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Jaskier woke with a contented sigh, and—for the fifth time that month— noted Geralt shuffling away behind him, retreating back to his own side of the creaky, inn bed. The bard smiled, a little knowing quirk of his lips, into his sorry attempt of a pillow.
He’d caught onto his Witcher’s game by now. For all the White Wolf’s stealth on a hunt, the poor man was dreadfully obvious when it came to… whatever this was .
The first two times, the sleep-fuzzy bard had just assumed his waking had startled the Witcher out of his own rest. The Wolf would huff or stir and reposition himself quickly in a way Jaskier took for morning annoyance; a fair assumption given the man’s legendarily sour inclination. On top of that, Geralt was a particularly light sleeper. Had to be in his profession, after all. So at first, he’d thought little of it.
It was a treat for the pair to find a cheap enough inn that’d take them, either the night before or after contract work. They more often slept out in the woods on bedrolls, and there Geralt always kept his distance. Jaskier would usually fall asleep to the sharp sounds of Geralt making use of his whetstones, or the stoney clacking of him grinding herbs into paste for his potions via mortar and pestle. Upon waking, Geralt would always already be up and about, busy cleaning the campsite or readying Roach for the road. The forest kept him alert, always aware, always on edge .
The cramped walls of shoddy inn rooms had no such effect, and—In the small space of a single bed—distance wasn’t an option. Still, before they dozed off, there was always at least a hand’s splay of space between them.
On the third time though, Jaskier realized something peculiar.
Before he heard the rustling of Geralt rousing next to him, he felt the other’s arm around his middle. It quickly slipped away as soon as he’d noticed it, and if it hadn’t happened again, he might’ve written it off as a fragment of a dream.
But, of course, it did happen again.
The last time it’d been Geralt’s leg hooked around his own, and this morning it’d been his hand spread loose upon Jaskier’s shoulder.
The bard had considered the possibility that Geralt was a sort of sleep-cuddler, that perhaps he was doing it without realizing it. But Jaskier was an observant man, and it was clear to him that the other’s movements were far too fast and purposefully discrete for Geralt to be anything but fully awake whenever he pulled away.
It was in this way that Jaskier learned that his Witcher was a cuddler.
What had it been? A decade? A decade and a half? They’d been traveling together so long already and Jaskier was still discovering new things about the white haired man. Things like Geralt’s favorite scents, sights, and sounds.
He noticed the way the wolf sniffed at the air —without sneering—whenever he used a particular perfume. The blend was a modest smelling mix of sprig and lilac, grounded and subdued by a deep, earthen musk. On the days he used it, Geralt would slow Roach’s canter considerably until her pace matched Jaskier’s own.
When the two ventured close to something old and crumbling—usually the remains of a tower or half standing bastion— late in the day, the Witcher would almost always suggest they stop early to make camp. Once set up, fire started and bed rolls laid, Geralt would climb up to the highest point of the failing structure, take a precarious seat, and just stare out at the horizon line.
In regards to sounds, Jaskier discovered that the Wolf’s ear was partial to the simple, clipped melodies of morning songbirds. If the bard got up early enough, he’d sometimes catch the Witcher softly whistling the same notes back to the birds. It wasn’t deliberate, per say. Geralt always looked preoccupied when he did this, focusing on something else: rereading a contract or flipping through his personal bestiary. He’d repeat the sounds somewhat subconsciously, face never losing its steely concentration.
These were only a few points on Jaskier’s ever growing list of ‘ Cute Things my Witcher Does ’, subtitle, ‘ Further Proving He’s Actually a Huge Softie ’. The bard was unreasonably excited to add ‘ Secret Cuddler ’ to the list.
But also… frustrated.
Because he didn’t want Geralt to keep his desire for affection secret from him. He wanted Geralt to have whatever comfort he needed, didn’t want him to pull away in the morning; too stubborn to ask and too shy to be caught.
Plus, Jaskier really, really wanted to cuddle, and it was—quite frankly—unfair that he was never fully awake to enjoy it.
So, he made up his mind to address it.
It’s around a week later that they stay at another inn. They’re in some musty little dump on the outskirts of White Orchard, tired and worn after a particularly nasty griffin contract. Jaskier had offered to pay for their boarding this time, knowing his companion wouldn’t get the kind of rest he deserved out in the woods. Unfortunately, this had been the only place around with a room available, but it was still better than dirt and paranoia. The two of them settled into bed like normal, their invisible wall of space set firmly in between. That night was like any other; nothing special or out of the ordinary.
The morning, however, was far from their usual routine.
Jaskier awoke to find Geralt doing not one but two overwhelmingly adorable things. One, the Witcher’s arm was wrapped snug against the bard’s chest; closer and cuddlier than ever before. Two… Geralt was purring ever so softly. It was a noise you’d expect to hear out of a large cat, something big and dangerous, yet fluffy and soft.
It was the most endearing noise he’d ever heard.
Before he had much time to appreciate the sound, it abruptly stopped, Geralt’s arm suddenly slipping away.
“ Nuh uh , not this time,” Jaskier sleepily drawled, trapping Geralt’s retreating limb in a tight hug.
The Witcher grunted in surprise and froze , captured arm unmoving and quickly dotting itself with embarrassed little goosebumps.
“...Jaskier, I’m —”
“A terrible communicator. If you wanted to cuddle all this time, you needed only ask,” he interrupted, twisting over to face the other man, careful to keep the Wolf’s arm comfortably in his grasp. Jaskier had to stop himself from giggling when he saw the other’s face. Geralt bore the expression of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, all wide eyed with a light blush tinting the tops of his cheeks.
Jaskier would’ve very much liked to kiss the darling man silly in that moment, but he knew the situation was fragile . Move too fast and he’d likely spook the poor Wolf right out of his fur. Hesitate too much, and he’d close himself off; pull away and hide all that sweetness under grunts and growls. In a split second decision, Jaskier chose to be as forthright and plain as a poet possibly could be.
“I like it when I wake in your arms.”
Geralt merely blinked, looking as if his mind were processing the bard’s words at least three seconds behind schedule. Jaskier, emboldened by the Witcher’s dumbfounded silence, continued.
“It’s only ever for a second, because you move away every damn time, and I want more than a single second, I want— I mean , I’d really appreciate if—“ Jaskier’s composure was slipping fast as he realized he hadn’t really thought his words through, “If we could— if I — w-what I’m trying to say is—“
“You’re… okay with us… cuddling?”
This time, it was Jaskier’s turn to blink dumbly. Oh, how the tables turned.
“Uh… yeah,” the Bard uttered, watching Geralt’s face fill with relief. “Very much so.”
“Hmm, good ,” the Witcher rumbled and proceeded to pull the other man back into his arms… and well… Jaskier hadn’t expected that.
In his mind’s eye, he’d envisioned himself talking to Geralt soothingly; slowly explaining that it was alright to seek affection from others, that hugging wasn’t some weird taboo act. Instead, he’d barely said a fraction of what he’d meant to… and everything had turned out just fine.
More than fine, actually, because Geralt was purring again, and— gods —did it feel nice to be held. Soft, safe, warm. So pleasantly close.
Neither of them moved until noon, perfectly content laying there, their heartbeats syncing, their troubles far away.
After that day, things changed.
Geralt no longer snuck around the subject of cuddling. When they slept, they slept together; limbs intertwined from dusk till dawn. And—to make things even better— Jaskier himself discovered a new favorite sound of his own: the soft, pleased purring of his cuddly White Wolf.