#soft!jaskier

Jaskier grew used to hearing Geralt purr. He purred when they were sitting by the campfire after a good meal. He purred when he had a quiet moment to sit in the sun. He purred when Jaskier was able to convince him to let him rub his back. He purred when he was able to soak in a hot bath after a hunt. And he purred as he lay in bed or on his bedroll, listening to Jaskier quietly work on one of his songs.

He purred when he was happy, so it confused Jaskier when the bard heard him make a sudden, short purr while they were in a crowded market. There were people everywhere, talking, laughing, haggling, and singing. Jaskier was loving all the activity and bustle. There was so much to see, and so many people to talk to.

Geralt started to get uncomfortable. There were too many f***ing people. They were too f***ing close. There was too much f***ing noise. There was just too much going on. He wanted to leave. Now. But they also needed supplies.

A man jostled him by accident, bumped by another market goer, and Geralt made a noise...

Jaskier looked at Geralt when he heard him purr suddenly. The Witcher was glaring at a man who was very quickly stammering appologies and trying to disappear into the crowd.

What the h*ll...?

That purr hadn't sounded like his regular purr. It was deep and rolling. And if Jaskier hadn't had such a good ear for sounds, he would have thought Geralt was growling or 'Hmm' ing threateningly.

Geralt had growled at people before. It was very useful as a warning to stay away, to scare most common folk away, and to express annoyance.

Jaskier had been on the receiving end of a growl several times when his chatter got on Geralt's nerves.

Geralt had been growling at people all morning. They had been bumped and jostled several times already, and Jaskier figured that Geralt was starting to reach the end of his patience.

But that purr concerned him.

He noticed the way Geralt shifted restlessly, pupils dilating slightly as he met his eye, throat working to hold back another purr. Something was wrong. Geralt never purred in public.

Jaskier switched to using Handspeak. He held one hand out, palm up, and shook it horizontally, then curled his fingers into a fist, leaving his thumb and pinky extended, then tapped the sign against his chin.

(What's wrong?)

(I want to leave.) *weird purr with visible effort to cut it off*

(Trouble?)

Geralt's movements were stiff, (No, I just...) *more weird purring* (Let's just go-!)

A man stumbled and bumped into him just then, and Jaskier saw Geralt barely keep himself under control. Geralt ugly growled but managed to keep his arms at his sides when he really wanted to shove the man across the square.

"My apologies, Master Witcher!" The man stammered, clutching his cap and backing away as Geralt gave him a severe scowl. Other people were now giving them wide berth and eyeballing them nervously.

Geralt huffed and twitched his head, signalling for the man to go. The man backed away, bobbing his head in a storm of frantic apologetic bowing that made him look like a nervous pigeon.

Jaskier lightly touched Geralt's arm, feeling him bristle, then relax. He was now looking at every movement, turning at every sound, constantly scenting the air. It clicked: Geralt was overstimmulated. It was time to go.

(Let's go back to the inn.)

*suppressed weird purr and a curt nod*

They had hurried back to the inn, Jaskier leading Geralt through the less crowded parts of the market. Geralt had gone up to their room, closed the curtains and curled up on the bed. He pulled the blanket over himself, then started purring. Geralt closed his eyes and focused on the rythmic sound of it, of the steady vibration, and let it slowly chase away the tightness in his chest.

The sound of Geralt's purring was kind of relaxing. Jaskier found it interesting that this Distressed Purr sounded different than Geralt's Happy Purr. It gave his brain an odd sensation. If he closed his eyes, the sound almost made him feel like he was rocking or swaying.

He realized that this deep, rolling purr was Geralt's way of self-soothing. He wondered if it was the equivalent of an extremely distressed human rocking themselves. The thought bothered him. How many times had Geralt done this in his years on the Path alone? How many times had laid in his bedroll, or in a bed at an inn, alone and Distress purring?

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed, then hesitantly started rubbing Geralt's shoulder. When Geralt didn't pull away or growl at him, he slowly laid down and cuddled up against his back.

Jaskier heard the purr get a little quieter after a few minutes.

After about an hour Geralt's purr dropped off and he got up to putter around the room. He was looking a little bit better. Less like he was five seconds away from biting someone.

Jaskier let him stay in the room while he returned to the market for the rest of their supplies. Niether one of them ever mentioned the incident.

From then on, Jaskier did his best to keep an eye on Geralt when they went anywhere with crowds. He was good at reading people, and he started paying more attention to Geralt's subtle signs of discomfort. When he noticed the Witcher start getting restless, Jaskier would do whatever he needed to do to give his friend some breathing room.

Or just flat out help him get the f**k out of where ever they were so Geralt could find a quiet place to Distress purr until he felt better. Eventually, Jaskier became very good at helping Geralt completely avoid those situations without him even realizing what was happening.

And Geralt didn't just purr like that when he was overstimmulated. Jaskier heard him purr like that several times when the people of a town had been less than friendly towards him. Oh, he tried to pretend that it didn't bother him, but his purr said otherwise.

Jaskier usually gave him his space, and busied himself on the other side of camp, pretending he couldn't hear him. If Geralt started looking too gloomy, the bard would casually wander over and hand him a mug of tea. Jaskier would then wordlessly drape a blanket around Geralt's shoulders.

OMG YES I DO. the books are awesome, btw.

PROMPT FILL: GILDED LILIES (on AO3 here)

Summary: 

The world tells Geralt he’s a monster. Jaskier shows him he’s not.

CW: Geralt’s headspace; prejudice and xenophobia; deals heavily with finding oneself unattractive, so please read with care if you have issues with that.

Slightly canon divergent.

——————————

It wasn’t that Geralt wanted to be beautiful.  No, he understood that only sorcerers gained beauty along with their inhuman powers, but he wished that he could have remained unremarkable in his looks.  The distant memories of Geralt’s childhood told him he had once been perfectly average looking.  A dark haired, dark eyed boy of middling height and build.  Neither ugly nor handsome, he passed without comment wherever he had gone. 

 Among the boys at Kaer Morhen, looks were irrelevant to the training process, but even there, standing among boys ranging from Lambert’s strong, handsome features to the scarred visages of those struck by the pox in their youth, Geralt had felt neither confident nor insecure about his appearance.  He was so normal, so average, that the thought to consider his looks never cross his mind.

 The mutations changed that. 

 Not only was he one of the few boys to survive the Trial of the Grasses, but he was the only Witcher in history to receive additional mutations.  Because of that, not only did he have a Witcher’s characteristic, unnatural, cat-like eyes, but his hair had been bleached white, his teeth elongated, his features sharpened, his very bones thickened to accommodate the enhanced strength afforded by his mutated muscles.  The other Witchers had unnatural eyes that flashed in the darkness.  He was nearly as much of monster as those they hunted.

 Geralt understood the stark difference, the sheer hideousness of his appearance, the first time he left Kaer Morhen after completing his training.

 Before, where he had passed without notice, now villagers pointed, stared, and spat.  Gasps of shock, expressions of violent disgust, and whispers of “freak”, “mutant”, and “monster” dogged his steps.  On his first day, passing through the village at the base of the mountain below Kaer Morhen, he’d heard an elderly peasant woman whisper to her companion, “they’re making them uglier every year, ain’t they?  Those thrice damned mutant freaks.”

Compared to the havoc the mutations had wreaked on his body, the impact on his looks should have been insignificant.  But it still hurt.  Back then, he was young enough to still be idealistic.  To still dream of being a hero, a knight protecting the weak and vulnerable in the world. 

 But the decades that passed showed him that dreams were not for the likes of him.  The first time he saved a girl from bandits intent on stealing her virtue, he’d imagined she might be grateful.  And she had been.  Until she saw Geralt’s face.  Then, she’d screamed and thrown her shoes, rocks, dirt, whatever she could lay her hands on at him until he’d retreated. 

 Once could have been a fluke.  A terrified girl reacting to protect her life and her virtue from an unknown stranger.  But it happened again, and again, and again.  Travelers he saved on the road would chase him off once they got a look at who – at what – saved them.  Aldermen who contracted him would curl their lips and sneer when he showed up to accept the contract, giving him the barest of details before hurrying him back out of town to complete his task, the only purpose for which his existence was tolerated.  Villagers he’d saved from monsters would throw stones at him, chasing him out of town with vile words if he was lucky, and with pitchforks if he was not.

 Geralt knew from the other Witchers that prejudice was common, as was a certain lack of gratitude from those served, but none experienced the depth of vitriol that Geralt suffered.  Geralt had long since concluded that the difference was due to his appearance, his hideous, monstrous, inhuman appearance. 

 And so, he did his best to avoid human settlements.  He limited his interactions to the bare minimum required to complete his contracts.  He made sure to never raise his voice, to never show his anger.  He was unfailingly polite and soft spoken when he was forced to speak.  He kept his eyes averted and stayed in the shadows and corners of human settlements.  He entered villages only when absolutely required, and spoke to innkeepers and merchants only when his supplies were utterly exhausted.  He made sure to keep a supply of gold and precious gems on hand to compensate a healer in the rare event he couldn’t heal himself, knowing they would charge a premium for interacting with him, and even more of one if they were forced to touch him.

 After nearly a century living in the shadows because of his monstrous nature, Geralt was resigned to his lifestyle.  On occasion, in a quiet village that was more tolerant of him than most, he would take a chance and see if the tavern keeper would be willing to serve him.  Every once in a great while, they were, and he would sit in the farthest, darkest corner of the tavern to nurse his ale in silence, hood up and eyes down, trying his best to blend into the background.

 It worked well for him.  He’d get to enjoy his ale and he’d yet to have a problem with the other patrons, if they noticed him at all.

 But all good things must end.

 In Posada, on a bright, sunny day before heading out to complete a contract for a “devil” (it was not a devil, but Geralt suspected it might be a sylvan), Geralt sat in his usual dark corner, enjoying a surprisingly good ale.  The bard playing for the patrons crowded around the tavern’s large windows was as skilled with his lute playing as he was terrible with his lyrical composition, but Geralt let the words pass through his ears without listening to them, content to enjoy the music alone. 

 He was shocked to his core when the bard, having completed his set to a rain of bread and jeers, not only came up to him, but sat down.  Geralt immediately stood to leave, head down to hide his face in his hood, taking his half-full tankard with him, when the bard stopped him.  “I know who you are.”

 Geralt froze.  The tavern keeper knew, of course, but exposing his identity, his presence, could potentially cause a violent reaction amongst the tavern’s other patrons, who doubtless would want to clear him out of their space as soon as possible.

 “You’re Geralt of Rivia.”  The bard said, clearly pleased with his identification skills, and, fortunately, quietly.

 Geralt leveled a quelling glare at him before he could stop himself.  His face fully lit by the sunlight coming through the windows when he raised his head to do so.  He took a quick glance around the tavern, seeing they’d not been noticed yet, and stalked out the door, leaving his ale behind, his rare moment of peace shattered.  Luckily, he always paid in advance in case he needed to make a quick exit, so the tavern keeper let him go without comment. 

 Walking swiftly to Roach, he checked her tack before unhitching her from the post, leading her out to the road.  As he moved to mount, he heard light, quick steps behind him. 

 “Wait!”  The bard called out, lute banging on his back as he hastily stuffed bread into his shoulder bag, “I’m coming with you!”

 Geralt took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, to remain soft, inoffensive.  “No, you’re not.”  He said, mounting Roach and turning his head away from the bard.

 “Yeah, no, I totally am.  Meeting you is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me, and I’m not going to let this chance pass by!”  The bard said brightly, moving to stand at Geralt’s left stirrup. 

 Geralt heaved a sigh, looking down at the young man, and he was a young man, unsure whether he should be annoyed or pleased at his persistence in keeping Geralt’s company.

 The bard looked up, meeting his gaze fully for the first time.  “Wow, yeah, you’re gorgeous.” He said, staring up at Geralt with an expression Geralt didn’t recognize.  Gorgeous? Geralt didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. 

 He kicked Roach on, setting her off at a quiet walk toward the village gate.  Wouldn’t do to move any faster, no matter how much he wanted to leave this odd bard behind.  Faster meant more attention.  Faster was dangerous.

 The bard kept up, walking more swiftly in his fancy shoes than he had any right to, chattering away about anything and everything, from his latest doublet, to some character named Valdo Marx, to how pleasing Geralt’s hair was when the sun hit it just so.

 After a long hour of walking, followed closely by the young bard, Geralt arrived at the hill close to the site of the reported “devil”.  He stopped and dismounted Roach, securing her safely to a tree branch with ample room to graze. 

 The bard trotted right up next to him.  “So, where to next?  I’m Jaskier, by the way.”  He said, thrusting out a hand to shake.

 Geralt just looked at it.  No one had ever wanted to shake his hand before, but he wouldn’t play into whatever this bard – Jaskier – had planned by going off script. 

 He just moved on with his hunt, heading out to look for clues on his quarry’s location and identity, tossing a gruff, “stay with the horse” over his shoulder at the bard.  If he couldn’t get the bard to leave him, at least he could try and keep him safe.

 Jaskier didn’t listen.  Not then, not after they eventually escaped from Filavandrel, and not for the next several months he followed Geralt all about the Continent, sharing camp sites, meals, and the occasional room at an inn.  With Jaskier’s presence, one in every dozen innkeepers or so was willing to lend Geralt a room, with the understanding he was under the supervision and control of his human keeper.  When he was alone, asking for a room was a useless exercise.  Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier understood that or not, but he wouldn’t risk losing access to more frequent hot baths and comfortable beds by pointing it out. 

 The oddest thing about Jaskier though was not his persistence in following Geralt, but his persistence in complimenting him.  It was always “your hair is so soft” or “gods, your eyes are to die for” or “you’re so attractive, it’s not fair.”  More than that, more than those incomprehensible words, was the fact that Jaskier touched him.  Freely and often.  A pat on the shoulder, gentle hands combing through his hair while he bathed, a warm body leaning against his by the campfire.  People didn’t touch him.  Didn’t like to look at him.  And yet, Jaskier did.  Geralt didn’t understand it. 

 He knew he was monstrous; he knew he wasn’t fit for human companionship, and yet, Jaskier was seemingly unaware of that obvious fact.  At first, Geralt had thought the compliments and the touching were all a great, cruel joke to Jaskier, but months of exposure showed him that Jaskier was as genuine as he was foolhardy, and he held nothing back when he felt Geralt did something that deserve censure.  If Jaskier complimented him or touched him, it was because he wanted to, and that was beyond Geralt’s comprehension.

 Geralt’s confusion, his frustration with Jaskier not following the script, all came to head when they were preparing to attend a fancy banquet, hosted by one of Jaskier’s friends from Oxenfurt, which Jaskier had convinced Geralt to attend as his companion.  “I can’t just show up alone, Geralt!”  Jaskier had said.  “Besides, I can’t resist a chance to show off my lovely muse.”

 As Geralt bathed, scraping drowner blood out of his white hair, Jaskier flitted about the room, laying out finery for Geralt to wear, commenting how nice everything would look on him and how jealous his friends would be when they saw him on the arm of such a gorgeous companion

 Geralt couldn’t take it anymore.  “Stop it!” He growled, turning a frustrated glare on Jaskier.  “Stop saying things like that!”

 Jaskier froze.  He must have seen something in Geralt’s expression, because he immediately dropped the ribbon he was inspecting, one of his many choices to use on Geralt’s hair, and knelt at the side of the tub by Geralt’s left side. 

 He reached for Geralt’s cheek and Geralt flinched away, hiding his face behind a curtain of wet hair.  Tension thrummed through his frame and his posture was abjectly miserable, fists clenched around the edges of the bath, knuckles white.

 Jaskier frowned, uncertain where this upset was coming from, but knowing how reserved Geralt was, he knew the cause was substantial to create this strong a reaction in his normally stoic friend. 

 He reached out again and gently turned Geralt to face him.  Geralt flinched, but didn’t pull away. 

 Geralt’s eyes remained firmly down, brows drawn together, shame flooding him.  He’d shouted at Jaskier, growled at him like an animal, all over the little, innocuous lies Jaskier liked to tell himself about Geralt’s appearance.  If he was lucky, Jaskier would simply leave.  If he was unlucky, he’d be getting a visit from the guards.

 “Geralt?”  Jaskier prompted, concern clear in his voice.  “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

 Geralt’s jaw clenched, daring a glance up at Jaskier before averting his eyes again.  “Forgive me.  I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”  This time he did pull away.

 “No, you shouldn’t have, but I’m more concerned with why.  Have I upset you?  Hurt you?  Please, tell me.”  Jaskier waited, watching as Geralt’s eyes darted about, jaw clenching and unclenching.

 Geralt didn’t know what to say.  This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.  He had a role, a script, and Jaskier just came in and flipped the papers out of his hands, setting his own, improvised pattern instead.  Geralt didn’t know what to do.  What to think.  He just knew it hurt that Jaskier kept giving him glimpses of his childhood dream, a dream he knew was forever out of reach.

 But he had already behaved unforgivably, so he might as well get some information about Jaskier’s incomprehensible actions before he inevitably left.  Could serve him well in the future if he ever met anyone else willing to tolerate him for more than a few moments.

 Geralt drew in a breath and went for it, heart racing in his chest.  “Stop saying things that aren’t true.  I don’t understand why you do that.”  He spoke to the bathwater, unable to look at Jaskier.

 “Whatever do you mean?”  Jaskier asked, anxious to ease the pain he saw on his dear friend’s face.

 “You call me ‘gorgeous’, you compliment my hair, my looks.” Geralt shook his head, bewilderment evident in his tone.  “I know it’s not true, so why do you keep saying it?”  Geralt finally looked up, searching Jaskier’s expression, face lined with pained confusion.

 Jaskier’s heart clenched in his chest, aching for his friend, for the decades of suffering that simple ask revealed.

 He placed a hand gently over Geralt’s where it was clenched around the edge of the wooden tub, meeting Geralt’s eyes calmly.  Geralt’s hand jumped beneath his, but did not pull away.

 “Because it is true.  You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met.  And one of the most noble, to keep fighting to protect people who will never appreciate all that you do and all that you sacrifice.”  Jaskier said, firmly and kindly.

 Geralt shook his head sharply, looking away.  He knew what he was.

 Jaskier leaned forward to keep Geralt’s face in sight, thumb rubbing gently over Geralt’s clenched fist.  “What do you think you look like?”  He asked.

 Geralt scoffed.  “Like a monster.”  He stated it like the indisputable fact he knew it to be.

 Jaskier closed his eyes briefly, devastated to hear confirmed what he always suspected.  Geralt had no idea of his own worth, his own beauty, having internalized for far too long the fear and hatred dumped on him by villagers unable to accept that something could be different and still be worthy.

 Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s fist, reaching out with his other hand to turn Geralt’s face to his again.  Holding his chin gently so he could not look away, Jaskier said firmly, “there is nothing monstrous about you.”  Geralt huffed in disbelief, trying to avert his eyes, but Jaskier held him in place.  “Your mutations made you unique, gave you the ability to do your job, to protect all of us from the real monsters.  Your hair, your eyes, hell, even your teeth, they show the sacrifices you’ve made to protect our Continent.  From a purely aesthetic perspective, you are stunning.  But as a person, you are beyond compare.”

 Geralt stared, unable to respond, unsure of what to say in the face of Jaskier’s firm belief that he was worthy, that he was not monstrous to behold.  When he was young, he knew he was unremarkable.  After his mutations, he knew he was a monster.  Yet, Jaskier seemed equally sure that Geralt was neither of those things. 

 Jaskier saw the conflict in his friend’s face.  He knew that one conversation would not change a lifetime of conviction.  He gently leaned his forehead against Geralt’s, closing his eyes.  “One day, you’ll believe me, and until then, I’ll remind you every day that you are worthy, that you are gorgeous, and that you mean the world to me.”

 Jaskier pulled back, keeping his eyes locked with Geralt’s.  Geralt saw nothing but calm assurance in Jaskier’s eyes.  No matter how remarkable, how unprecedented his words, Jaskier believed them to his core. 

“I know that what we have is-is important, and I know we’ve never really talked about what it means or what might come later--”

“Jaskier-” 

“No, please.” Geralt tries to look at him, but the fingers in his hair tighten, and he respects the unspoken request to stay put, humming softly and settling back into the warm skin and steady heartbeat. “I want you to know that it’s only been you, for a long while now. And I’m getting on in years but- No, don’t argue. I’m not decrepit, and I’m obviously still the prettiest man in Oxenfurt, and I’m going to be dashing as a devil when my hair starts to grey, but still - you’re going to live much, much longer than I will. Whatever years or decades I have left...I’d like to spend them with you.” He swallows hesitantly, then adds, “If you’ll have me?”

Geralt moves to sit up again, and this time, Jaskier doesn’t protest. When they are at eye level, he presses their foreheads together with a hand curled into the short brown hair that’s still a little damp with sweat. He echoes, “If I’ll have you, you ask, as though I make the sacrifice by stealing your whole life. I’m a selfish, selfish man, and I want to take every single day you will give.” Those dancing spring waters close in contentment.

“You can’t steal what’s freely given,” he points out.

Geralt groans, the sound scraped from his chest like fistfuls of gravel. “Of course, I will have you,” he sighs, ignoring how much emotion has seeped into his voice. “How could I not, when you are mine?” He grips the hair in his fist tighter, earning a weak whimper as he captures Jaskier’s lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. 

“As you are mine,” Jaskier breathes.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: jaskier thinks he is cursed, so there is discussion of suicide, Discussion of Assisted Suicide, valdo marx is a fuck boi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Character Death(s), Idiots in Love, past jaskier/valdo, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, too I suppose, no betas we die as alphas, jk i wish i had betas in my pack, mentions of depression Series: Part 1 of just to be closer when my spirit's pulled away Summary:

“That was more emotional than I expected.” He finally said “I didn’t think I’d have time to share this with you, and I.” Jaskier interrupted himself, as if unsure if he should continue. “I suppose I didn’t think it would upset you so.”

“Jaskier” Geralt growled, not able to express how ludicrous that idea was.

“Yes, I suppose I was wrong there.” Jaskier replied with a helpless shrug.

Just a quick note. I've had a few friends politely point out that I don’t need to censor cuss words. I'm glad that y'all are being helpful and looking out for everyone! Good for you for being kind and thoughtful!

I am aware that censoring is unnecessary, but I have a few reasons why I do:

1. I know there are minors on this site, and they might not be comfortable with cuss words, or maybe someone sees cuss words as NSFW.

2. It's a personal preference. I don't use that type of language IRL. I don't have a problem with other people using it, I just never really liked the way those words "tasted"(It's hard to explain 😅 ), but I want the characters to sound like themselves as much as possible, so censoring is a compromise.

3. It's...funny. For some reason reading a censored word makes it funny to me. Maybe because I hear a "beep", or the dolphin noise from that one SpongeBob episode. I don't know. There's just something about asterisks that makes it funny. I know, I'm weird!

Anyway, enjoy the bonus scene!

Jaskier had fancied himself somewhat of an expert on Witchers after those first few years of travelling with Geralt. He had learned so much about them and had used his power as a bard to change things for them. Thanks to his songs, his stories, and his poetry, people were starting to see Witchers as they really were: Friend Shaped.

He thought he knew everything there was to know about Witchers, but he made an interesting discovery one evening. Something about Witchers that had never been mentioned in the lore, and that no one had ever spoken of.

Geralt had been exhausted when he returned to the inn after dealing with a local monster problem. He had come through with only a few minor scrapes and bruises this time.

The innkeeper had happily given him a tankard of ale and a hot meal while Jaskier entertained the other guests with songs, news, and the latest court gossip. When Geralt was finished with his meal, the innkeeper's wife had a bath sent up to his room, along with fresh linens and extra firewood.

Geralt had been boiling himself in the bath, letting the heat draw out the achces and pains of sore muscles and old injuries, when it happened.

The fire was crackling quietly infront of him. Jaskier was scribbling down ideas for a new song and quietly filling Geralt in on the town gossip. He felt so warm and relaxed. He leaned his head back and...

Jaskier looked up from his writing as he heard Geralt start making a noise. At first he thought it was a 'hmm', or an irritated growl. Geralt was tired, after all, and not very social. He was probably getting tired of the chatter.

But the sound didn't stop like he expected a growl or 'hmm' to. It kept going. It was a soft, undulating sound. Like a gentle bubbling hum. It sounded like a...

Holy f**k! Geralt was purring!

Geralt heard Jaskier's heart suddenly start beating a little faster, and smelled the change in his scent. Surprise/interest/curiosity

Geralt realized he was purring, and immediately stopped, sitting up with an irritated grumble to hide his embarrassment. He hoped like h*ll that the bard somehow hadn't heard.

"Geralt, were you...purring?"

Geralt froze. F**k. He'd heard. He was never going to live it down. Geralt growled at him out of reflex.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I won't bring it up again."

"I was. What of it, bard?"

"Nothing," Jaskier said almost gently, as if he might scare Geralt away, "I just didn't know you could do that. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just curious if it was a Geralt Thing, or a Witcher Thing."

Geralt side-eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to determine if there was any sinister movitves behind the questions. All he could sense was genuine curiosity.

Jaskier knew that Geralt was special. That he had extra mutations that other Witchers didn't have. If he wasn't sure that a behavior, attribute, ability, etc was something all Witchers had, or if it was unique to Geralt, he always asked if it was a Geralt Thing, or a Witcher Thing.

Geralt had sighed quielty and answered that it was a Witcher Thing. All Witchers did it, just not around humans. He could see the bard mentally file the information away. "No songs! I will kill you and dump your carcass in the nearest field!"

"I would never! How dare you even suggest! You wound me, sir! My poor heart is broken! Broken!"

Geralt had rolled his eyes at the drama.

"Listen, I promise I will never, ever write a song about you or any other Witchers purring. Ever."

Geralt didn't seem terribly convinced. Jaskier knew it was going to take something more binding than words to convince Geralt. He was going to have to invoke the most ancient, absolute, and unbreakable ritual of deal-making.

"Geralt, I Pinky Swear!"

The Witcher regarded him silently for a moment, then nodded solemnly. Pinkies were clasped and the deal was made.

Months later, Geralt had long gotten comfortable around Jaskier, and felt safe enough with him that he could allow himself to show his vulnerable side.

Jaskier regularly found himself sitting by their campfire, working on his songs, or falling asleep to the sound of Geralt's purring. He noted that like a cat, when Geralt got comfortable or relaxed enough, he would start to Happy Purr. He'd purr as Jaskier helped work the stiffness out of a sore muscle, or a knot out of his back, or when he'd get all warm and toasty under his blankets when they stayed at an inn.

And when he scratched his chin or cheeks.

Finding out that Witchers loved chin and cheek skritches had been the highlight of Jaskier's day.

Geralt had been grumbling about something or other, like he usually did when he was over-tired and couldn't sleep. Jaskier had sat next to him, and as a joke, started scratching his cheeks.

Geralt had stopped talking, mid-grumble, and his pupils had dilated. He'd visibly relaxed, eyes glazing over, and he'd started purring loudly as Jaskier's fingers scratched through the short stubble on his cheeks. "B**tard..." he'd mumbled almost drunkenly.

Jaskier's fingers faltered in their scratching, He was suddenly worried he'd gone too far with the joke. But Geralt had only leaned into his hands and slurred "I didn' say to stop..." Jaskier smiled to himself and resumed the skritches.

Geralt's eyes had closed and he started purring louder. He started leaning a little harder on Jaskier, starting to fall asleep when the bard started scratching his chin.

Jaskier stopped after a few more moments, not wanting to push his luck, and Geralt had glared at him sleepily. The Witcher looked p*ssed, but Jaskier could tell that he was actually embarrassed that he had almost been put down for a nap by cheek scritches.

"If you ever do that to me in public, or where anyone might see it, I will beat your a**!"

Jaskier had nodded to show that he'd understood. He smiled to himself as Geralt had rolled himself up in his blanket like an angry toddler to hide from Jaskier's knowing smile.

Geralt got a certain amount of smug satisfaction that winter, when Jaskier made it his personal mission to scratch the cheeks and chins of every Witcher at Kaer Morhen. The feral bard somehow survived, and by the end of the first month, Geralt's brothers were arguing over whose turn it was to get cheek or chin scritches.

Purring Headcaonon

Bonus scenes

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Jaskier and Yennefer enjoy keeping up the appearance of their "No officer, I've never seen this person in my life" chaotic sibling relationship

Geralt secretly enjoys their bickering. He pretends to be indifferent, or irritated, but he looks forward to the epic banter and often times hilarious arguments they get into

It all changes when anything happens to one of them. And while Soft!Yennefer comes out as an insufferable Mother Hen, who will baby Jaskier to death, Soft!Jaskier is a little different. He's 60% Soft, 39% Protective, and 1% something Geralt can't quite put his finger on.

Jaskier is beside himself with worry when Yennefer exhausts herself with a spell she was working on.

He and Geralt had been staying with her due to a slow Hunting Season.

Jaskier is frantic, cradling Yennefer where she'd collapsed on the floor, and alternately calls her name and gently shakes her

Oh gods, there's blood coming out of her eyes!

Yen! Yen! What's wrong? What do I do? Tell me what to do!

Geralt is suddenly kneeling in front of them, and Jaskier starts babbling so frantically that the Witcher can hardly understand him

He notices how Jaskier tenses briefly and his eyes get a hard look in them, that is not what he usually sees with his protective side, when he reaches for Yennefer's cheek

Geralt is a bit curious at the reaction, but doesn't have time to think much about it. He's too worried about Yennefer.

He checks the witch over and is relieved that she's not injured

He tells the bard that she will be fine. She just needs rest. Let's get her to her room

When he reaches for Yennefer, the bard suddenly gets that look in his eyes again. He tightens his arms around her and just about barks "No!"

Geralt goes completely still.

Jaskier *awkward cough* I can do it.

Hmmm...

Yennefer is tucked in bed Jaskier has planted himself in a chair right next to her

Soft!Jaskier talks quietly to her, sings to her, and holds her hand. He presses his forehead to hers and whispers soft words to her.

His hands fuss with her hair, brush her cheek, and stroke her arms. He's all nervous energy.

He cleans the blood from her face, murmuring small comforts to her and kissing her forehead.

When his anxiety starts getting the better of him, he shuffles in next to her, carefully rolling her towards him so her head is tucked under his chin. He takes her hand, kisses her fingers, then holds it against his chest.

For a while, he murmurs quietly to her, telling her how glad he is that they are friends. That he always wanted an older (emphasis on the 'older', Yen, haha!) sister like her. That he doesn't know what he'd do without her. That he should visit her more often. That he's sorry for how he treated her when they first met. And for writing that one song making fun of her tits...

Please, Yen, don't leave me...

The longer Yennefer sleeps, the quieter Jaskier gets. The talking stops, the singing stops. He just strokes her hair silently and holds her

Geralt notices that Jaskier goes very still whenever he moves around the room, and that he tries to covertly watch him from the corner of his eye.

Geralt pretends not to notice, and tells Jaskier he is going to go into town to see if he can get some supplies for a potion.

Jaskier gives him a curt nod, then turns his attention back to Yennefer.

When Geralt leaves, Jaskier decides to relocate to the chair. With Geralt gone, he feels as if Yen is not safe with him laying down. He needs to be up and ready if anything happens.

His voice cracks a little as he whispers "Don't worry, Yen. I-I won't let anything happen to you."

Joy blossoms in his chest as Yennefer wakes briefly, muttering "Ugh. That voice crack gets me every time..." Her fingers brush weakly against his cheek

Yen! Thank the gods! Shhh, dear heart, don't move around too much. Here, here.. Come love, have a little water.

He sits her up and helps her take a few sips of water, then tucks her head over his shoulder, holds her tightly, and breathes in a broken whisper

Thank all the gods, Yen...I was so worried!

The Voice Crack, Jaskier... Can you not?

Of course, Yen, anything!

He let's a few tears fall as he rocks her for a moment, comforting her as much as himself.

When the painful tightness in his chest eases a bit, he lays her back down and pulls the blanket up.

Rest now, darling. Your idiot bard is right here, and your oafish Witcher will be back soon. He kisses her temple, and holds her hand until she falls asleep.

My 2 part Soft!Jaskier headcanon, all in one place!

Part 1