He doesn't particularly want to relive the mess that he made with Eskel-- his brother had punched him and it was over with. That's how they settled things, either with a punch or a few rounds of sparring, and by the time they'd worked it out with fists or swords, the anger had burnt itself out, too. Maybe it's a flawed system, but it worked, and they healed so quickly that a black eye or a few bruises ultimately didn't matter much.
"He wanted to know what I had done to upset you," he says. "I told him."
There's more to it than that, but what's the use in dredging up something that's done? Geralt has been set straight on the matter. He and Jaskier had their own discussion about it, so really it's doubly useless to talk about it again. Jaskier isn't about to abandon his first witcher for Eskel, even if Eskel's temperament is better suited to him, and Geralt is foolish for thinking that he might do so. No need to feel foolish again for it.
Jaskier is easily distracted by the prospect of grooming him, though, so the path of least resistance is to simply obey the bard's command to turn and let him get started on it. Geralt crosses his arms on the lip of the bath, pillowing his chin on his forearms; Jaskier starts getting his hands into his hair almost immediately, wetting it down and fetching one of the soaps. Geralt will never understand all of the nuances of Jaskier's bathing supplies-- he has so many soaps and oils, all of them for different uses even though one bar of soap is perfectly capable of cleaning a body from head to toe. He does appreciate the scent of this particular soap, though, light enough to not be offensive to his nose. The smell of it reminds him of other pleasant baths like this, other times when Jaskier had taken gentle care of him, and it... makes him fond of it. Because of the association.
The bard's fingers are strong and deft and the pressure of them against his scalp is intoxicating-- it lulls Geralt into a kind of stupor, a warm and content state where he can ease some of the tensions of his body, let the repetitive motion of Jaskier's hands soothe him. He needs this, and the press of those slippery fingers down the back of his neck, into the muscles of his shoulders.
A soft rumble builds in his chest. Normally, Geralt would tamp down on this kind of compulsion, killing this evidence of his otherness before it had the chance to make itself known to any humans around him. It's a testament to the rarity of his relationship with Jaskier that he doesn't even notice that he's purring while the bard's hands are on him, too distracted by simple pleasure and too trusting of him. Too secure in the assumption that his bard's hands would never hurt him.
no subject
He doesn't particularly want to relive the mess that he made with Eskel-- his brother had punched him and it was over with. That's how they settled things, either with a punch or a few rounds of sparring, and by the time they'd worked it out with fists or swords, the anger had burnt itself out, too. Maybe it's a flawed system, but it worked, and they healed so quickly that a black eye or a few bruises ultimately didn't matter much.
"He wanted to know what I had done to upset you," he says. "I told him."
There's more to it than that, but what's the use in dredging up something that's done? Geralt has been set straight on the matter. He and Jaskier had their own discussion about it, so really it's doubly useless to talk about it again. Jaskier isn't about to abandon his first witcher for Eskel, even if Eskel's temperament is better suited to him, and Geralt is foolish for thinking that he might do so. No need to feel foolish again for it.
Jaskier is easily distracted by the prospect of grooming him, though, so the path of least resistance is to simply obey the bard's command to turn and let him get started on it. Geralt crosses his arms on the lip of the bath, pillowing his chin on his forearms; Jaskier starts getting his hands into his hair almost immediately, wetting it down and fetching one of the soaps. Geralt will never understand all of the nuances of Jaskier's bathing supplies-- he has so many soaps and oils, all of them for different uses even though one bar of soap is perfectly capable of cleaning a body from head to toe. He does appreciate the scent of this particular soap, though, light enough to not be offensive to his nose. The smell of it reminds him of other pleasant baths like this, other times when Jaskier had taken gentle care of him, and it... makes him fond of it. Because of the association.
The bard's fingers are strong and deft and the pressure of them against his scalp is intoxicating-- it lulls Geralt into a kind of stupor, a warm and content state where he can ease some of the tensions of his body, let the repetitive motion of Jaskier's hands soothe him. He needs this, and the press of those slippery fingers down the back of his neck, into the muscles of his shoulders.
A soft rumble builds in his chest. Normally, Geralt would tamp down on this kind of compulsion, killing this evidence of his otherness before it had the chance to make itself known to any humans around him. It's a testament to the rarity of his relationship with Jaskier that he doesn't even notice that he's purring while the bard's hands are on him, too distracted by simple pleasure and too trusting of him. Too secure in the assumption that his bard's hands would never hurt him.