One of the good things about Jaskier's unstoppable mouth is that Geralt never has to guess if he's enjoying something or not-- he will be told, at length, whether he likes it or not. In this case, he's enjoying Geralt's attentions very much indeed, making lovely little noises as his muscles loosen up underneath the witcher's hands. Jaskier's done this exact sort of thing enough times for him to know that his effusive praise isn't all theatrics; there is a particular sort of pleasure that comes from forcing a tight muscle to loosen.

The bard is fully limp by the time he's gotten to his hands, his weight borne both by the tub and Geralt's chest. He lingers there for a while, just for the simple sake of it, while Jaskier lets his mouth wax poetic.

Is there anything your mighty hands can't do, he asks, and Geralt makes a low, half-amused little hum.

"Shit at whittling," he says, and, now that the oil has been fully absorbed into Jaskier's skin, lets go of his hands.

He reaches for the bard's preferred shampoo-- why he has so many of them, Geralt will never understand. Soap is soap, after all, and it'll clean bodies, hair, clothes, whatever you put it on. But Jaskier is particular and Geralt doesn't want to argue about it, so fancy hair soap it is.

"Dunk your head," he says, and squeezes some of the fragrant stuff into his palm.