Geralt would rather go spelunking in the belly of a selkiemore than have to go back to those boutique stores that sell nothing but bath things, fighting a losing battle against warring scents to get what he needs before he ends up with a headache. He supposes that it's worth it, since Jaskier seems pleased that he went through the trouble and kisses him for it.
There's still something that surprises him, every time Jaskier leans in and kisses him so easily and casually. With Yen, kisses had been a lead-in to sex; with the whores, Geralt couldn't even pay them for such a thing. Though, to be fair to them, that may have been a service that no one could purchase, witcher or not. But Jaskier-- he kisses Geralt as thanks, or in greeting, or sometimes for no discernable reason at all. Just for the sake of kissing him.
Join me, he says, and while that is technically something that Geralt had been planning to do anyway, the lure of bared skin is more than he would have been able to resist. Jaskier leaves the door open and Geralt leans against the doorframe, watching him slowly remove layer after layer of clothing. If the bard had wanted to make a production out of it, he could have-- this is just a little tease. More than a little tease, when he gets into the water and the noise that he makes is a bit too enticing to not be at least a little deliberate.
Geralt walks in and, while he removes his shirt-- mostly for practical purposes rather than to entice, as he is aware that there's little that's appealing about his mess of scars-- and sits on the edge of the tub at Jaskier's back. One of the things that he had bought was a vial of lavender massage oil, and he takes that now to pour a little of it onto his hands and smooth it into Jaskier's shoulders. The bard had, in the past, rubbed salve and ointments into his aches and injuries; it is perhaps well past time for him to return the favor.
The oil is thin and slippery, allowing his thumbs to glide effortlessly over his skin, starting at his neck and working his way down across his shoulders, his arms, down to his wrist and hand and long, delicate fingers. He presses his thumbs into the meat of the bard's palm, gently kneading out the tension from all those hours that he spends holding and playing his instruments, rubbing the oil into the callouses.
no subject
There's still something that surprises him, every time Jaskier leans in and kisses him so easily and casually. With Yen, kisses had been a lead-in to sex; with the whores, Geralt couldn't even pay them for such a thing. Though, to be fair to them, that may have been a service that no one could purchase, witcher or not. But Jaskier-- he kisses Geralt as thanks, or in greeting, or sometimes for no discernable reason at all. Just for the sake of kissing him.
Join me, he says, and while that is technically something that Geralt had been planning to do anyway, the lure of bared skin is more than he would have been able to resist. Jaskier leaves the door open and Geralt leans against the doorframe, watching him slowly remove layer after layer of clothing. If the bard had wanted to make a production out of it, he could have-- this is just a little tease. More than a little tease, when he gets into the water and the noise that he makes is a bit too enticing to not be at least a little deliberate.
Geralt walks in and, while he removes his shirt-- mostly for practical purposes rather than to entice, as he is aware that there's little that's appealing about his mess of scars-- and sits on the edge of the tub at Jaskier's back. One of the things that he had bought was a vial of lavender massage oil, and he takes that now to pour a little of it onto his hands and smooth it into Jaskier's shoulders. The bard had, in the past, rubbed salve and ointments into his aches and injuries; it is perhaps well past time for him to return the favor.
The oil is thin and slippery, allowing his thumbs to glide effortlessly over his skin, starting at his neck and working his way down across his shoulders, his arms, down to his wrist and hand and long, delicate fingers. He presses his thumbs into the meat of the bard's palm, gently kneading out the tension from all those hours that he spends holding and playing his instruments, rubbing the oil into the callouses.