#I know it's not as meet ugly as the fics where Jaskier like throws a chair at geralts head or anything

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 42

Call Jaskier a fool, but he's fallen in love with a witcher. As a merman. But despite what all his peers tell him, he wholeheartedly believes the witcher would never hurt a merman, let alone one as harmless as Jaskier! They'll make great friends! And even better lovers! Hopefully! So when Jaskier learns the witcher is camping not far from a river, Jaskier literally jumps at the chance to get close to finally meet the man he's admired from afar for so long. Only problem is that the river is muddy in some parts, and in other parts thinner and more shallow than he thought, and though he loathes to admit it, he does get stuck. He's beached. He hasn't even met his witcher and he's BEACHED! BEACHED! AND HE'S NOT EVEN ON A BEACH! He's tied between being horrified he's dying alone, and being thankful nobody is seeing the embarrassing way he's leaving this world. He's not getting nearly enough water into his gills, and the sun is merciless. It's been nearly two days since he first got stuck. His eyesight is blurring and all he can hear is his own breathing. But then he's suddenly hefted up into arms and being carried away, and he can't even worry about who has found him, because he's finally drifted off into a (sadly very dry) slumber. He wakes up to find himself in a small pond, just barely big enough for him to swim a lap, and that was pretty much it. Clearly for healing and not long-term stay. But it was big enough to live. The gills on his sides near his ribs are fully submerged in the water, and he belatedly notices that water is being repeatedly poured on the gills on his neck. He turns to look at what is dripping on him, and finds it to be a waterskin. His witcher found him! His witcher found him, and is filling up his waterskin with the pond's water and pouring it on Jaskier's fills repeatedly. He's caring for him! Oh, how Jaskier's heart is singing! Jaskier tries to talk to him only to cough and let out a weak chirp noise. The witcher shushes him and warns Jaskier that he was in a very bad way and that it'd be best for him to rest for now. Jaskier decides not to take his advice, and instead stays up to stare at his witcher and chirp at him. One time when Geralt pours the water over the mer's gills, he reaches his head up to bump at Geralt's hand until Geralt allows the Mer to limply nuzzle his wrist. It's a tad annoying that this mer Geralt saved is so relentlessly determined to shower him with affection, but after a few days of the attention, Geralt submits to the routine. It only gets more intimate when the Mer regains speech and now keep asking Geralt things about himself and showering him with compliments. Geralt learns about the merman, and grows attached, he admits, but he can't keep care of a mer. He has to continue on The Path and the Mer cannot follow. So one day, he picks up Jaskier, brings him back to the ocean, and sets him free. Four times. It takes four times before Jaskier stops trying to beach himself to follow. Geralt is miserable without his little merman companion, but he knows it's for the best. That is, until a few months lather, when he hears word of a merman being captured nearby and he knows deep down it's his merman. I don't know if Jaskier is captured by poachers intent on killing or harming him or if he's been captured by some sort of circus/freakshow but I DO know that Jaskier got captured because he started recklessly talking to any and all humans asking for anyone who knows how to turn him human (so he can be with his witcher)

[august-anon]

Beauty in Strength

Hey hey, here’s that Witcher fic, the scar-tracing idea came from @inconveniently-placed-cactus​. I hope y’all enjoy

(Also, I know Foltest's sister that had the striga child was named Adda and I don't think they ever said so in show/book (but who knows I have a bad memory lol), BUT if you play Witcher 1 you meet that striga girl again, a young woman now, and Foltest had creepily chosen to name her Adda as well. So that's why it's "Adda's scar" in the fic, instead of just "the scar from the striga girl." Also, she's nuts, lol. Tried to have me killed lol)

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship(s): Geraskier (Geralt/Jaskier)

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Geralt/Ler!Jaskier

Word Count: 2271 words

Summary: Jaskier's found a new game: brushing against scars and asking after them. If only it wasn't so ticklish when he did so.

[ao3 link]

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The first touch startled Geralt.

He had stepped out of the bath and into his small clothes and had sat on the bed to dig through his bag for something at least somewhat clean (or, at least, not currently soaked in harpy guts and goop) when he heard Jaskier shuffle up behind him. He assumed the bard was simply preparing for bed himself, so he paid little mind to the sounds and the shifting of the bed. He very nearly lunged for his sword at the first feather-light touch on his shoulder, against an old scar.

“What’s this one from?” Jaskier said gently.

Geralt settled his nerves and cleared his throat. “Don’t know if I recall.”

“Come, now,” Jaskier said, a playful lilt to his for-once quiet voice. “Surely you must remember.”

His fingers traced around the raised skin before gently dancing along it, and continued to repeat that pattern. Geralt found the room suddenly oddly warm and was grateful, not for the first time, for the fact that witchers were unable to blush. There was also an odd fluttering feeling in his stomach that he knew he must’ve felt once or twice, what felt like lifetimes ago, but no longer had the name to describe.

“Must I?” Geralt asked, finally pulling a shirt from his bag.

Jaskier huffed and Geralt knew he was discontent. His fingers vanished briefly from his shoulder, but reappeared at the back of his ribs, tracing three long, raised scars. Geralt had to hold his breath to keep in his gasp, but he couldn’t stop the involuntary twitch of his skin under Jaskier’s ministrations. He fumbled and dropped the shirt.

“What about this one?”

Geralt cleared his throat again, worried he’d be unable to speak if he didn’t. “Werewolf. Few years back.”

Jaskier hummed. He dragged a single finger around each claw mark before laying his fingers over them in the shape of a claw once more and dragging his hand back and forth, back and forth. Geralt’s breath was coming out in quiet puffs and if Jaskier continued in that spot, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could control himself. The urge to squirm, to give in and chuckle, was becoming overwhelming.

Luckily, Jaskier seemed satisfied with the information he got and his hand lifted from the scar. His hand then touched down low down on his back, just behind his hip, and Geralt couldn’t help the minute flinch at the unknowingly teasing touch. Jaskier traced the circular scar (mostly circular, at least. Nothing healed that perfectly) before spiralling into the center with a single finger, then spiralling back out.

“Kikimore,” Geralt said without being prompted, figuring the faster he spoke the faster Jaskier would move on and give him another brief moment to rebuild his defenses.

“There are different kinds, right?” Jaskier asked, not moving on.

Geralt tried to take a deep breath, but it kept puffing out. He locked his joints in place so as to not squirm and give himself away. “Yes. Workers, warriors, and the queen.”

Jaskier placed all his fingers in the center of the scar and slowly dragged them outwards to the edges, then repeated the motion going inwards. Geralt couldn’t help but gasp and jerk at that, one hand making an aborted movement to reach back and pull Jaskier away while the other went up to hover over his mouth in case he needed to muffle any more sounds.

“Which one did this?” Jaskier asked, a grin evident in his voice.

Geralt inwardly cursed. Jaskier knew exactly what he was doing.

“A-a warrior,” he managed, having to bring his hand away from his mouth to speak.

The hand granted him a brief moment of mercy, but not nearly long enough. It touched down again against his shoulder blade, a series of old puncture wounds. The fingers on the hand spread out so as to touch each of them and nails scratched gently at the centers.

“And here?”

Geralt took a shaky breath and resisted the urge to roll his shoulders. “Harpy. Like today.”

“How’d it do that?” Jaskier punctuated the question with a particularly sharp scratch that had Geralt gasping again, back arching.

“Got it’s talons into me and tried to fly off.”

Jaskier hummed sympathetically, taking a single finger to trace around each raised, uneven oval individually. “I assume it didn’t manage, or these would be much larger.”

Geralt hummed shakily, lungs spasming with repressed titters -- witchers didn’t titter.

Geralt tried not to jump as Jaskier’s head hooked over his shoulder, hands snaking around to hug him around his middle. Palms flat, they rubbed up and down his torso for a few moments and Geralt foolishly allowed himself to relax, even though he knew it wasn’t over.

Jaskier started out easy, a thin line on his pectoral. It wasn’t too terribly ticklish, but the tingles still spread out under his skin. He brushed a fingertip back and forth over it a few times before switching to lightly scraping his nail along it.

“Knife,” Geralt said softly.

Jaskier scritched briefly at his chest with four fingers, making Geralt twitch, before moving on. He decided on a knotted scar on Geralt’s side, right around his waistline. Geralt twitched and huffed, a smile sneaking onto his face. The already sensitive spot combined with the even-more-sensitive scar tissue made it very hard to keep his composure.

“What about here, darling?”

Geralt tried to remember, and then huffed out a quick breath of a laugh that had nothing to do with the ticklish touch. Jaskier must’ve sensed it too, because he stopped the teasing, just resting his fingers against the skin and looking at him curiously. Geralt couldn’t help the grin on his face.

“Eskel and I,” he said. “We were fucking around, and I tumbled out a window. Vesemir was pissed as all hell.”

Jaskier chuckled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. “Of course you were the Kaer Morhen troublemakers.”

Geralt opened his mouth to reply, but at that exact moment, Jaskier scribbled those calloused fingertipss against the scar and Geralt was too caught off-guard to keep himself composed. He barked out a laugh and jerked to the side, curving his waist in on one side and trying to twist away, but Jaskier followed him easily. 

The boys at Kaer Morhen played rough, even when doing something as silly and fun as tickling. It was all throwing each other to the ground and pinning each other into the floor and digging hands deep into weak points. They got away with playing by telling Vesemir it was teaching them where to defend themselves, since ticklish weak points were often directly correlated with places you did not want to get injured, like arteries and organs, but Geralt was sure he saw through that.

But experiencing it as such, Geralt wasn’t prepared for just how much such a gentle touch could tickle. It was unbearable, it was maddening. Geralt didn’t know how to handle it. And Jaskier never went deeper, never went harsher, just kept his touch feather-light tracing around and teasing his scars. It wasn’t a sensation he had any reference for to help his defense, so he was utterly helpless in the face of this caring bard with his gentle hands and soft smile.

Jaskier stayed in that spot for what felt like a while to Geralt, now that he finally found somewhere to make Geralt crack. He squeezed his hands into fists to avoid reaching for or swatting at Jaskier, not willing to ruin their little game. As embarrassing as it was, Geralt may have been having a little bit of fun, and he wasn’t quite willing to give it up so soon, even if he had lost at holding back his reactions.

After an eternity, Jaskier pulled his hand away. He gave Geralt almost no time before he moved to the next scar, meaning Geralt had no time to recover. He almost snorted as Jaskier’s fingers touched down and traced around a scar curving against his stomach. Then he traced his fingers in a line up and down the curve, leaving Geralt wiggling in place in a very embarrassing way, for someone who tried so hard to remain composed.

Geralt was so focused on trying to rebuild the dam to contain his snickers and being flustered over his squirming, that Jaskier played with the scar for over a minute before prompting Geralt with an evil grin against his neck.

“This one, dear heart?” He punctuated the question with a quick wiggle against the deepest part of the curve, and Geralt had to swallow a terrible squeal.

“D-devourer,” he struggled to get out.

“Oh, poor thing,” Jaskier cooed. “Ugly bastards, those ones. Nasty claws on them.”

At the word “claw” Jaskier formed a claw with his fingers and scratched up and down against various scars around Geralt’s stomach. Geralt’s choked snickers turned into full laughs as he squeezed his eyes shut. Doing that, however, only made things worse for him, because he couldn’t tell where Jaskier was moving next, so they immediately shot back open.

Then, Jaskier dropped one of the weaponized hands and dipped a finger into his bellybutton. This time, Geralt couldn’t quite successfully bite back the squeal that tried to escape, and it came out choked and giggly. He laughed and jerked, doubling over a little at the sensation.

“That’s not a scar!” He protested, but still didn’t pull Jaskier’s hand away.

Jaskier chuckled against his neck and vibrated the finger even deeper. “Sure it is! Remember where it came from?”

“My-- my birth!”

Jaskier pulled away, giving him a break. Geralt leaned over his legs, working to regain his breath through his leftover chuckles.

“Your giggles are so cute,” Jaskier said, nipping playfully at Geralt’s exposed shoulder and neck.

Geralt was so wound up that he even jerked away from that touch, feeling quite ticklish even though it didn’t usually bother him so much. “I don’t giggle.”

Jaskier fluttered his fingers against the knotted scar on his side once more, and Geralt burst into giggles. “I beg to differ, darling. They’re all deep and rumbling, nothing like my giggles, but giggles nonetheless. Your chuckles are quite a bit deeper, not quite so bouncy.”

“Quiet.”

Jaskier gasped, pulling his hands away. “As if I could ever!”

Before Geralt could retort with some sort of scathing or teasing remark, one of Jaskier’s hands made itself known on his thigh, tracing a long, deep scar. Geralt hadn’t had time to compose himself yet again, and immediately tumbled back into quiet laughter. His leg twitched, but Geralt refused to show enough weakness to let it squirm and bounce about like it wanted to, to escape the sensations.

“Cockatrice,” Geralt fought to get out through his laughter, knowing Jaskier was trying to draw out the playful torment before asking.

“Poor thing,” Jaskier murmured against the skin of his neck, lips and teeth tracing the scar that Adda had left there after he’d saved her from her striga curse, the bite marks having healed in quite the ugly fashion.

This time, Geralt did snort, trying to shrug up his shoulders and crane his neck so that Jaskier didn’t have access, but the man was stubborn. His hand also still fluttered away at Geralt’s thigh, finding other scars to trace briefly, but not asking after them.

“You’re beautiful,” Jaskier breathed.

Geralt didn’t reply, suddenly debating pulling away from Jaskier’s touch. Jaskier made the decision for him, pushing him down onto the bed and staring down at him, fingers tracing a few scars in a way that, for the first time since this little game started, weren’t meant to be ticklish. They still were, of course, but lightly enough that Geralt was able to actually focus.

“You are. Your scars don’t detract from that beauty.”

Geralt caught one of Jaskier’s wandering hands off his bicep and the other froze where it was on his chest. “I’m a mutant and a monster.”

Jaskier scowled at him. “Next time you say that, I’m going to tickle you until you have to gasp through your giggles about how good and wonderful a person you are, and how drop-dead handsome you are.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

Left with no time to argue his point again, Jaskier’s hands touched down again, finding some of the more sensitive scars he had explored. One hand went to the knotted one on his side and scribbled away, the other slipped under him to the kikimore scar on his back and started up that maddening in-and-out dragging of fingers once more. Geralt tossed his head back in laughter, eyes squeezing shut.

“Or maybe,” Jaskier said, cheeky grin evident in his voice and mirth dancing around in his scent, “we’ll just do that now.”

Jaskier’s mouth attached to Adda’s scar once more and Geralt was lost. His hands danced between scar tissue, tormenting away, while his mouth pinpointed any scars in the vicinity of his neck, shoulders, and collarbones to nip and kiss at. Geralt wheezed and cackled and giggled, but he never made an effort to squirm away from the touch. He knew how to get out of it, after all, even if he believed saying it would be a lie. Besides, Witcher stamina was nothing to bat an eye at. So Geralt simply gripped Jaskier’s hips and let himself go, just this once, to have fun with his lover. Their laughter mingled together late into the night, causing them to have a much later start in the morning than they had originally planned. 

Geralt couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

[flowercrown-bard]

The Boy who Ran: Chapter 4

Whumptober Prompt 9: “Take me intead”

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/ Jaskier

AN: Please tell me if my writing is too long for Tumblr. I honestly have no idea what the acceptable length for fic on this site is.

Read on AO3

part 1  part 2  part 3

After day that in the forest, when Jaskier had poured every ounce of chaos he had into Geralt, desperate to keep him alive, his resolve had slowly crumbled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to tell Geralt that maybe he wasn’t as much of a human as he once used to be? Surely Geralt wouldn’t be angry at him for not telling him. After all, Jaskier wasn’t even sure what exactly he was.

With every hour he had spent in the Feywilds he had felt himself become more other. That didn’t mean he was something that Geralt would despise, did it?

That day when he had thought that he would lose Geralt, he hadn’t been worried about him finding out. He had only wanted to save him. And he had. He had made sure he wouldn’t lose Geralt just yet. There would be decades to come that they would be together – centuries, even, if Jaskier got lucky.

It had taken only a little while to understand that Geralt might not have the same reassurance. When Geralt had looked at him that night and told him how scared he was that he was going to lose Jaskier to old age, he would have almost confessed then and there. He didn’t know how much longer his life would become, but he knew for certain that he would outlive any regular human.

He should tell Geralt. It would ease his mind, make him happy even.

And yet, each night that Geralt held Jaskier close, each time they kissed or shared hushed secrets in the night, he remembered why he couldn’t tell him. Because if there was even the tiniest chance that Jaskier’s confession could break what they had, he couldn’t take it.

Tomorrow, he told himself each night, tomorrow I will tell Geralt. For now I will savour every moment I have with Geralt.

*

“What have you done?” Jaskier’s voice held no emotion. If it did, he would cry, he would scream and break.

He began to tremble, as Geralt looked up from the creature he had just slain.

“Jaskier.” How could Geralt’s voice be so even, as if he didn’t know what horrible crime he had just committed? “I had told you not to come after me.”

There was so much Jaskier wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the right words.

“Why?,” Jaskier whispered instead, the only thing close enough to describe what he felt witnessing this horror.

Geralt stood up. Bile rose in Jakier’s throat as Geralt ripped his sword out of the body with a squelching sound. He had to look away, to shut his eyes, as if it would help. As if the image wasn’t branded into his mind already.

He jerked violently when he felt a hand – a blood-soaked hand, a hand that had just taken a precious life - on his shoulder, his eyes snapping back to Geralt, wide and filled with horror. Geralt’s frown softened.

“Because it would have been too dangerous for you. If you had come with me, this creature could have manipulated you and I might not have been able to save you. I couldn’t risk that.” Geralt gave his shoulder what was meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but felt like a threat, death-grip he couldn’t escape. “It can’t hurt you now, Jaskier.”

Something coiled inside of Jaskier’s stomach, a grotesque mixture of fear and disgust and anger.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, unable to look away from Geralt’s eyes. Not out of bravery. Out of fear. If he looked down, he would have to see the bloody body Geralt had slain. “I meant why did you kill a Fae?”

His voice grew thick with the last word and suddenly it was as though a dam had broken inside of him. The words – the accusations – that Jaskier had not been able to find before took a hold of him, couldn’t be stopped now, even if he tried.

“They are sentient beings!” His voice cracked. “Geralt, you always, always said you didn’t kill beings who could think. They have a culture. They have families and names and songs they sing to each other to bring happiness or comfort.” They were my family. They gave me a new name and taught me their songs. “Why did you kill one of them, Geralt? Why?”

Would you kill me too, if you knew?

Geralt looked taken aback for a moment, before his eyes grew hard.

“Jaskier, those creatures are not the fairies from children’s storybooks. A Fae’s song isn’t meant for lovers, it’s meant to kill. Don’t talk about them as though they are innocent. They could bewitch even witchers. Despite what your fairytales might have told you, they are vicious killers. They hunt humans for sport. Their sole purpose in life is to manipulate and hurt people. Yes, they are sentient, but they are the worst monster of them all.”

That wasn’t true. Jaskier wanted to say it, but the words were stuck in his throat, the dam holding them back was rebuilt, stronger than before. All he was able to do was stare at Geralt with slightly parted lips.

How could Geralt talk like this about his people? Yes, not all Fae were kind. The gods knew there were plenty of Fae he despised out of the depths of his soul, but even they didn’t warrant the untamed venom that had left Geralt’s mouth with every word.

Finally, the words he had really been meaning to say found their way onto his tongue.

“What if you met a Fae who wasn’t like that?” He swallowed hard, trying not to let the small hope that still somehow lived in his chest die. “What if you ever met one that genuinely liked people? Would you kill them too?”

“Jaskier…” Geralt sighed. As if Jaskier was a child Geralt had to tell that his fantasies weren’t true. Almost gently Geralt plunged the knife into Jaskier’s heart with his next words. “I know you want to believe in your tales, but there are no Fae like that. I wish with all my being that I will never meet another one of those beasts again, but if I ever do, I will kill it, if only to keep you safe.”

The hope flickered and died, a candle blown out before it ever got the chance to light a fireplace.  

This was it. No longer would Jaskier lay at night telling himself that he would confess to Geralt the next day. No longer would he imagine Geralt’s smile as he realised that he might have centuries with Jaskier. Instead he would tense and tremble, praying that Geralt never found out, dreading the day that he would.

Because that was the thing. Despite all of Jaskier’s instincts telling him to run, to go back to the Feywilds where he would be safe from Geralt’s inevitable wrath, he wouldn’t. All this life he had run one way or another, but when it came to Geralt, it was impossible. He had to stay.

He let Geralt embrace him, but instead of burying his head in his shoulders like he wanted, Jaskier peeked over them and looked at the twisted body of the Fae that still lay where it had dropped dead, killed by the man who held Jaskier’s body in his arms and his heart in his hands. He owed the Fae that much, to be seen one last time.

Ugly guilt soared inside him and he didn’t push it away. What he was doing was wrong. But he couldn’t stop himself from returning the embrace.

His eyes lifted from the corpse.

His breath hitched.

For a split second his fingers clutched tightly at Geralt’s clothes, before he forced himself to loosen the embrace slowly, as though he didn’t want to push Geralt behind him and protect him with his life against the Fae who stared at him from behind some bushes with murderous hatred burning in their eyes.

“I –“ He broke off, mind racing to find an excuse that wouldn’t make Geralt instantly suspicious, but all he could think about was that Geralt was in danger. “This corpse is too disgusting, I think I’m going to throw up.” It wasn’t a lie. Jaskier’s stomach churned as though it wanted to turn itself inside out.

Geralt looked at him in concern. “Can I help somehow?”

Jaskier waved him off, as he stormed over to where he had seen the glowing eyes before. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

He brushed the twigs aside, made his way through the undergrowth to where Geralt’s senses wouldn’t reach and came face to face with the last person he wanted to see, less so now than ever before.

The Fae had their arms crossed, a cold sneer on their lips, exposing their sharp teeth.

“So this is the reason you have been gone for so long,” they snarled. “You made friends with the Butcher.”

“Don’t call him that,” Jaskier hissed. Hearing the name from a creature that held names to more importance than anyone, the word sounded even worse than when a human spew it at Geralt.

“Is it not true then?” the Fae asked, unfurling their arms and stepping closer to Jaskier until they stood almost chest to chest. “Look again at what he had done to my sibling and tell me he isn’t a butcher.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t deny it. He had seen first-hand what Geralt had done.

Jaskier’s silence was answer enough. With a disbelieving shake of his head the Fae stepped back again, as if Jaskier’s closeness was an insult.

“You think so too. You know what he is and yet you stay with him, let him touch you. Traitor!” The words stung, but what hurt even more was the truth of it. “Did you know that not a single Fae had been killed by a human in ages?” They thrust one clawed finger at Jaskier’s chest, almost drawing blood with the force of it. “And then you get born and suddenly two of my family are dead, slain by those who are close to you.”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier whispered, his quivering voice betraying him.

“No it’s not. But it’s the truth. You have done it again, Julian. You are once again the reason one of my family died.”

Jaskier’s hands clenched into first, a meagre attempt to hide the tremble. “They are my family too.”

“Are they?,” An ugly snarl slit the Fae’s face. “Then how can you watch them get slaughtered and still stay with their murderer.”

“Because I-“ Jaskier broke off, shut his lips as tightly as he could. He couldn’t let the Fae know.

Judging from the slight widen of their eyes, they didn’t need to hear Jaskier say the words. “You love him.” They let out a disbelieving laugh. “You actually love the butcher.”

“So what?” Jaskier looked away, unable to hold the Fae’s eyes.

“So you are betraying your family.” Before Jaskier could open his mouth to defend himself, the Fae added “Don’t deny it. You have always been a half-bred. You said you don’t belong to the human world, but you left the Feywilds. You cannot jump between the realms as you please. It is time you finally choose where your loyalties lie. You say, we Fae are your family, then prove it. Stay with him and look on as we get slaughtered or stay with us and watch us slay him.”

Jaskier’s head jerked up. “What do you mean?”

The Fae’s snarl turned into a smile that turned Jaskier’s blood into ice. For the first time that day Jaskier thought he might understand what Geralt had meant when he had called the Fae monsters.

“I mean that you don’t use your eyes. You are so blinded by the arrogance of being able to run to the next shiny thing, that you can’t see it rusting with the blood it spills. I am saying that you can’t close your eyes for much longer, Julian. Either he dies or we do. And I for one know which side I think is going to win.”

Jaskier mimicked the Fae in baring his teeth. It didn’t look nearly as intimidating with his human teeth, but the message was clear. “You don’t get to make me choose. You hold no power over me.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to take my word for it. I am not the only one who caught wind of the kind of company you keep.” They got closer again, until their mouth was next to Jaskier’s ear and whispered “Word of advice as a friend: Kill him yourself. It will be more merciful. Better make your choice quick. Time passes so inconveniently fast in this world.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “No.” It was no more than a horrified breath as the realisation hit him, took his breath away as though he was thrust into a pool of ice water.

The Fae’s sole purpose in life is to manipulate and hurt humans. Geralt’s words echoed in his head, mocking him. Of course this hated Fae would never just appear in the human world to confront Jaskier. Everything done by them was calculated. This confrontation had been a distraction.

Damn it, why had be let himself be lured so far away from Geralt?

Jaskier bolted through the bushes, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get to Geralt in time.

But time passes so inconveniently fast. Too fast.

“We have to go!,” he yelled, even before he could see his love. He wanted to call out for him, call his name, but if there was even a slim chance that a Fae could hear him speak the name of his beloved, it would be disastrous. “We have to leave, now!”

When Jaskier arrived at the clearing, panting and covered in scratches, he was too late.

Geralt was surrounded by three Fae. They looked different than Jaskier had ever seen them before, more feral, emanating a dark aura and wielding undeniable power. Geralt stood no chance.

He fought valiantly, slashed at them with his sword, but not even a witcher could overpower three Fae.

“No, wait!” Jaskier cried, trying to pull one of the Fae away. They snarled at him, but hesitated.

“What are you doing here?” they hissed, eyes hard and unforgiving. “He killed one of our own.”

He swallowed, shaking under their gaze. “I know. I know, but it won’t happen again. I promise.”

He looked over his shoulder at Geralt, pleading him with his eyes to relent.

He didn’t. Instead he grabbed Jaskier by the back of his shirt and yanked him back, until Geralt was standing in front of him, shielding him with his body from the Fae that were his family.

“Don’t!” His shout went unheard, as Geralt bolted forward, determined not to let any harm come to Jaskier, while the Fae attacked him, determined to avenge their fallen.

One Fae cried out as they were slashed across the chest. Geralt was thrown to the ground, claw marks and magical burns adding to the painting of his scars.

Unimaginable fear seized Jaskier as one of the Fae touched the ground, singing a haunting melody Jaskier knew all too well. Too often had he sung it himself, summoning mushrooms that sprouted in a circle and took him back to the Feywilds.

There was only one thought in his mind. He couldn’t let them take Geralt. If the Fae were terrible and powerful enough here to hurt Geralt, there was no telling what they would do to him in their own realm.

There was no time to think of the consequences. He screamed the first name that came to mind, the name of the Fae who had told him to choose. Now he made his choice.

He called their name and made a deal.

“Take me instead of him!” He prayed with all his being that the Fae would bite. Just a simple yes would be all it took and Geralt would be safe. He repeated the name, almost begging “I am trading my life for his.”

“Jaskier, no!”

It was too late. Jaskier felt the burn in his chest, binding him to his word as his deal was accepted.  

Geralt’s horror-filled expression and his outstretched hand as he tried to reach Jaskier was the last thing Jaskier saw, before he was swallowed by the mist.

** Geralt lunged forward, Jaskier’s name on his lips, but he was too late. His hand grasped into nothingness, where Jaskier had been but a moment before.

Gerlalt fell to his knees, looking frantically around for something, for anything that could bring him Jaskier back. It was in vain. Any trace of Jaskier and the Fae had disappeared and had left Geralt with nothing but the terror of not knowing what would happen to Jaskier, what punishment he would receive in Geralt’s stead.

He dragged himself to the fairy-ring, hoping against hope that the Fae magic still lingered and would be enough to take him to wherever Jaskier had been dragged to.

Nothing happened.

For hours Geralt searched for something to bring him Jaskier back until he finally collapsed to the ground. His hair that had gradually been freed from his tie fell into his face, obscuring his blank expression, as the dread finally overtook him. There was nothing he can do.

His hand balled into a fist on his tight. He might not be able to do anything on his own to help Jaskier, but the last thing he could do was give up on him.

The fleeting thought manifested into iron determination.

Jaskier wouldn’t want him to do this. He would tell him he was foolish and a hypocrite and he would be right. But Jaskier wasn’t here to tell him those things.

Without looking up, he whispered the name of the Fae Jaskier had called on before. The gods knew where Jaskier had learned the name. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that stubborn little hope inside of Geralt that refused to be crushed.

The name was but a whisper on Geralt’s lips.

“I want to make a bargain, Valdo.”

“How very curious.” The owner of the voice leaned against a tree, their wings lazily hanging down and he was looking at Geralt with unconcealed mockery. “Now what deal would that be?”

The Fae sauntered closer, pointedly relaxed and taking their time, knowing that as long as Geralt needed them, they had the upper hand.

Geralt gritted his teeth as Valdo crouched down in front of him, and brushed Geralt’s hair out of his face to get a better view of the determination in his eyes. Geralt repressed the instinct to push the hand away. He would do anything to ensure Jaskier’s return and if that meant being observed like a shiny new toy for the Fae and be submissive then that’s what he would do.

“Humour me,” the Fae said, finally letting go of his hair and straightening back up, towering over Geralt. “What could bring a witcher to his knees, begging a Fae for a deal.”

“Jaskier could. I need him back. Cancel the deal you made with him, please, bring him back.”

What if the Fae wouldn’t? What if they left him, told him that this was what he deserved? That he had slain one of their kind and Jaskier would be the one to pay the price for it.

Valdo tilted their head to the side, contemplating. Every second that passed weighed on Geralt’s chest.

“You have killed someone who was important to me,” the Fae finally said and Geralt tensed. This was it. He had wasted his last chance to get him back. “But oh, I do so love a good deal.”

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat.

“You will bring him back?”

Valdo nodded. “If only because I relish in imagining the look in his eyes when you finally figure it out.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “Figure what out? What game are you playing?”

The Fae laughed and waved a hand through the air dismissively. “Now where would be the fun in me telling you? You need to find out for yourself and make sure to take a good look at our dear Jaskier when you do.”

“Stop these games. Just bring him back,” Geralt growled. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed in the Fae world. Every heartbeat he spent listening to the Fae could be an eternity in which Jaskier got tortured.

“Fine. But my help is not for free. You asked me to make a bargain, here is what I offer: I will bring him back to you, but you will owe me a favour. I will let you know when I have decided to collect it.”

It went against everything Vesemir had ever taught him, but he clenched his jaw and bit out the word. “Deal.”

For a brief moment Geralt wondered whether he had made the right decision, when he saw Valdo’s face split with a smirk and an otherworldly heat branded his chest.

His doubts were pushed far from his mind, when a fog began to rise, just as it had only hours before and the silhouette of a man slowly manifested in it.

Geralt’s scrambled to his feet, as Jaskier tumbled out of the mist. He sprang forward, barely catching him and carefully guiding him to the ground in his arms. He could feel the frail body tremble and the hands desperately clutching at his shirt. Broken sobs wrecked Jaskier as he buried his face in Geralt’s chest, accompanied by the same words over and over.

“You’re alive. You’re safe.”

“Yes, Jaskier, yes I’m safe. You protected me.” He buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair and tightened the embrace, needing to feel Jaskier, needing to know that he wouldn’t disappear into the realm of shadows again.

The sun had long set and the sounds of the forest had turned hushed and secretive, when they finally loosened their embrace, still holding their hands, never breaking contact.

Geralt’s eyes roamed over Jaskier’s body, scanning him for any injuries as he should have done before. He realised a shaky breath when he found none, but then his gaze reached Jaskier’s eyes.

Haunted eyes with a broken look and an eternity of misery in them. Whatever Jaskier had endured in the Fae’s realm it had left him in shatters, even though his skin remained unbroken.

Geralt let go of one of Jaskier’s hands and lifted his own to caress his cheek.

“Don’t worry, Jaskier, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you again. Do you understand me?”

Jaskier nodded, fainty and pressed his cheek into Geralt’s palm.

As he did so, the echo of a laughter rang through the forest that held no joy but the promise of regret. Valdo’s laugh.

Every muscle in Jaskier’s body tensed. In all the years Geralt had known him, he had never looked more terrified than he did now.

Jaskier’s voice carried all the horror of the world.

“What have you done?”

[mootmuse]

So, I was suddenly overcome with book!Jaskier feels and wanted to ramble about him. Here it is!

First of all he’s horrible to women, in a really blatant way that from my particular corner of my particular culture (the US) comes off actually feeling old fashioned. (I bet y’all were expecting me to start out with something positive, weren’t you. XD Welp.) It isn’t that men who treat women the way he does no longer exist in the corner of society I live in, but most of them - especially fictional characters you’re supposed to like - are aware that they have to try to get away with it. Not saying that’s better, just that it’s different, and makes Dandelion’s behavior come off as all the more blatant and shocking for it. Dandelion doesn’t try to ‘get away’ with the way he acts toward women because he has no need to hide it; both he/many of the characters and the narrative seems to see blatantly shitty (often at least a little disturbing) treatment of women as unremarkable and expected.

Gathering up enough examples of this to thoroughly prove that the narrative itself feels in on it is more than I’m up to, but have one brief example from Last Wish:

Dandelion chuckled loudly and rested his head against the bookshelf, on the leather-bound volumes.

“Millet and mosquitoes! That reminds me of our first expedition together to the edge of the world,” he said. “Do you remember? We met at the fete in Gulet and you persuaded me--”

“You persuaded me! You had to flee from Gulet as fast as your horse could carry you because the girl you’d knocked up under the musicians’ podium had four sturdy brothers. They were looking for you all over town, threatening to geld you and cover you in pitch and sawdust. That’s why you hung on to me then.”

and then they carry on with their reminiscing without commenting on Dandelion getting a woman pregnant and leaving her. That’s how they met. That’s an absolutely horrible thing to do to a person and it’s treated like a funny little memory.

I do love Dandelion. Jaskier. Whoever he is. Believe it or not, I do. I’m getting to it.

I’ve seen a gifset where Joey Batey says they decided, in Netflix!Witcher, to reinterpret that misogynistic quality as Jaskier falling in love with everyone he meets, genuinely falling in love with them and genuinely liking them, because characters who do what Dandelion does (Dandelion=book!Jaskier, Jaskier=show!Jaskier, for clarity) are tired, character-wise, and uninteresting to watch. This is the only reasoning for changing that character trait that I could have actively approved of (and for the record, I approve of it quite a lot). I don’t like Dandelion’s lack of respect for women, but I’m not going to pretend it isn’t there just because I like him. In fact, that’s why I didn’t want to like him. I have a memory of realizing mid-scene, with some dismay, that he was my favorite character; he has flaws that step a bit too far into what reads to me as real life problems for me to have expected myself to gravitate to him.

The scene, I think, where I fell in love with the character was set just outside Brokilon forest, a piece of land its dryad inhabitants defended so violently that even the toughest of the humans who lived nearby were terrified to go close to it. But Dandelion knew his friend had been injured very badly; he knew Geralt was in that forest being treated by those dryads, and he had a plan. He was led to the no-man’s land that no human dared approach and was left alone to cross it, and as he walked he got more and more frightened. He knew the dryads were there - he walked past bodies of other humans who’d been as dumb as he was being right then and he was genuinely convinced that he was going to die. And he kept going. He sang a song that he’d translated into an ancient language himself just for the dryads, still mostly convinced that it wasn’t going to work and that he was absolutely going to die, and he kept doing it and he saw it through, just because he was worried about his friend and wanted to be there for him.

This isn’t an isolated incident; earlier, in the first book, Dandelion is the one we see visit Geralt while he’s recovering from a different injury, having had to actively work out where Geralt would go and track him down to do it. He is the only person (at least in the earlier books that I paid more attention to) who we see make the attempt - much more difficult with the slow, unreliable long distance communication and dangerous, snail-slow travel inherent in the setting -  to locate and travel to a recovering Geralt in this way.

And later on in the series, when things get grim and Geralt gets very grim himself, and insists things are so dangerous and dark that he has to go on solo and is willing to drive his friends away to do it, Dandelion refuses to leave him. He isn’t the only one who refuses to leave Geralt alone, but he is the only one who insists on it with absolutely no way to physically defend himself. Dandelion, whenever he travels with Geralt and Geralt’s Friends, is surrounded by people who can kill as easily as they breathe, and he never picks up a weapon himself. He’s so unused to battle that he’s glanced by an arrow and loses his shit, freaks out - and still stays. He’s seen the ugly realities of war and he’s seen slaughter, he knows the horror of violence, and he not only continues to put himself near a man who makes his living through violence because that man needs his support, but he never becomes numb to it. Let’s see an example of that in Baptism of Fire (warning for brief mention of gore and some vomit):

Next to him, Dandelion hauled himself up, throwing off the corpse with a mutilated throat which was weighing down on him. The poet’s face was the color of quicklime.

Milva came closer, pulling an arrow from a dead man as she approached.

“Thank you,” the Witcher said. “Dandelion, say thank you. This is Maria Barring, or Milva. It’s thanks to her we’re alive.”

Milva yanked an arrow from another of the dead bodies and examined the bloody arrowhead. Dandelion mumbled incoherently, bent over in a courtly - but somewhat quavering - bow, then dropped to his knees and vomited.

“Who’s that?” the archer asked, wiping the arrowhead on some wet leaves and replacing it in her quiver. “A comrade of yours, Witcher?”

“Yes. His name’s Dandelion. He’s a poet.”

“A poet,” Milva watched the troubadour wracked by attacks of dry retching and then looked up. “That I can understand. But I don’t quite understand why he’s puking here, instead of writing rhymes in a quiet spot somewhere.”

This part of Dandelion matters a lot to me. The part of him that can be exposed to that level of violence sort of repeatedly, can be near it as a matter of course, because in that kind of world traveling with that kind of person is going to get you up close and personal with some really horrific shit even if the war doesn’t, and yet he never changes himself into someone who will respond to violence with violence, he never becomes okay with being face to face with it.

That’s one of the big differences I’ve noticed between Dandelion and Jaskier, at least when it comes to how fandom interacts with Jaskier because honestly I haven’t watched the show, I'm pretty much just here for fandom shit. Netflix!Witcher fandom is pretty great. Anyway, the difference: there are a lot of fics where Jaskier learns a bit about fighting. Which makes sense, it’s the practical thing to do when you’re traveling with a man who often gets into very violent situations. But that being a tendency in fic about netflix!Witcher does indicate to me that the show likely doesn’t put as much emphasis as the books do on the idea of Jaskier as a man who is so different from the fighty-badass types who are usually the focus in stories like this - the idea of The Most Badass Witcher’s companion being a man who’s not just untrained in combat, but averse to it right down to his soul.

That’s not a negative, not a positive. It’s intended as a neutral observation, just a thing I’ve noticed and been thinking about. I feel both versions of the character, books and adaptation, are true to the heart of him, and I find it fun to look at them both. They have similarities, they have differences. Dandelion is an interesting character because he has qualities that mean a lot to me, that confident nonviolence, that deep loyalty that drives him to be brave in ways the more physically capable people around him might not even recognize as bravery. He believes in beauty and love and the equality of all people, not just humans - and then he turns around and treats the nearest cute girl like an object that exists solely for his entertainment, and so doesn’t get close to living up to some of those lovely beliefs and ideals he’s got. I want to see him grow from that - of course, that’s not a need the book series recognizes, but there’s some potential, at least, for growth there that could make fandom interaction with Dandelion particularly compelling. Fandom activity does tend to gravitate toward the things which we want to fix.

tl;dr dandelion is a character who exists and I love him. Also, AU where Jaskier and Dandelion meet, initially really get on until Jaskier starts to notice the particular difference between the way they treat their lovers/women in general, this is sort of the last straw on top of his already existing jealousy over the easy affection Dandelion gets from book!Geralt-

(not that netflix!Geralt doesn’t act like book!Geralt in any particular but he does seem to act more similar to book!Geralt near the middle/end of the series, after his life had been going to shit for years and he felt horrible and became thoroughly unpleasant - the interesting approaches to book vs show Geralt is a tumblr essay of its own, to be made by someone who remembers more of the books than I do, but even when he was acting like a shithead book!Geralt had already long since established that he cared for Dandelion and appreciated him. If I were Jaskier, I’d sure as hell be jealous of that shit.)

-cue climax of the AU after which Dandelion realizes he should start figuring out how to not be shit to women, show!Geralt learns to treat his friends as if he actually values them, everyone learns from one another the end. I can’t write that AU but I sure as hell would read it.