Jaskier talked quite a lot, even he would have acknowledge that. It was part and parcel of being a poet, a bard, but also just his own personal inclination. He was full of words and very much enjoyed talking--he especially enjoyed talking to the people he bedded. The most obvious reason for that was, of course, that he liked the people he bedded. The less obvious reason for that was that he had been bedded by people that he--did not like. It was, at once, courtesy and self-preservation.
Part and parcel of being a wandering bard, really.
He trusted Geralt to his very core--the Witcher had saved his life more times than he could count. (True, he put himself in jeopardy more often than not, but the life-saving was legitimate.) Geralt might be inclined to punch him if he said something especially off color or prodded at an excruciating old wound, but by in large the Witcher was rough in the way a big dog might be. He was big and he was fast and he was strong and, above all, Geralt was used to being able to use these attributes to solve issues.
Crowding argumentative people spared him having to fight them, spared everyone some hurt in the long run, saved lives really. Moving Jaskier around when he needed him out of the way was a small indignity for safety. This--this was not that.
He knew Geralt wouldn't hurt him. Knew it to his very core. Geralt, for all his grousing and grumpiness, was a good person, better than most--
Jaskier went very, very still beneath the Witcher. The fear that coiled through him, then, was paralyzing--Geralt wouldn't hurt him of course, he knew that--his hands were between his shoulderblades and he had no hope of twisting free without breaking or dislocating something. His heart was racing--this was silly, it was just Geralt being Geralt, rough and tumble as it were--he couldn't breathe. The mattress was soft enough that he wasn't having the breath crushed from him, his lungs had room, he just couldn't fill them. He was still dressed, not even slightly disheveled really--there was a cock against his ass and there were teeth near his ear, near the back of his neck. His legs were pinned.
Panic warred with terror in Jaskier's chest, his heart was racing--idiot, this was too dramatic, far too dramatic--Geralt had...asked him a question. All parts of him knew he should answer--why not answer when Geralt asked him a question--it was easier to answer than to stay quiet.
"I--" he starts and it's breathy, an airy sort of tone, intentionally disaffected. "I don't know? C-curiosity?"
no subject
Part and parcel of being a wandering bard, really.
He trusted Geralt to his very core--the Witcher had saved his life more times than he could count. (True, he put himself in jeopardy more often than not, but the life-saving was legitimate.) Geralt might be inclined to punch him if he said something especially off color or prodded at an excruciating old wound, but by in large the Witcher was rough in the way a big dog might be. He was big and he was fast and he was strong and, above all, Geralt was used to being able to use these attributes to solve issues.
Crowding argumentative people spared him having to fight them, spared everyone some hurt in the long run, saved lives really. Moving Jaskier around when he needed him out of the way was a small indignity for safety. This--this was not that.
He knew Geralt wouldn't hurt him. Knew it to his very core. Geralt, for all his grousing and grumpiness, was a good person, better than most--
Jaskier went very, very still beneath the Witcher. The fear that coiled through him, then, was paralyzing--Geralt wouldn't hurt him of course, he knew that--his hands were between his shoulderblades and he had no hope of twisting free without breaking or dislocating something. His heart was racing--this was silly, it was just Geralt being Geralt, rough and tumble as it were--he couldn't breathe. The mattress was soft enough that he wasn't having the breath crushed from him, his lungs had room, he just couldn't fill them. He was still dressed, not even slightly disheveled really--there was a cock against his ass and there were teeth near his ear, near the back of his neck. His legs were pinned.
Panic warred with terror in Jaskier's chest, his heart was racing--idiot, this was too dramatic, far too dramatic--Geralt had...asked him a question. All parts of him knew he should answer--why not answer when Geralt asked him a question--it was easier to answer than to stay quiet.
"I--" he starts and it's breathy, an airy sort of tone, intentionally disaffected. "I don't know? C-curiosity?"