There has never been a motion that has inspired more fear in Jaskier, not in the whole of his life, than what Geralt did then. The Witcher gently took his hand, wrapped it in his own, and deliberately--so very deliberately--brought it up and pinned it above his head. Geralt reassured him, murmured into the air between them, and Jaskier felt a terrible abyssal sinking in his stomach, like a pit had opened inside him. He stared up at that blank amber gaze, horror dawning in his own, and Jaskier froze in place.
Geralt--he would never hurt him. He-- he--
He leaned close and Jaskier felt his stomach turn--it lurched up against his ribs, threatened to empty itself as Geralt grazed his nose--and Geralt's free hand wrapped around his throat.
"Geralt--?" The question was asked weakly; it vibrated with the same fine tremor that climbed down his limbs.
That was the last thing Jaskier had the air to say. Geralt's fingers tensed and pressed hard against the sides of his neck. He crushed his palm against Jaskier's adam's apple, bore down on his windpipe, and still he squeezed. The hand that pinned his own above his head went tight in time with the other. Jaskier jerked, bodily, as pain lanced down his arm, as the bones of his hand ground against one another.
All at once, the bard was gripped by a violent confluence of emotions--panic, hysteria, terror, confusion, betrayal--and together they had him twisting, straining against Geralt's weight across his hips. He didn't--fighting was never worth it--but Geralt--Geralt would never hurt him. His free hand came up, clawed at the fingers around his throat, but he couldn't overpower a Witcher, not on his best day and Geralt's worst.
No, this--he couldn't reconcile that--this couldn't be Geralt--he didn't know what this thing was, but it wasn't--it couldn't be Geralt of Rivia. This was a fucking monster--not his friend, and suddenly the bard was more furious than he had ever been. He was furious enough that it drowned out his pain, his confusion, even his fear. He went from panicked bird to feral cat in an instant and thrashed against the beast above him. The hand clawing the fingers around his throat lashed out and clawed, instead, at those terrible, dead eyes.
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Geralt--he would never hurt him. He-- he--
He leaned close and Jaskier felt his stomach turn--it lurched up against his ribs, threatened to empty itself as Geralt grazed his nose--and Geralt's free hand wrapped around his throat.
"Geralt--?" The question was asked weakly; it vibrated with the same fine tremor that climbed down his limbs.
That was the last thing Jaskier had the air to say. Geralt's fingers tensed and pressed hard against the sides of his neck. He crushed his palm against Jaskier's adam's apple, bore down on his windpipe, and still he squeezed. The hand that pinned his own above his head went tight in time with the other. Jaskier jerked, bodily, as pain lanced down his arm, as the bones of his hand ground against one another.
All at once, the bard was gripped by a violent confluence of emotions--panic, hysteria, terror, confusion, betrayal--and together they had him twisting, straining against Geralt's weight across his hips. He didn't--fighting was never worth it--but Geralt--Geralt would never hurt him. His free hand came up, clawed at the fingers around his throat, but he couldn't overpower a Witcher, not on his best day and Geralt's worst.
No, this--he couldn't reconcile that--this couldn't be Geralt--he didn't know what this thing was, but it wasn't--it couldn't be Geralt of Rivia. This was a fucking monster--not his friend, and suddenly the bard was more furious than he had ever been. He was furious enough that it drowned out his pain, his confusion, even his fear. He went from panicked bird to feral cat in an instant and thrashed against the beast above him. The hand clawing the fingers around his throat lashed out and clawed, instead, at those terrible, dead eyes.