He takes the towel and just resists taking her fingers as well. He ducks his head at her question, smile reduced to something small and nearly private before he ruffles the towel through his hair and dries his face and arms. He steps out of the tub a moment later and, after a cursory drying of his legs, sets out his towel on the floor for her. A damp mat, but better than the floorboards of an inn.
Has he been so obsequious with past lovers? He has certainly been caring, but this fawning is new. She brings it out in him and, frankly, he cannot say he objects. Even simple kindnesses seem to brighten her eyes and demeanor and, if that is the trade, he will make it gladly. Every time.
"My wants vary," he hedges, not because he is particularly ashamed, or because he thinks she will refuse him--no, he is nervous because he knows she will not.
"I delight in service, as I am sure you've noticed--in gentle aid and kindling desires," he begins in a tone he hopes is casual. "On my own, I enjoy praise as much as punishment, enjoy being ignored as much as fawned over, and find that toeing the edge of bliss and being left wanting is the sweetest torture."
He enjoys being the center of attention and straining to reclaim it when it's lost. To be petty, to break rules and bring punishment and focus back upon himself? It is a guilty pleasure and one he has rarely indulged in.
No, too often he accepts dismissal outright. His lovers are rarely in on the game and it is unfair to presume.
Smarting hurts and swift discipline are sweet and savory things, when applied right, though there is a touch of hesitance in him as he ponders that. Finding a brothel that specializes in such things is rare, and rarer still are the courtly bodies willing to indulge him. The last time he had truly had another committed to the whole of it, it had not gone well. When he had brought it before Valdo, the troubadour had been exceptionally keen on the rod, on neglect and denial, as opposed to songs of praise and wanting.
His memory is kinder to Valdo than Yennefer is likely to be, so he doesn't mention it aloud. The troubadour hadn't had enough regard for him to learn the balance, and that was just as well. Jaskier had left him a decade ago.
Geralt had...also echoed Valdo, hadn't he? Full of denial and harsh words, punishment and mocking, distance...and even more distance. He had never struck him with a crop or left him lashed in place with a weeping cock, but that was not for a few decades of trying on Jaskier's part.
What an unpleasant line of thought--his smile has fallen and a short frown taken his expression as he mulls it over.
no subject
Has he been so obsequious with past lovers? He has certainly been caring, but this fawning is new. She brings it out in him and, frankly, he cannot say he objects. Even simple kindnesses seem to brighten her eyes and demeanor and, if that is the trade, he will make it gladly. Every time.
"My wants vary," he hedges, not because he is particularly ashamed, or because he thinks she will refuse him--no, he is nervous because he knows she will not.
"I delight in service, as I am sure you've noticed--in gentle aid and kindling desires," he begins in a tone he hopes is casual. "On my own, I enjoy praise as much as punishment, enjoy being ignored as much as fawned over, and find that toeing the edge of bliss and being left wanting is the sweetest torture."
He enjoys being the center of attention and straining to reclaim it when it's lost. To be petty, to break rules and bring punishment and focus back upon himself? It is a guilty pleasure and one he has rarely indulged in.
No, too often he accepts dismissal outright. His lovers are rarely in on the game and it is unfair to presume.
Smarting hurts and swift discipline are sweet and savory things, when applied right, though there is a touch of hesitance in him as he ponders that. Finding a brothel that specializes in such things is rare, and rarer still are the courtly bodies willing to indulge him. The last time he had truly had another committed to the whole of it, it had not gone well. When he had brought it before Valdo, the troubadour had been exceptionally keen on the rod, on neglect and denial, as opposed to songs of praise and wanting.
His memory is kinder to Valdo than Yennefer is likely to be, so he doesn't mention it aloud. The troubadour hadn't had enough regard for him to learn the balance, and that was just as well. Jaskier had left him a decade ago.
Geralt had...also echoed Valdo, hadn't he? Full of denial and harsh words, punishment and mocking, distance...and even more distance. He had never struck him with a crop or left him lashed in place with a weeping cock, but that was not for a few decades of trying on Jaskier's part.
What an unpleasant line of thought--his smile has fallen and a short frown taken his expression as he mulls it over.