[He snorts in a way that is very undignified, and even if Hector doesn’t know it yet, in a way he only allows in very close company. He leans back against the wall, Hector’s fingers gentle, yet persistent.
It pings him as similar to how Geralt had forced the knot out of his injured arm. In a Cadens bathhouse, too. Except where he used brute force, his forgemaster now leans towards a patient cajoling. He certainly prefers that right now.]
The very idea of a fox shaking hands — er, paws — is beyond poetic. And adorable. Though I must insist we name him, lest he develop an identity crisis.
[He moves a bit closer, the water shifting with him, giving a wiggle of his brows. He’s definitely listening, but.] There are depths in you I haven’t plundered yet?
[He can’t help himself. Even if it is far more likely that Hector has, ahem. Plundered his.
His fingers curl as Hector presses into a pressure point. Not uncomfortably, but real enough that he swears he feels it in his scalp. When next he speaks, it isn’t quite so teasing.] You know, sometimes when you speak that way, you make living sound as if it’s a chore.
[Unfortunately, he can picture it. Lonely years with only the reanimated animals he finds in the street… echoes of the hound that led to the death of his parents. Jaskier understands it, in a distant way, but to him it sounds like a prison sentence. Like a punishment. And yet, he never seems to speak of it like a regret.
He lifts his free hand from the water, idly traces his fingertips over Hector’s shoulder, down to his collarbone.] I suppose it is oftentimes.
[Who would he be to judge? Truthfully, the last month could be described that way, settling him into a frame of mind where he did nothing but sleep, and in his waking hours wish he could sleep more.
Maudlin. Ugh. Unattractive, and sure to turn some of his hair white. The horror!]
no subject
It pings him as similar to how Geralt had forced the knot out of his injured arm. In a Cadens bathhouse, too. Except where he used brute force, his forgemaster now leans towards a patient cajoling. He certainly prefers that right now.]
The very idea of a fox shaking hands — er, paws — is beyond poetic. And adorable. Though I must insist we name him, lest he develop an identity crisis.
[He moves a bit closer, the water shifting with him, giving a wiggle of his brows. He’s definitely listening, but.] There are depths in you I haven’t plundered yet?
[He can’t help himself. Even if it is far more likely that Hector has, ahem. Plundered his.
His fingers curl as Hector presses into a pressure point. Not uncomfortably, but real enough that he swears he feels it in his scalp. When next he speaks, it isn’t quite so teasing.] You know, sometimes when you speak that way, you make living sound as if it’s a chore.
[Unfortunately, he can picture it. Lonely years with only the reanimated animals he finds in the street… echoes of the hound that led to the death of his parents. Jaskier understands it, in a distant way, but to him it sounds like a prison sentence. Like a punishment. And yet, he never seems to speak of it like a regret.
He lifts his free hand from the water, idly traces his fingertips over Hector’s shoulder, down to his collarbone.] I suppose it is oftentimes.
[Who would he be to judge? Truthfully, the last month could be described that way, settling him into a frame of mind where he did nothing but sleep, and in his waking hours wish he could sleep more.
Maudlin. Ugh. Unattractive, and sure to turn some of his hair white. The horror!]