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dragonlady7via https://ift.tt/2SLNYx0
I’m glad I gave in to temptation to write fic for the Witcher because everybody in this fandom is so damn nice, from the people who are like “I didn’t watch the show or read the books or whatever, I’ve just seen gifsets and this story looked good” to the people who are like “oh yah in the games there’s x reason for that y and four thousand years of backstory in the novels about z which I will here summarize, but i love your interpretation!”
So this has been thoroughly pleasant. And I do, in fact, have a bunch more work done on some sequel things, but there are going to be some much less-fluffy parts of it, I think, so I’m definitely going to try to keep tags up to date and warn for stuff. But I’m not going to hurt Ciri; any warnings for child abuse stuff is going to be about flashbacks. I just feel like I should say that.
And of course, I’m definitely not going to hurt Fat Baby.
Anyway, in case anybody missed it last night, I made it a series and there’s two now in the Meet Death Sitting series, and I’m working on the third story now. I do figure future bits should have Ciri and Yennefer POVs, and that’s challenging, but there are so many women in this fandom it seems really dumb to only tell stories about and by the white dudes. Even if I can only manage a little of it, I still am going to try.
Here’s a Ciri POV teaser from the bit I haven’t finished yet:
They rode in silence for a while, and eventually Geralt said, “Ciri,” and then stopped.
“What?” she asked, pressing her face into his shoulder. It sounded like he was going to try to say something difficult. She knew the tone.
“If I thought for a moment,” he said, “that you’d be safe, I’d have sent you with Jaskier. His is an easier road and I wish I could give you that.”
“I want to stay with you,” she said stoutly, but she knew he wasn’t wrong. She didn’t entirely understand where they were going but she had some inkling, and whatever it was, it wouldn’t be easy or kind.
He put his hand on his ribs, over where her hand was tucked under his jacket to stay warm, and held it there for a moment, clearly deeply moved though she couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t see anything; her eyes were closed, her face pressed into the wool of his jacket, which smelled of him and of smoke and of Roach, and by now she’d begun to think of that smell as home.
I’m glad I gave in to temptation to write fic for the Witcher because everybody in this fandom is so damn nice, from the people who are like “I didn’t watch the show or read the books or whatever, I’ve just seen gifsets and this story looked good” to the people who are like “oh yah in the games there’s x reason for that y and four thousand years of backstory in the novels about z which I will here summarize, but i love your interpretation!”
So this has been thoroughly pleasant. And I do, in fact, have a bunch more work done on some sequel things, but there are going to be some much less-fluffy parts of it, I think, so I’m definitely going to try to keep tags up to date and warn for stuff. But I’m not going to hurt Ciri; any warnings for child abuse stuff is going to be about flashbacks. I just feel like I should say that.
And of course, I’m definitely not going to hurt Fat Baby.
Anyway, in case anybody missed it last night, I made it a series and there’s two now in the Meet Death Sitting series, and I’m working on the third story now. I do figure future bits should have Ciri and Yennefer POVs, and that’s challenging, but there are so many women in this fandom it seems really dumb to only tell stories about and by the white dudes. Even if I can only manage a little of it, I still am going to try.
Here’s a Ciri POV teaser from the bit I haven’t finished yet:
They rode in silence for a while, and eventually Geralt said, “Ciri,” and then stopped.
“What?” she asked, pressing her face into his shoulder. It sounded like he was going to try to say something difficult. She knew the tone.
“If I thought for a moment,” he said, “that you’d be safe, I’d have sent you with Jaskier. His is an easier road and I wish I could give you that.”
“I want to stay with you,” she said stoutly, but she knew he wasn’t wrong. She didn’t entirely understand where they were going but she had some inkling, and whatever it was, it wouldn’t be easy or kind.
He put his hand on his ribs, over where her hand was tucked under his jacket to stay warm, and held it there for a moment, clearly deeply moved though she couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t see anything; her eyes were closed, her face pressed into the wool of his jacket, which smelled of him and of smoke and of Roach, and by now she’d begun to think of that smell as home.
