#my fic on ao3

[fangirleaconmigo]

Is it too Late (Can we Start Again) Geraskier. 3600 words. Mature. Hurt/Comfort. Geralt taking care of Jaskier and his burns. Gift fic for @masterlokisev159 for the @witcherficwriters Winter Gift Exchange.

Also on ao3

Jaskier had never been a martyr. 

After the unpleasant business with Rience, he had planned to take a break from being the Sandpiper until his hands healed. After Yen had left and he’d gotten out of jail, he had gone home.

A young elf had tracked him down at home when he hadn’t shown up to the tavern the first night. Jaskier looked into her eyes and gave his apologies. He showed her his angry, blistered hands. 

“I’m so sorry, dear, but I can’t play the lute with burned hands, and I can’t sing a capella for these philistines. The proprietor won’t allow it.”

Surely, someone else could do it for a couple of weeks. That was all it would take to heal up enough to play. He was only human after all, and he wasn’t the only one helping smuggle the elves out. Someone else could play and then sneak them onto the ferry.

But that same night, they closed the ferry to tourists and visitors. Jaskier didn’t know it.

With the ferry closed to visitors, the performer the elves had gotten to take his place was not allowed onto the boat. Jaskier was home for a night of rest when the stranded elves decided to try to swim. 

The next morning, Jaskier was walking along the water, headed to his favorite bakery, when he came upon the scene of an elf’s body being fished out of the river.

He ran to the tavern and found a survivor. After listening to the whole story, Jaskier understood his predicament. Under the new rules, he would be the only performer qualified for admittance onto the boat. He was the only one here who could help.

Before things had gotten too bad, he'd bought a place across the water, so he was considered a resident. He was a resident with a gig that warranted his travel back and forth nightly. There was also the matter of his fame, which afforded him a certain amount of protection. 

It could only be him.

Jaskier marched directly to a healer and coated his hands in an adhesive that felt like the flames of hell. That had worked his first night back, but the second night, it started peeling.

So, the healer devised a special pair of thin gloves that were thicker than adhesives, but more supple than cloth. It helped for a night, but then his burns began to weep. 

But he kept playing. What else could he do?

His friend, Sam, noticed. “Why don’t you take a break?” he asked. 

Jaskier laughed a little too loudly, just before downing his tenth shot of whiskey of the night. “I’m a whore for attention, my sweet friend, I’d waste away without a night of the stuff.” He threw his arms wide and stumbled towards the stage. “I just can’t live without the applause, dear Sam.” 

If Jaskier had known more about infection, he would have known to be worried when the fever hit.

--------

Geralt of Rivia threw open the door of the tavern. The first sensations to hit him were those of the crowd. Ale. Sweat. Lust. 

The second sensation to hit him was his body’s reaction to hearing that voice again. It was sweet and sour. It made him feel joy, followed quickly by shame and guilt. He closed the door quickly and slunk against the wall, looking for a place to watch.

At least he’d made it in time. Jaskier was still upright. Still singing.

He knew his friend must hate him. If Geralt had spoken to him right away after he’d lost his temper, if he had set things right, it wouldn’t be like this. But Geralt had left without a word. It was what he did. 

He shouldn’t be there now, he knew that too. But he had to be. Jaskier needed him. He might not want him. But he needed him.

He examined his friend from the cover of a shadowy corner. Jaskier wasn’t prowling the tavern like he normally did. He was perched on a stool. His voice was breathier. His hair was longer. He wore a long leather coat now, and a hat. 

The most important bits were the same, though. Those were his eyes. That was his voice. This was the man who Geralt now understood that he loved, though it was far too late to do anything about that. But he could still make himself useful. He could still help.

As Jaskier sang, the crowd hung on every note. Being a witcher, with all the sensory inputs that entailed, was an overwhelming thing when sitting in Jaskier’s audience.

Jaskier always broke open deep wells of longing in his audience. But whether people were feeling those things for memories long past, or for the man in front of them, Geralt never knew. He could never separate it out.

Despite himself, Geralt felt something like territorial anger. He let it subside. 

There was no time for his childishness, because the third sensation that swept over him was panic.

Underneath the mass of things to see, smell, taste, and hear in a crowded tavern, lurked an evil, wicked scent too faint for anyone else to detect. It was like vinegar and something rotten.

It was an infection that had spread and turned into something else.

Unlike the audience, Geralt could see the truth of the matter. Jaskier’s eyes weren’t sparkling. They were glassy. His skin wasn’t glowing. That was sweat. The heat radiating from his skin wasn’t the heat of excitement. It was the clamminess of illness. Jaskier held a long note, and finally, looked straight at Geralt.

The bard’s eyes widened in shock. A string twanged and broke. Silence fell. There was an awkward, pregnant pause. Then, Jaskier’s eyes rolled slowly back in his head, and he pitched forward.

His body fell hard from the stool, like an unbalanced sack of bricks. His head would have hit the corner of the table as he fell, but by the time he reached it, he was already in Geralt’s arms.

-------

The first time Jaskier awoke, it was like a nightmare. The world was hazy. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. He could not hold onto reality. It slipped out of focus. It faded from his grasp.

Was he dead? Dying?

As a poet, Jaskier thought often about life and death. The moment of death, he supposed, cut through a lot of shit. The thought that occupied your mind the moment you believed it was all over was the thing you should have lived for. The people who were there by your bed were the ones who lived for you.

And there, in his moment of death, or near death, what he saw surprised him, though it shouldn’t have.

Lurking in the tiny dark room was a gleam of white hair. A glint of feline eyes. He did not know if Geralt was really there or if he only imagined him. But he thought of Geralt, only of Geralt, and he whimpered. 

Darkness came for him again, but the inky black could not take everything from him. There was another presence in the pitch black. It was his Witcher sitting by his side. It was the man he thought did not care for him. But he was there, so maybe he did.

Then, there was the cold.

Jaskier was being poked and prodded. Voices floated above his body, arguing with one another.

One voice was low and rumbly and, yes, it was Geralt. His Geralt. 

Jaskier’s consciousness slowly flickered to life. He was naked and cold. So cold. It was the kind of deep cold that ached in your bones. It was the kind of stabbing cold that made you want to sell your own grandmother for a shred of warmth. He felt several blankets atop him, but they didn’t seem to help.

“We need a fire.” Geralt sounded angry, but he was hiding it well.

The other man in the room demurred. “They’re rationing our wood and tinder now. We’re all freezing.”

“But he’s sick!” Geralt roared, all of his restraint gone. “He’s in shock!” 

The man squeaked in fear and scampered away, slamming the door behind him.

Geralt cursed as many curses as he could summon, calling upon all the languages of the elder races and humanoids put together. He strung them together like a symphony. Jaskier didn’t even know that Geralt knew so many dwarven curses. Then, Geralt plopped down at Jaskier’s side and buried his face in his hands.

His hands. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open for heartbeat, catching a glimpse of them.

They were just as thick as before. Just as gnarled. His hair hung over them in a curtain. His broad shoulders hunched, pinched in grief.

And then he whispered.

“I frightened the man away. I’m sorry, Jaskier. I keep fucking it all up. But I’m here. I don’t know what I’m good for. But I’m here.”

Jaskier shivered. His teeth made a clattering noise. Geralt’s face whipped up and his hand darted to Jaskier’s neck, groping for his pulse. 

“Are you awake? Jaskier? Are you there?”

“Cold.” Jaskier croaked. “Cold.”

Geralt disappeared for a second. It was only an instant, but Jaskier felt like the whole sun had been plucked from the sky.

Then there was a cup being tipped to his lips. 

“Just sip. Slowly.”

He obeyed. He took a few sips.

“Cold,” he insisted. 

Jaskier wrenched his eyelids open again. Geralt’s face was etched deeply with worry. The last time Jaskier had seen him, he’d been angry. Shouting. But now he looked old and tired. 

Jaskier had thought that the next time he saw Geralt, he would shout at him. 

In his fantasies he would be dressed to the hilt. Sometimes he pictured himself in black, with kohl around his eyes, and hair sweeping his forehead. Sometimes he pictured himself in maroon. It set off his eyes. But no matter what he wore, it would be tailored. It would show off his newly honed athleticism. He would be performing, or at least he would have fans nearby, one of whom would interrupt their conversation asking for a kiss.

Jaskier would grant it of course.

Then he would continue his righteous, angry rant. 

He hadn’t planned on being too angry, of course. He couldn’t seem pathetic or out of control. He had settled on expressing a cool, casual anger. He would express himself in verse, and be clever. Geralt, in this fantasy, would say that he had been right. In fact, Jaskier would be so eloquent that Geralt would have no other choice.

You are right Jaskier, I should have never abandoned you.

You are right Jaskier, you do not make my life worse, you make it better.

I love you Jaskier, and I’m no longer afraid to say it.

He would kneel, and Jaskier would decide whether he forgave him or not.

In all of his fantasies, Jaskier forgave Geralt, of course. He pictured walking away from Geralt once, denying him, and he’d almost thrown up. 

But now there Geralt was, worry and kindness written on his face. Love bathing in his eyes. It was not the kind of face you shouted at, not if you had a heart beating in your chest. And further, there Jaskier was. No finery. No admirers. Sick. Stinking. Weak. And as for his eloquence, all he could say was... 

“Cold.”

Geralt cleared his throat and his eyes darted around the room. He spoke haltingly, unable to finish a single sentence. “I could warm you. But… the best way to do that is… It’s indecent.”

Jaskier allowed his head to roll over, until his eyes locked with Geralt. “Do it,” he croaked.

Jaskier’s eyelids dragged closed again, but he managed to hang onto his consciousness by a sliver. Geralt undressed in the dark, fabric sliding over skin, falling to the ground. He removed each of his rings. They clattered on the nightstand. Then he removed the ties in his hair, and lastly, his medallion.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s heart was pounding.

“Maybe this was a bad idea. We have to keep your heart rate steady.”

“Do it,” hissed Jaskier, a tear sliding from one of his eyes. 

Geralt’s hands were on him again. Geralt’s lips were pressed to the corner of his eye, blotting out the tear. Then, Geralt climbed into bed with him.

Geralt was a mountain of a man. The bed creaked under him. But he was so gentle. He arranged himself around Jaskier, draping his limbs over him tenderly. Geralt touched him like he was the most precious thing in the world, and would tear if handled carelessly. Geralt pulled the blanket over the two of them, and a refuge of heat formed around them. 

Jaskier was in Geralt’s arms, just as he had always dreamed.

“Am I dead?” he croaked.

Geralt kissed his temple. “I thought you were for a minute. You scared the shit out of me. I thought I’d really lost you.” 

It was the first time Jaskier had ever heard real fear in Geralt’s voice.

“This is real? This is actually real?”

Jaskier had been experiencing odd visions just before he’d collapsed. What if this was one of them?

“It’s real, Jaskier.”

“Oh, fuck yes.” Jaskier burrowed into his arms, luxuriating in every press of skin. That was Geralt’s chest. His arms. His hips. His scent. His breath. His heartbeat. He rubbed against him like a contented house cat.

Geralt huffed in flattered amusement at Jaskier’s joyous reaction.

When Jaskier had fantasized about being in Geralt’s arms, and he had fantasized about it many times, he figured he would be wildly aroused. But now, he was very ill and all he felt was comfort and love. 

Darkness took him again.

He awoke later to the sound of Geralt whispering. “I am sorry, Jaskier. It’s easier to say it when you’re out. I’m a coward, I know. But I’m sorry.”

“Ha, ha,” Jaskier huffed. “‘M ‘wake. Heard you. You’re sorry.”

Geralt smiled softly, obviously relieved to see him awake again. 

Jaskier was pressed to Geralt’s chest now, and a pool of drool was formed around his chin. 

“‘M sorry too.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“‘been singing that butcher song about you for months like a rotten cunt. And after everything I’ve done to erase the butcher thing, I just...I wasn’t thinking, you know. I was only feeling. And...well...I regret it, my friend. The moment I saw you, it hit me like a stone what I was doing. You aren’t a butcher. You don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.” His voice failed from exhaustion and grief.

They sat for a heavy moment in the silence of their regrets. When Geralt answered, his voice was light but careful. “It’s alright.”

“But it’s not alright.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t. You’ll forgive me, but I will not forgive myself. I could have called you anything.”

It was quiet again. Geralt was the first to speak again. “Your friend Sam--”

“You know Sam?”

“He’s the one who came to find me. Told me you were ill. Said you wouldn’t listen to him.”

“Oh, darling Sam. I owe him one. What did he say?”

“He told me how you got your injuries. Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice choked and he was forced to pause and breathe. “Jaskier,” he continued, “I am going to find Rience and I am going to kill him.”

Geralt said it like it was a simple fact, and Jaskier believed him. But the simple mention of Rience’s name caused him to flinch. 

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Alright.” Geralt kissed his shoulder. 

It was odd how natural it felt. How Geralt had just started kissing him and they were both treating it like it was a normal thing for him to do. They were silent again for several long moments. 

“Thank you for coming, Geralt. I didn’t think--”

“I know, Jaskier. I know what you thought, because I know what I said. And I regret that. None of it was true. I wish I could take it back. I do care. And I am here.”

Jaskier lifted his head with difficulty and looked into Geralt’s eyes. “I thought this would be more difficult.”

“What?”

Jaskier smiled, lopsided and wry. “Getting you to apologize. I had it all planned out.”He tried to gesture in his normal manner, but only managed a sad little pirouette of one finger. “If I had only known. All I had to do was get disgustingly ill, look and smell deeply revolting, and you would come running to my aid. You saved my life Geralt. You are my hero yet again.”

Geralt blushed. He never took compliments well. Next, Jaskier knew, Geralt would change the subject. And he did.

“You had it planned out?”

“Obviously. First, I was going to accidentally run into you on a night in which I looked elegant and sophisticated, entirely by accident. I was going to speak my mind eloquently and compel you to see things my way.”

“You don’t have to convince me I was an ass. I know I was.” Geralt smirked and softly dragged his thumb across Jaskier’s forehead, pushing back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. “And I don’t want elegance and sophistication. I want you.”

“Hey. Rude. I’m plenty elegant,” said Jaskier, wiping the crust of drool from his chin with the back of his hand. His hands were still bandaged but felt remarkably improved. Geralt must have employed a magical healer. Jaskier didn’t want to know how much that had set him back. 

Geralt chuckled to himself for a moment, but then he cradled Jaskier’s hand and grew serious. “What you’re doing here, Jaskier, for the elves. Helping.”

It was silent again, as Geralt wrestled with his words. Jaskier managed to stay silent. 

“That’s what I—” He inhaled and exhaled. He examined Jaskier’s bandages with too much intensity. Then with much effort, he finished his sentence. “That is what I love most about you.”

“Are you saying that Geralt of Rivia is more impressed by kindness than by fashion? I should have known you’d be so boring.”

Geralt hummed in the affirmative. He pulled Jaskier in tighter. He squeezed him until it became laborious to breathe, but Jaskier would sooner faint than tell him to loosen his grip. The Witcher pressed his lips to Jaskier’s ear and began to whisper. Jaskier knew it was easier for him like that, when he could not look into his eyes. 

“Can we start again?” Geralt’s voice sounded thick and shaky. “Is it too late?”

Is it too late? 

The words echoed like a warning. Like an ill omen. Like a horror story.

Jaskier swallowed hard, pushing away all realities where that was true.

“Oh, Geralt,” he said with an air of superiority, pushing his hair from his face. “Too late is for people who are sensible enough to know when to quit.”

Jaskier pulled away, just enough to see Geralt’s face. He propped himself up on an elbow, his face so close to Geralt that he could see every tiny movement of his expressions. The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitched hopefully.

“Too late, my dear witcher,” Jaskier continued, tracing a bandaged finger along Geralt’s jaw and looking fondly into his eyes, “is for people who have no love left to fight for. It is for people who are cold and dead and in the ground.”

He kissed Geralt’s nose, and watched his Witcher’s face relax. A real smile spread on it, pushing away years and chasing away exhaustion.

“We, my dear man,” Jaskier continued, his chest warmed and his tongue loosened by the sight of hope on his beloved’s face, “are alive and foolish. And as it happens, I love you too.”

“You do?”

“I do. And love is the molten life blood of second chances. So yes, darling Witcher. Yes, my love. Let us start again.”

Geralt laughed and very nearly sobbed. “Fucking poet.”

“Your poet.”

Jaskier cradled Geralt’s face and leaned in. Geralt surged to meet his dry cracked lips, pressing into them, kissing them as though they were the most succulent delicacies in all of creation. 

That was what they did that first night.

They touched one another. They showed one another love in ways that did not require words. They kissed and grasped and moaned in the dark.

Jaskier was still weak, so Geralt handled him like bone china, trailing petal soft kisses along his ribs and his neck and his thighs. He looked at him with wonder and only consented to make love to him when Jaskier begged for it, assuring him that he would not break.

Geralt even managed to do that gently, slipping in and out of him with quiet moans, ensuring that he did not put any stress on Jaskier’s hands. It verged upon teasing and Jaskier begged and pleaded and shoved his body back onto Geralt until they both released, giddy and trembling. 

That was the shape of the new beginning that dawned in the lives of two old friends that night. Their courage was born in the shadow of terror but it ended in tender caresses traced along new and old scars alike. Their courage reveled in a familiar embrace. It found new ways of touching. It lost count of kisses. It gave a witcher and a bard their second chance in a small back room of an old tavern. And in the midst of war and loss, it brought them hope, and that was the thing that they needed most of all.

[garfunklefield]

Until my last breath chapter 4 is out!

In honor of finally writing a new chapter and AO3 being down.. here’s some scenes that made me laugh!

[mountainshroom]

i like the log and the pool

[pixiemage]

Please, for the love of god, please don’t be this person. No matter how long it’s been since an update, no matter how many unfinished stories are sitting on their account, no matter what - do not be this person.

Not only is it insanely rude, but you also do more damage than you think be being such a self-entitled ass about something someone created for free and for fun. “This author” can see what you say.

RIP decency indeed.

[spectralsleuth]

Reblog and put your rare pair in the tags/comments! I want to see the depths people will go to create, for the most random two characters in the most obscure media.

[pocket-dragon]

Durge murder aura detected

[evadingreallife]

(By trope-specific i mean for example all the slash fics hosting websites, or the nsfw-only ones, etc)

[seagiri]

very sleep deprived doodles of whatever’s going on inside my brain

[pagesinmylife]

I don’t care if this comes off as cruel but you are not entitled to fanfiction. You are not entitled to podfics. You are not entitled to translated works.

Creators are not paid to make fanworks. People spend years of their lives writing fic and getting nothing in return except positive interactions. You can ask to make a translation. You can ask to make a pod fic. But you cannot demand it.

And because the only thing fanfic writers get in return for their work is positive feedback, taking away an authors ability to receive that is disgusting. Authors deserve to have full control and ownership of their works.

Fanfic isn’t a product to consume and then demand more of. Authors and creators deserve better.

[khaleesiofalicante]

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[dirt-and-scrivles]

Zosan fics be like (part 2)

Elaborated thoughts and fic names under the cut

Cat fic - stay by itsmylifekay

Probably just my favorite cat zoro fic I’ve read, very cute, and as all cat fics do, gives me a heart attack by letting the catified person drink alcohol(never give cats alcohol it is incredibly toxic)

Wado fic - precious thing by hllfire

I love this fic it’s a really cool take on how bonding with the swords works and also how sanji bonding with wado would effect things, I also just love wado being able to communicate and kinda pushing them along

King/god zoro fic

This one isn’t a specific one sadly but I’ve read like 3 of these and can probably track them down again if any of y’all want

Soulmates fic - learning to listen by three_days_late

I’m usually pretty neutral on soulmate fics but I like this one because zoro pretty much immediately fucks himself over with it and they have to pull back from that

Unprompted proposal fic - firestarters by adietxt

This one is short but sweet, zoro starts saying what’s on his mind not realizing he’s literally just proposing out of nowhere

Little sanji fic - to you, formerly me by Trixtree

This one isn’t a zosan fic but I’m including it because I adore it. I see a lot of zosan fics where sanji gets reverted to baby sanji and gets attatched to zoro(which are fine but not my favorite) but never any where adult sanji gets to stay and interact with baby sanji which they go into with this one,, they do some really cool stuff with seeing how it effects both Sanji’s and the crew by extension

[adler-obsessed]

god. Vivienne really is just. that character. She is taken to the circle so young she does not remember what her parents even looked like and someone had to tell her. She wouldn’t even know if they were telling the truth. She is ruthless, the terror and nightmare of the Orlesian court. She almost weeps when you find the Tranquil skulls in Redcliffe. She hates drop waists. She is harrowed younger than any other mage in living memory. She teaches Bull the steps to the dance of the six candles. He likens her to a Qunari dreadnought that has half the enemies on the ground before he’s even reached the front line. Her accent’s not Orlesian. No Free Marcher can tell where she is from either. Is her original voice another part of herself she cut off? She enchanted a duke within one meeting and they scandalised even Orlesian society. She was good friends with his wife. They possibly fucked too. No can control her. She’s been owned since the moment she was first brought to the Circle. She belongs to no people. There are a dozen leashes around her neck claiming otherwise. She makes fun of an elven god for setting his coattails on fire.  She is on the verge of banishing Cole back to the Fade all the time. She can’t help but grow to care for him at the end despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise. She hates herself for it. She thinks caring makes you weak. During the first conversation you have with her unmasked as a Trevelyan, she begs to know if you also cared about her childhood friend, Lydia. She tries to import illegal fur into Skyhold. Did she kill everything soft within her soul herself or did the Chantry sisters do it for her? She is impossible to prank. Some might say she’s even better than Sera at pranking. She was pulled into the game by the time she was nineteen. She’d faced worse things since she could first remember her dreams. Life has never been fair. One merely needs to be hard enough to survive. The blade at her neck when she lay on the floor of the harrowing chamber was no different from the hunger in her belly as child, a necessary pain that only drove her forward. Maker, was there ever any chance that she did not see cruelty as simply another word for life? Is there any version of her that does not end up surrounded by moral filth? 

[yeehawpim]

a comic about my weird irreverence for canon

go write a bad ending AU! ship your self-insert oc with your favourite villain!! the world's your oyster!!!

[tiredofsatansbullshit]

WHAT DO I DO NOW??

[bizarrelittlemew]

i can't wait to be 30+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 40+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 50+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 60+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 70+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 80+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 90+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to look back on my life and know that i loved things deeply and passionately and was inspired to create and was part of communities with incredible people from all over the world brought together by the stories that touched us