The sentiment is shared. Cats and Wolves don't mix.

Then he'll just shut Jaskier up.

Sat in a bath, for once—reluctance and all, his skin raw from scrubbing. He 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 smells too strongly of lilac and gooseberries.

"It’s a wonder you've survived for so long with that kind of opinion." Geralt sighs, watching the boy shift his weight. A bit awkward, but with enough practice. . . Maybe he'll survive yet. "Try charging forward. Feel the difference?"

Pile of horseshit seems to do the job most times.

It's called 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵, but he doesn't expect her to be able to smell it.

He has a contract coming up, so he will do just that. Don't wait up.

Oh?

Don't even need to sweat it. It's a nasty one—don’t expect him to be back until the week is over.

Hmm.

Wasn't what he was aiming for, but thanks.

Snorts. If that's the case, then she's a natural joker.

Not in a million years.

Yeah, yeah, whatever. That's all for his quota for the day.

She's 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. He would be stupid not to notice.

What, did Lambert think he could get rid of Geralt that easy?

He is indeed.

Beds are overrated. Too soft. And no. This is his default mood. Is Jaskier really so quick to forget?

What can he say? He exists for her amusement.

For other people, maybe. He's never gotten used to anything more than a cot. The fact that he hasn't upped and left means he's quite thoroughly enthused.