They go from vertical to horizontal in one fell swoop, Geralt's weight pressing Jaskier's smaller frame into the couch and his nose pressed to the musician's clavicle. He smells nice, like fancy floral soap, chamomile tea, and warm skin, and it's a far more appealing scent than expensive perfumes and colognes. Most people always put those on too heavily, anyway, and it irritates his nose.
This is nice. He can feel the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest as he breathes and the resonance of his voice when he speaks. Gentle fingers brush against his forehead when he pushes some of Geralt's hair back from his face, and that's nice, too. Could be nicer if he went a little further with it, because despite his gruff exterior, he does love it when fingers thread through his hair. Yen used to do that, what feels like a hundred years ago. He misses the feeling of nails on his scalp, of gentle hands.
And this is another one of the reasons why he shouldn't get high. He gets touchy, like whatever part of his brain experiences tactile sensation gets dialed up a few notches, and he wants. He can ignore the way his skin hungers for touch when he's sober, it's hard when he isn't. Harder to remember why he shouldn't ask for it, too.
"Hm," he says, a vague reply to Jaskier's comment. Geralt's hand is resting on Jaskier's side, his thumb rubbing slowly across the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. He isn't paying attention to the movie anymore, but that's fine; he's seen it before anyway. And Jaskier's warmth is distracting.
He realizes after... probably too long, honestly, that he's crushing Jaskier on his own couch. No matter how much Geralt wants to lay there and soak in his body heat-- and there's something that should be additionally wrong with that other than just the fact that he's too big and heavy to lay on people, but he can't remember what it is-- he needs to get up. Geralt gets a hand braced against the couch and reluctantly pushes himself up, relieving Jaskier of his weight.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough, and puts a reasonable distance between them on the couch. "I didn't-- sorry."
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This is nice. He can feel the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest as he breathes and the resonance of his voice when he speaks. Gentle fingers brush against his forehead when he pushes some of Geralt's hair back from his face, and that's nice, too. Could be nicer if he went a little further with it, because despite his gruff exterior, he does love it when fingers thread through his hair. Yen used to do that, what feels like a hundred years ago. He misses the feeling of nails on his scalp, of gentle hands.
And this is another one of the reasons why he shouldn't get high. He gets touchy, like whatever part of his brain experiences tactile sensation gets dialed up a few notches, and he wants. He can ignore the way his skin hungers for touch when he's sober, it's hard when he isn't. Harder to remember why he shouldn't ask for it, too.
"Hm," he says, a vague reply to Jaskier's comment. Geralt's hand is resting on Jaskier's side, his thumb rubbing slowly across the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. He isn't paying attention to the movie anymore, but that's fine; he's seen it before anyway. And Jaskier's warmth is distracting.
He realizes after... probably too long, honestly, that he's crushing Jaskier on his own couch. No matter how much Geralt wants to lay there and soak in his body heat-- and there's something that should be additionally wrong with that other than just the fact that he's too big and heavy to lay on people, but he can't remember what it is-- he needs to get up. Geralt gets a hand braced against the couch and reluctantly pushes himself up, relieving Jaskier of his weight.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough, and puts a reasonable distance between them on the couch. "I didn't-- sorry."