Jaskier steps into the baths after Geralt, submerging his long limbs in the steaming water with a heartfelt, satisfied sigh. The heat from the water will undoubtedly do his body good, ease the aches of his sore muscles and release a little of the long-held tension in his shoulders. There's plenty of space for both men to stretch out in, as well, so neither of them would have to be cramped-- there had been many a wooden tub in a cheap roadside inn that hadn't been quite big enough to accommodate a full-grown witcher. Or even a full-grown bard, sometimes.
Geralt sprawls in the hot water, his head tipped back against the stone lip of the bath as he lets the heat seep into his bones. Jaskier appreciates the warmth now but he'll learn to adore it when the cold really sets in; there's nothing like a scalding hot bath in the morning to chase away the chill. He opens one eye when Jaskier's calloused hands brush against his knees, coaxing them apart. He insinuates his body in between them and Geralt allows it, lets him press close and rest his head against his chest. His scent, discernible even in the heavy, humid air, is sweet and content, goes even sweeter when he wraps the witcher's arms around his waist. Geralt hums at the contact and briefly tightens his grip on Jaskier's body-- an embrace hidden under the pretense of shifting him into a more comfortable position.
There are a few blissful moments of silence. Geralt runs his thumb along the soft skin of Jaskier's side, letting himself relax into the quiet and comfort. He should've known that it wouldn't last for very long, not when the talkative bard is involved.
Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia. He grunts, annoyed at his brief moment of peace being shattered by an embarrassing inquiry. It had been so nice to sit quietly with Jaskier. Blissful silence.
"Vesemir decided that Rivia was as good a place as any, and that my previous choice was... pretentious," he says. "The accent is just an accent."
Really, picking up an accent just to sell that he's from Rivia is just as pretentious as anything else, but Geralt will sooner fall on his own sword than admit that.
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Geralt sprawls in the hot water, his head tipped back against the stone lip of the bath as he lets the heat seep into his bones. Jaskier appreciates the warmth now but he'll learn to adore it when the cold really sets in; there's nothing like a scalding hot bath in the morning to chase away the chill. He opens one eye when Jaskier's calloused hands brush against his knees, coaxing them apart. He insinuates his body in between them and Geralt allows it, lets him press close and rest his head against his chest. His scent, discernible even in the heavy, humid air, is sweet and content, goes even sweeter when he wraps the witcher's arms around his waist. Geralt hums at the contact and briefly tightens his grip on Jaskier's body-- an embrace hidden under the pretense of shifting him into a more comfortable position.
There are a few blissful moments of silence. Geralt runs his thumb along the soft skin of Jaskier's side, letting himself relax into the quiet and comfort. He should've known that it wouldn't last for very long, not when the talkative bard is involved.
Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia. He grunts, annoyed at his brief moment of peace being shattered by an embarrassing inquiry. It had been so nice to sit quietly with Jaskier. Blissful silence.
"Vesemir decided that Rivia was as good a place as any, and that my previous choice was... pretentious," he says. "The accent is just an accent."
Really, picking up an accent just to sell that he's from Rivia is just as pretentious as anything else, but Geralt will sooner fall on his own sword than admit that.