Geralt is heavy on top of him, sure, but he's also warm. Oh so warm. And cozy, even. Is this what cuddling an actual wolf or bear feels like? Well, if it can be considered cuddling. Jaskier's body position is awkward, to say the least, and he isn't really getting to hold Geralt in return.
Should he?
His teasing only gets a grunt in return, and Geralt... doesn't even attempt to move. Jaskier doesn't mind, but he's incredibly confused - there's only so much mental gymnastics he can do! The laxness can be blamed on the weed but... there simply isn't a heterosexual explanation for the thumb rubbing his side. He can't stop himself from catching his breath as he internally screams, not knowing what to do. And that's a big fucking deal, because Jaskier always knows what to do with advances like this.
Talk about mixed signals, made worse by the fact Geralt is as high as a kite. How much is the weed talking? How much has Jakier read wrong all this time and how much can he do from now on? It's driving him crazy. Asking would bring attention to it and put Geralt in his usual private, defensive mode. Ignoring it would make him a coldhearted bastard.
In the end he decides to put a hand on Geralt's back, between his shoulders, and do some gentle rubbing in return. That's neutral enough, right? No lines crossed? They sure as hell are getting blurred though. It feels wrong yet so right - Geralt's back is firm, wide, as perfectly shaped as the rest of him, and Jaskier tells himself he should be happy he's getting this at all, that he shouldn't give in to the temptation of running his fingers through white hair that calls for him every time his hand brushes it.
The moment is over before Jaskier gets to really savor it without that ugly hint of guilt. His body feels chilly as soon as Geralt pulls away, but what really hits him with a cold slap is seeing the distance the man puts between them. Has it been the weed after all? Perhaps not, because the way he looks away and apologizes speaks more about embarrasment than anything else. So which is it? These mixed signals are going to be the death of him.
"It's alright, I don't mind," Jaskier finally answers after a pause to think - a pause that probably comes as too long, and he hopes it doesn't give Geralt the wrong impression. It's just extremely hard to think of the right middle point to express himself: how to tell the man affection is fine without scaring him away? Trying to prove his point and hoping it's a small enough gesture not to come off as too pushy, Jaskier moves his legs to rest his ankles on Geralt's thigh while internally wishing that was his head resting there. Ugh, bad horny brain, not helping here. "This is a sofa-bed. We could open it up if you need to lay down."
The tip of his tongue peeks out his mouth as he realizes that sounds as bad as the coffee invitation. It shouldn't be so difficult to speak without double entendre.
"I can bring some blankets, too. And snacks? Since you're already stuck here, we can make it an actual cozy pajama party."
no subject
Should he?
His teasing only gets a grunt in return, and Geralt... doesn't even attempt to move. Jaskier doesn't mind, but he's incredibly confused - there's only so much mental gymnastics he can do! The laxness can be blamed on the weed but... there simply isn't a heterosexual explanation for the thumb rubbing his side. He can't stop himself from catching his breath as he internally screams, not knowing what to do. And that's a big fucking deal, because Jaskier always knows what to do with advances like this.
Talk about mixed signals, made worse by the fact Geralt is as high as a kite. How much is the weed talking? How much has Jakier read wrong all this time and how much can he do from now on? It's driving him crazy. Asking would bring attention to it and put Geralt in his usual private, defensive mode. Ignoring it would make him a coldhearted bastard.
In the end he decides to put a hand on Geralt's back, between his shoulders, and do some gentle rubbing in return. That's neutral enough, right? No lines crossed? They sure as hell are getting blurred though. It feels wrong yet so right - Geralt's back is firm, wide, as perfectly shaped as the rest of him, and Jaskier tells himself he should be happy he's getting this at all, that he shouldn't give in to the temptation of running his fingers through white hair that calls for him every time his hand brushes it.
The moment is over before Jaskier gets to really savor it without that ugly hint of guilt. His body feels chilly as soon as Geralt pulls away, but what really hits him with a cold slap is seeing the distance the man puts between them. Has it been the weed after all? Perhaps not, because the way he looks away and apologizes speaks more about embarrasment than anything else. So which is it? These mixed signals are going to be the death of him.
"It's alright, I don't mind," Jaskier finally answers after a pause to think - a pause that probably comes as too long, and he hopes it doesn't give Geralt the wrong impression. It's just extremely hard to think of the right middle point to express himself: how to tell the man affection is fine without scaring him away? Trying to prove his point and hoping it's a small enough gesture not to come off as too pushy, Jaskier moves his legs to rest his ankles on Geralt's thigh while internally wishing that was his head resting there. Ugh, bad horny brain, not helping here. "This is a sofa-bed. We could open it up if you need to lay down."
The tip of his tongue peeks out his mouth as he realizes that sounds as bad as the coffee invitation. It shouldn't be so difficult to speak without double entendre.
"I can bring some blankets, too. And snacks? Since you're already stuck here, we can make it an actual cozy pajama party."