doesn’t end in Geraskier or an apology.

Outright rejection was something Jaskier was used to. Being pelted with bread and other food items for a poor performance was a rejection. A potential bed partner shaking their head or pulling away was a rejection. Not winning a bardic competition was a rejection. Those, he could all take in stride and smile about. They were all obvious, usually quite blunt and with clear reasoning behind it. What Jaskier couldn’t cope with was the slow drip of dissatisfaction that oozed from Geralt. Like when they made camp.

“Will this be okay for the fire?” Jaskier would ask, proudly showing off his newly learned skills for making a decent fire.

“It will do.” The answer was grunted in his vague direction even as Geralt didn’t even look, tending to Roach instead. Three minutes later, Geralt had gathered a few more branches and rearranged the pile Jaskier had so proudly assembled.

If that had been the only incident, Jaskier wouldn’t have even remembered it. But it had been an ever present habit right from the start. From the “they don’t exist” comment on Jaskier’s song to the whole “I need no one and the last thing I need is someone needing me” thing. At almost every turn Jaskier was either put down or subtly reminded that he was a disappointment, an unwanted leech latched onto someone who wouldn’t even notice if Jaskier went missing. But what could Jaskier do? He’d hedged his bets on turning around the perception of witchers, on finding inspiration alongside the White Wolf. So he tried harder to be better, to be more of a companion to Geralt. Hence learning to make a fire (badly) and hunting (he’d only caught a rat but it was still an attempt).

Maybe Jaskier’s attempts had been paying off because he found himself on the trail up to Kaer Morhen, almost like a child clutching an adult’s coattails. But an invitation to Geral’ts winter home was still an invitation even if it was delivered with an “I doubt anyone wants you for winter this year if you’re still hanging around. You can shelter at Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier couldn’t even be offended because Geralt was right, nobody had wanted him for the winter.

Geralt isn’t a person who expresses himself through words. Jaskier is the one who’s good with words, who weaves them into beautiful poetry. When Geralt tries that it always comes out gruff and stiff and wrong. So instead, he expresses himself through his actions.

When he hunts an extra rabbit to make sure Jaskier is well fed, or when he sleeps between Jaskier and the door in a decrepit inn, or when he stays by Jaskier’s side to protect him from danger, he may as well be shouting his adoration from the rooftops. Surely it’s loud enough for anyone to hear.

And Jaskier sees that. When Geralt knits him a pair of soft fingerless mittens so he can keep his hands warm and still play the lute, he gasps and says they are clearly a token of his affection. When Geralt takes him to a village festival so he can dance and celebrate, he wobbles over to him and squeezes his cheeks and calls him his dearest darling. When he diverts their route to take them through the Blue Mountains so he can show Jaskier a particularly lovely view, he beams and says oh sweetheart, you spoil me.

And when he spends a winter compiling a book of witcher lore with his brothers so he can present it to Jaskier in the spring, Jaskier leaps into his arms and hugs him tight. This is how I know you love me! he laughs.

He knows! It fills Geralt with joy that Jaskier understands how he feels.

At night, he’ll hunt dinner for Jaskier and lay out his bedroll for him, finding just the right spot with no rocks or tree roots. He’ll smooth the fabric down and keep the fire well fed so it’s perfectly warm, and he’ll settle himself nearby.

He’s a little surprised that Jaskier hasn’t taken him up on this clear offer of physical intimacy yet, given how much he apparently enjoys the act.

“You do love me really,” he’ll say when Geralt does something kind for him. Or, “You treat me so well,” forcing himself to smile like it’s just a bit of fun between friends. If he says it in a light tone, no one need ever know how much he wishes it were real.

He knows Geralt does care about him. But just not in the way that he wishes. He is Geralt’s friend, closer than most others ever get, close enough that they can have these little jokes between them, and that’s grand.

It’s not Geralt’s fault that he wants so much more than that.

It only gets worse as time goes on, and Geralt really is so kind to him. He looks after him and shows him all sorts of wonderful sights. He makes him little gifts and hands them over with a gruff grunt, not looking him in the eye.

Jaskier will make a silly comment about how Geralt is really spoiling him for anyone else, how there will never be anyone else who could compare, and he’ll see the way that the corners of Geralt’s mouth will flick up in a tiny smile.

Geralt likes these jokes, Jaskier can see that. He enjoys this banter between friends. It’s too bad that it’s breaking Jaskier’s heart, to always pass off his feelings as a quip.

Part 1 is here, finally! Title a reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

———————————————————————————————————–

Vesemir’s slap hit Geralt firmly on the back of the head. Two seconds previously Geralt had been complaining about his upcoming, politically motivated marriage to some nobleman’s son. 

“It’s a good thing, lad. Other witcher schools would kill for something like this,” he said. Geralt knew it was right, legal punishment for those who shortchanged or attacked witchers. It set a precedent, and apparently the earl was very influential. It could change things.

“And there isn’t a fidelity clause,” Eskel said. “It doesn’t have to be more than a sort of partnership.”

“No consummation requirement either,” sniggered Lambert from the other side of the campfire. “You don’t even have to fuck the bugger if he’s ugly.” This earned him a sharp elbow from Eskel. 

“What I don’t understand is what they get out of this,” Geralt said. It had been bugging him. 

“Ah,” Vesemir said, looking uneasy. “It seems that the payment is…taking the viscount off of the Earl’s hands, officially. It seems he’s something of an embarrassment.”

The unease in Vesemir’s voice was subtle, but after so many decades with their teacher, the wolves of Kaer Morhen knew the slight variations of tone and expression. His discomfort was twofold, first, the obvious implication that the Earl was sending his son to live a dangerous life alongside a witcher in order to…deal with him. A death sentence, from father to son. The second was that Geralt, already saddled with a political marriage, was also to be saddled with a nuisance of a husband. 

“But why me?” Geralt knew he was whining like a child, but he couldn’t help it. It was three days to Lettenhove, and then they’d be there at least a week for the wedding and he’d have to act courtly. 

He wasn’t good at courtly.

When he thought about it none of them were. 

“It couldn’t have been me,” Eskel said, a little shyly. He was right. Eskel believed his scars were horrible, made him unlovable and undesirable. Geralt didn’t buy it, but nobles could get a bit stroppy about appearances. And if they humiliated Eskel because of his scarring…no, Geralt wouldn’t let that happen.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Lambert said, mouth full and rather cheerfully. No. It couldn’t have been him either, no manners and no filter, they’d be at war with the entirety of Lettenhove within a day.

“And I’m an old man,” Vesemir said. He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have. Older though he was, he was still three times the warrior of any young human man walking about these days. But from what Geralt had heard, and it hadn’t been much, the Viscount was young, not quite twenty, and it wouldn’t be kind to marry him to someone so much older than himself. Geralt reflected grimly that he was nearly four times the youth’s age.

Three days of riding passed far too quickly for Geralt’s liking.

He knows the shape of his skin; he knows each pearl white scar against pale skin that holds stories on end. He knows which stories make Geralt snarl, and which make him laugh. 

Remember when you tried to pet the Barghest when you were high off white gull, Eskell will ask him. And Geralt will smile, face open, and he will chuckle as he throws back another shot of gull. 

What’s this one from, Lambert will prod, and Geralt’s eyes will grow sad at the memory of a bruxa in love with a prince. Jaskier knows his scars, and the smattering of freckles across his shoulders and the odd patch of dark skin along his lower back in birthmarks— 

He knows the feel of Geralt’s waist, the way it curves under Jaskier’s spindly fingers and warm palm. Jaskier knows that he feels especially dainty, especially adored when Jaskier cups his sides and tilts his head up by his chin to press him a kiss. He knows that Geralt thinks witchers aren’t supposed to feel, and he knows that Geralt feels oh-so much. 

Especially when he holds the limp body of a sentient creature in his hands, be it child or vampire, human or monster. Especially when Jaskier curls around him at night when he sheds tears or twists in pain that never quite leaves after the Trials. Come, Jaskier will tell him, come closer, and Geralt will tuck his head under the bard’s chin, and cry into Jaskier’s chest as lute-calloused fingers drag over his scalp.

Jaskier knows that he enjoys his songs, the mighty tales of the great White Wolf of Rivia that Jaskier screams so well into the night. He knows that he loves the quiet romance ballads that bring a tear to everyone’s eye, and the bawdy ditties that tavern-goers so adore. Jaskier even knows that, on rare, rare occasions, Geralt will sing along with the crowd, under his breath so no one but Jaskier notices.

The mighty White Wolf of Rivia. Melitele, does he give Jaskier a heart attack; silver cuts through the hags— quick and effective. Jaskier knows the reflexes in those muscles, the agility and strength of his body, and he knows just how masterfully Geralt uses his sword. And yet, when Geralt comes back to him bleeding and black-eyed, Jaskier frets and mutters— he knows Geralt smiles at him, half-lucid as he is, and he knows he’ll be alright, no matter how bad he’s hurt.

Because, if Jaskier knows anything, he knows Geralt is a good man. And good men, Melitele always saves. 

It doesn’t stop the panic, not as drowner after drowner rise up from the mucky lake, and it doesn’t stop the rage, as they’re stoned out of yet another town—