“What? You said ‘get me something cold’. You never implied I couldn’t throw it over you.” Geralt
The icy cold of the water knocked the air clean from his lungs. Completely and utterly drenched, the bard gasped wordlessly, desperately trying to work his chilled mind back into working order. Geralt would no doubt be pleased to have drawn out a length of silence, but Jaskier would be damned if he would give the bastard the satisfaction of it for long.
“GERALT! You fucking--” His lungs worked to gather the air they sorely missed, Jaskier shaking out his sopping wet arms with little success. His priceless doublet utterly saturated, there was only one choice left to the man. Scrambling to his feet, the bard launched himself at the witcher’s middle in a blind fury. It was never a fight he would win, not if he were to live a thousand bloody years. He could still soak the bloody idiot to the bone as had been done to him.
