Geralt often said things that danced on the line of cruelty. Jaskier had always chocked it up to the fact that the Witcher's most constant companion was a horse and, as such, he didn't get much feedback. As it turned out, that was just how Geralt was. It shouldn't have been terribly surprising, honestly, that once he couldn't deflect or defend against a problem he turned to attack--it was how Geralt dealt with everything else.
It was almost impressive, how good he was with his words when it came to wounding. He used them so poorly the rest of the time that Jaskier never expected the hurts before they came.
'Why must you be like this? --this is how you react? Grow up.'
For all his melodrama about Destiny, Geralt was a lucky shot when he fired blind. Every other word in his little waspish rant struck home and Jaskier flinched back. When the Witcher shoved him and shook him off, Jaskier stayed against the wall, expression the very reflection of how stunned he was.
Geralt had punched him to less effect.
Instantly, of course, Jaskier's fool heart started making excuses for Geralt. He was flustered. He was a private person and didn't take well to flirting. He didn't like shows of affection or words of affection or words of thanks, even, and Jaskier knew it. The last two days had been long and boring for him. He must care, he invited the bard along, bought him a horse so they could travel better. Geralt cared about him.
Geralt cared about him, he knew that--why did that make him so absolutely, blindingly furious?
"Fuck off!" Jaskier cursed, inelegantly, several seconds after it would have been appropriate to deliver a retort like that. The redness of his cheeks went, in that short time, from a flush of embarrassment to a patchy red of anger. He pushed off from the wall and gestured sharply at Geralt with a finger.
"I should grow up?" Jaskier asked rhetorically, all but shouting. If Geralt was embarrassed that someone loved him, if he so desperately wanted discretion so that he could hide their shame, he wasn't going to find reprieve in this fucking town. "I'm not the one who storms off at the drop of a hat and slams people into walls! Can't threaten me quiet so, what? Call me childish? Pretend you're doing me a favor by putting up with me? Call me a desperate slut, in so many words?
"Fuck off, Geralt." Jaskier said and finally let his voice drop down to a normal speaking volume. He made a rude gesture at the Witcher and then let his hand fall to his hip. The bitterness that laced his tone was thick. "If I'm so loathsome and childish, I can't imagine how desperate you must have been to fuck me the first time."
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Geralt often said things that danced on the line of cruelty. Jaskier had always chocked it up to the fact that the Witcher's most constant companion was a horse and, as such, he didn't get much feedback. As it turned out, that was just how Geralt was. It shouldn't have been terribly surprising, honestly, that once he couldn't deflect or defend against a problem he turned to attack--it was how Geralt dealt with everything else.
It was almost impressive, how good he was with his words when it came to wounding. He used them so poorly the rest of the time that Jaskier never expected the hurts before they came.
'Why must you be like this? --this is how you react? Grow up.'
For all his melodrama about Destiny, Geralt was a lucky shot when he fired blind. Every other word in his little waspish rant struck home and Jaskier flinched back. When the Witcher shoved him and shook him off, Jaskier stayed against the wall, expression the very reflection of how stunned he was.
Geralt had punched him to less effect.
Instantly, of course, Jaskier's fool heart started making excuses for Geralt. He was flustered. He was a private person and didn't take well to flirting. He didn't like shows of affection or words of affection or words of thanks, even, and Jaskier knew it. The last two days had been long and boring for him. He must care, he invited the bard along, bought him a horse so they could travel better. Geralt cared about him.
Geralt cared about him, he knew that--why did that make him so absolutely, blindingly furious?
"Fuck off!" Jaskier cursed, inelegantly, several seconds after it would have been appropriate to deliver a retort like that. The redness of his cheeks went, in that short time, from a flush of embarrassment to a patchy red of anger. He pushed off from the wall and gestured sharply at Geralt with a finger.
"I should grow up?" Jaskier asked rhetorically, all but shouting. If Geralt was embarrassed that someone loved him, if he so desperately wanted discretion so that he could hide their shame, he wasn't going to find reprieve in this fucking town. "I'm not the one who storms off at the drop of a hat and slams people into walls! Can't threaten me quiet so, what? Call me childish? Pretend you're doing me a favor by putting up with me? Call me a desperate slut, in so many words?
"Fuck off, Geralt." Jaskier said and finally let his voice drop down to a normal speaking volume. He made a rude gesture at the Witcher and then let his hand fall to his hip. The bitterness that laced his tone was thick. "If I'm so loathsome and childish, I can't imagine how desperate you must have been to fuck me the first time."