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There was nothing soft about Geralt of Rivia. Not his voice or any part of his body, toughened and scarred from decades’ worth of training and fighting, nor his clothes, fashioned from leather and cut from dark, tough fabric beneath his swords and belts, or anything he owned. Even his hair didn’t tumble in soft, luscious waves against his shoulders and neck, but curled coarse and dry and more often than not dirty around his face if he didn’t tie it back with a leather cord or scrap of torn off fabric. Once tied back and out of his vision, Geralt usually forgot about his hair entirely before long, unless it snagged on something or tore free from its tie – or Jaskier started to fiddle with it; running his fingers through the tangled strands and combing out knots and matted areas while Geralt rested or ate.
No, softness was not something that had come naturally to him ever since he had finished his training to become a witcher and for the longest time, he had been fine with that, happy even, though he would have never used that word for himself during those years. Gentleness, softness, feeling in general had no place in the life he had led, their absence little more noticeable than the absence of hair falling into his hair and eyes once he tied it back, and little more missed. There simply had been no reason to ponder these things, never mind dragging them back into his day-to-day life, which had been tough enough on its own, without any additional emotional baggage.
These days though, things had changed, and life had expanded beyond killing monsters, coin and the occasional night at a brothel; these days, he had Ciri and Jaskier, even Yennefer in some capacity Geralt was not willing to examine closer at the moment. And while his body and clothes, his belongs and hair had mostly stayed the same apart from the wear of the years that had passed and the scars they had left him, there was a new air about the white wolf now, a certain gentleness, even softness that was all his own, because it was based entirely on what Geralt decided to show through in his bearing; his voice when he praised Ciri during training, the way his face softened when he watched Jaskier sing or just go about his day, even his hair since he let his lover work all coarseness out of it with his hair oils and ivory comb.
In fact, he sometimes thought that his brothers and Yennefer, even Jaskier, were onto something when they told him, he’d gotten soft, and that it wasn’t something he had that much control over at all, when he told Jaskier off for distracting them during training sessions, and his voice lacked any and all bite it would have once had, or when he let Ciri talk him into taking her along to hunt or stay up too late. He wasn’t all that sure he minded the change even if he would never admit it out loud.
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“Maybe I should write a new ballade about you”, Jaskier mused one evening, laid back over one of the benches in the dining hall, one foot planted flat against the rough wood, legs crossed at the knees, so his other foot dangled in the cool air, and his head pillowed on Geralt’s thigh.
Geralt’s free hand had made its way into his lover’s hair at some point while he had eaten, and now that his empty plate and cup had long since been pushed out of the way, he kept twirling one of Jaskier’s longer strands of hair around his fingers, only pausing to rub the soft, chestnut colored strand between thumb and index finger.
“What, you’re asking permission beforehand now?”
“Just thinking out loud”, Jaskier hummed, tapping the tips of his fingers against his thigh, “I’m somewhat in the mood for a love song at the moment”
“As opposed to any other time?”
“Psh”, Jaskier laughed and waved him off, “I’ve hardly written any real love songs, most of them are just about fucking”
“Some people would say one equals pretty much the other”, Geralt pointed out, but he could already feel his lips twitch into a soft little smile as he looked down into his lover’s face.
That too happened more often these days, certain parts of his body just taking over and deciding to smile, or flush or let his voice come out differently than he had planned. Then again, Jaskier had always had a penchant for bringing out things in him that Geralt had not even been aware of beforehand, even if he still was a little more careful than he had been before the mountain, before Geralt had torn into him for no reason other than Jaskier being unlucky enough to be there and caring enough to not just leave him alone and stewing in his self-inflicted misery.
Gods, Geralt hated this new caution, creeping into every other quip Jaskier made, every other time he touched him without warning, or hugged and kissed him without asking permission first – and he hated that he had been the one to sow its seeds above all. Now, all he could do was keep his promise and try and weed out every last outcropping of uncertainty or fear Jaskier felt around him, try and fill the places they’d taken up with little assurances, promises and affection, if only to put Jaskier more at ease. Geralt still remembered their first days together, here in the closest place he had to a home that wasn’t in his lover’s embrace and the weight of Ciri’s little body in his own arms, and how Jaskier had flinched every time Geralt had turned too fast to face him or let annoyance creep into his voice, even if it had been directed at anything but Jaskier, who had only tried to help and draw as little attention towards himself as he could, even as he had been out of his depth and in pain.
“Write your love song”, Geralt now hummed, “write as many as you want, I have only one condition”
“Don’t worry, I won’t put anything in about Kaer Morhen or Ciri and-“
“I know that, Jask”, Geralt cuts him off, albeit softly, “my condition is that you’ll sing them for me before anyone else gets to hear”
“Really, I know what I’m doing after-“, Jaskier starts, then stops when he notices the look in his lover’s eyes and his own go soft as he swallows the rest of his point and merely breathes out the softest “oh”
Geralt can’t help himself to return the sweet smile Jaskier shows him a moment later, reaching up with one hand to touch his fingers to his chin and stroke the smooth skin there.
“Perhaps I could write a few”, Jaskier whispers in the end, “some for public consumption and some just for you and me. I think there’s a couple of things I want to keep just between my sweet wolf and myself”
“Sounds good to me”
After all, if there was one person whom he had never had to put on a show for, one person who had seen him for who he really was and declared him sweet and loveable from the very beginning, not despite, but because of everything he saw and learned and knew, it was Jaskier. Jaskier, whom he loved above all else and who still stands by his side through it all, still calls him darling and dear and everything else. Jaskier, who would hopefully stay with him until the very end now that he had finally stopped trying to drive him away. Jaskier, for whom Geralt would do just about everything – to keep him save, to show him his love, to make him smile despite everything he had gone through because of Geralt. Jaskier and Ciri who had both changed him so much and who had accepted him from the beginning.
Geralt really doesn’t mind going soft if it’s for them, and he trusts that they will never hold it against him. He trusts them with everything – and isn’t that a change for the better, in the end? Sitting here, in the dining hall of Kaer Morhen, with Jaskier’s head in his lap, his soft hair between his fingers and his gaze locked with Geralt’s, there is nothing that could make Geralt want to go back to his life before them, before Jaskier, and judging from the look on his lover’s face as he slowly blinks up at him, Jaskier would agree with him.