The bard is all too happy to do whatever Geralt tells him to, and he really wishes that Jaskier would have been this compliant on literally any of the hunts he tagged along on. Would it have killed him to have paid attention to the warnings that Geralt gave him? He didn't tell Jaskier all of those things for his own damn health, he said it so that Jaskier wouldn't bumble his way to his death. And for what? A song? No song is worth a dead bard.
But that's a rant for another day. Right now, Jaskier is safe and happy, gazing up at him with an adoration that he rarely sees on anyone else. He almost wishes that he still had his proper sense of smell, just so that he'd be able to breathe in the honey-sweet chamomile scent of him, bright with his happiness. Instead, he must content himself with Jaskier's wide grin and the way he tilts his head into the motions of Geralt's hands, like how cats will sometimes demand to be pet. The little noises that he makes when Geralt rubs at his scalp, or when he runs his nails lightly through his hair.
"Hm," he says and presses his thumbs into the base of Jaskier's skull, right at the little divots near where the neck connects, and rubs there. "Maybe I just like all the noises you make."
Jaskier's always been more vocal than Geralt. Maybe he just likes listening to the bard moan and sigh about everything that he does. Maybe he thinks that the little sounds he makes when he's pleased are prettier than all his ballads and poems put together.
Once he's thoroughly soaped, Geralt tips the bard's head back and uses a shallow bowl to pour water over his hair, rinsing it with water that now smells faintly of mint from his bathbomb. It complements the lavender of his soaps and the massage oil nicely, which is half the reason why Geralt bought them-- if he's going to sit here in a perfumed sauna, he might as well sit in one that won't give him a headache.
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But that's a rant for another day. Right now, Jaskier is safe and happy, gazing up at him with an adoration that he rarely sees on anyone else. He almost wishes that he still had his proper sense of smell, just so that he'd be able to breathe in the honey-sweet chamomile scent of him, bright with his happiness. Instead, he must content himself with Jaskier's wide grin and the way he tilts his head into the motions of Geralt's hands, like how cats will sometimes demand to be pet. The little noises that he makes when Geralt rubs at his scalp, or when he runs his nails lightly through his hair.
"Hm," he says and presses his thumbs into the base of Jaskier's skull, right at the little divots near where the neck connects, and rubs there. "Maybe I just like all the noises you make."
Jaskier's always been more vocal than Geralt. Maybe he just likes listening to the bard moan and sigh about everything that he does. Maybe he thinks that the little sounds he makes when he's pleased are prettier than all his ballads and poems put together.
Once he's thoroughly soaped, Geralt tips the bard's head back and uses a shallow bowl to pour water over his hair, rinsing it with water that now smells faintly of mint from his bathbomb. It complements the lavender of his soaps and the massage oil nicely, which is half the reason why Geralt bought them-- if he's going to sit here in a perfumed sauna, he might as well sit in one that won't give him a headache.