#he might make a conscious choice to associate himself with the servants

[tired-reader-writer]

Oh man having a sort of general idea and like, I don't know how much sense this will make but like

Arslan, when he comes to Ecbatana with Shapur (probably bc he's curious, no one else in the clan will even approach it), borrows a small room in the palace or smth and has it as a small clinic/medical office? If he'd be allowed? Maybe Shapur could help with that?

And then shenanigans in the style of The Apothecary Diaries unfold, where he's not only healing ppl but also getting roped up in some mysteries... and making friends with servants and stuff and he becomes pretty well-known among the palace people... and the marzbans as well.

Which begins to irk the Crown Prince, f!Arslan. The boy isn't very popular with people, both because Andragoras systematically isolated him and because he's prone to lashing out and is generally Not Great towards servants and stuff.

And Arslan... definitely notices that. And since he doesn't want a jealous Crown Prince on his tail, and because he keeps getting roped up in investigations and mysteries, certain people might start targeting him too because they don't want their secrets exposed.

He's definitely noticed the looks the Shah has been giving him, even when he's been doing his best to avoid encountering the royal family at all costs.

So he takes down his small medical corner and moves out to work under some clinic in the city instead, outside and faraway from the palace.

Though the conversation he has with his father the night he decides to remove himself from the palace should be interesting. Shapur thought his son would do just fine, and he's seen how he's been making new friends, so to hear that his son feels... unsafe, to say the least...

Because look, see.

You being innocent doesn't mean you'll be saved from unjust punishment.

Arslan has seen and known it well.

What happened to his parents, what happened to his brother and Golnar, what happened and is still happening, how the clan is made of people who'd been forced to flee, how the clan still gains new members to this day...

If the people in power deem you a nuisance and threat, they can and will use any excuse to get rid of you. Sometimes an excuse won't even be needed if you're lowborn enough.

Just because you're right doesn't mean you can always count on it to have a right to speak out either.

And if something happens to him... what if the trail leads to his family, his clan as well?

So, he leaves the palace and goes to work outside the palace instead, just so they'd feel... less threatened, I suppose.

[roc-thoughtblog]

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 7.5

Or, where I was gonna start chapter 11, but needed to talk about why I thought Willoughby's observation was wrong.

And then, of course, I turned it into something really long, so that's taken up my reading session today. (I still haven't finished writing my thoughts on Narrative Voice either, because it has gotten loooong.)

Anyway.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."

Elinor is right, here, that Willoughby is demonstrably wrong in his assessment of Colonel Brandon's social activity. It's not merely the fact that Elinor herself has taken an interest in Brandon enough, but simply the fact that Willoughby's claim that nobody remembers to talk to Brandon, is predicated on Willoughby himself dismissing the existence/value of the Middletons in general. It's not true that Brandon is not spoken to, it's that he's not spoken to by an arbitrary class of people whom Willoughby thinks matters, such as Willoughby, Marianne and Elinor, which he himself is a part of.

> "That he is patronised by you," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of anybody else?"

We know the Middletons speak to him, because Willoughby himself admits it, but we also know from his own words that they don't count, only Elinor does. In fact, he considers them a negative. Social noise. Detractors by association even, a bad or shallow crowd. I wouldn't be surprised is he considers servants here also. After all, Marianne has already said as much in her statements around being 27, and we're lead to believe they share perspective on most things. Were it to be that Colonel Brandon was comfortable and sociable with the Middletons' maids and butlers, I think Willoughby would still consider him an unfortunate case.

And importantly, we know that the Middletons don't restrict themselves to just speaking with him, they also do care about him and his problems. Elinor has referenced that Sir Middleton clearly knows about whatever has troubled his history, and does have an investment in seeing the man socialise. Mrs. Jennings, for all her misplaced enthusiasm, does have an interest in his romantic life or woes as it may be. Just because these cares are aligned with their own interests of socialising and matchmaking, doesn't invalidate them. (Can't say much for Lady Middleton but the narrative has ventured that Lady Middleton specifically is a little cold outside the topic of her own children.) And, you know, who knows what other friends Brandon may have. We aren't him. He was even a Colonel, he must at least have military mates.

We see the Middletons as very flawed individuals because the narrative has framed them this way. Sir Middleton is ignorant, Lady Middleton is self-absorbed and Mrs. Jennings is shallow; on this line we're also expected to dismiss their value as individuals and friends at least slightly, the same way Willoughby and Marianne do.

But really, we can turn that assessment straight around, on Marianne in particular. She can be considered narrow-minded and dismissive. Arrogant perhaps, maybe even cold to people who are unfamiliar to her. As self-absorbed as Lady Middleton, perhaps, or as shallow as Mrs. Jennings. She's not so different, but she gets a pass inside the story for being young and pretty, and out of story for being the protagonist. It's easier to dismiss her flaws because they are presented, but not highlighted. But, again, we can turn that back around for the Middletons! If perhaps Brandon were the protagonist, would Mrs. Jennings have the same cheerful warmth as Mama Middleton? Maybe Lady M does care, but is simply detached like Elinor? There is certainly nobody in the story as genuinely generous and well-meaningly sociable as Sir M.

How might the Dashwoods appear then? Elinor might be cold, disinteresting, even if she shows some care. Marianne, pretty but vain and shallow; friendly, but mayhap just as likely to ask somebody to sing a song she just heard, or to bulldoze somebody with her opinions. Mama Dashwood might even appear as self-absorbed in her own family as Lady M; she made a point not to socialise beyond walking distance.

Either way, my point being, they are not so different. Watch Willoughby or anyone, including herself, give Marianne the time of day if she were older or dumpier! Or a servant! Is my statement here to mean that noone will give her attention? No, actually. Plenty of nice, genuine, and flawed people will anyway. Just that Willoughby and Marianne themselves, and anybody with that particular flaw of pride, would not.

So, yeah! Willoughby's observation was incorrect, and very myopic really. Such is youth, except come on man, Marianne is 17 but you're my age. You should know better! Man's definitely coasted on some social privilege his whole life and it shows.

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has everybody's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year."

I think Willoughby genuinely considers himself to not dislike Brandon. After all, he doesn't hate him, and he knows he has no reason to dislike him. I think Willoughby is the type of person who genuinely considers themselves to not dislike anyone, because, again, he has no reason to. They don't matter to him in that way.

But I think his general attitude speaks for itself. After all, he does find Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings thoroughly disrespectable, even by association. He considers Brandon a respectable man, but only in the ways in which he considers Brandon to have potential to be amongst people like himself and Marianne. He otherwise has everything callous to say about the aspects of Brandon's personality and circumstance that keep him from joining what he perceives as a more lively and acceptable strata of sociability. He certainly takes no issue with Marianne's actual open dislike of the man. (Though, come to think of it, that may be at least in part Mrs. Jenning's fault for setting her on him through thoroughly inappropriate real-person-shipping.)

I do think Willoughby has a great, mostly unvoiced disdain for Brandon's crowd, and I think that disdain extends to Brandon himself for having just enough potential to escape it, but not doing so. I get flashbacks to cases like in To Kill a Mockingbird (and uh, real life...) where people don't think they're racist, but also quite obviously don't think anything of the black community, and also look down on anyone who associates with them, like the guy has to always pretend he's drunk, and Atticus Finch himself. Disliking other people is a bad thing that other people do! This case is probably nowhere near as serious, but it comes from similar places on basic levels. Exclusivity, tribalism, elitism, prejudice, ostracisation, from where deeper, deeper problems take root.

STATUS! That's a word that could have been useful to me but I haven't used.

Anyway, I take this perspective because it's not as though I wasn't there too at one point, though absolutely nowhere near the extent of Marianne or Willoughby. I certainly didn't hold those conscious opinions, but I still felt the pressure to define the boundaries of people I should befriend, and I did unjustifiably dismiss people who I thought were dismissable by arbitrary social standards I didn't even understand. And for what? After all, I was exactly the same type of arbitrarily dismissable person! I was a weird kid! Weird kids are not socially prestigious material!

It's strange how easily ingrained that arbitrary-social-boundary-drawing is. Seriously, where exactly are children getting it from? Answer’s probably obvious but I’m already going too long.

I think, it's a very important thing to unlearn. If not least because it's a source of very deep societal problems, it can also potentially be another thing that leads somebody into a situation of, "everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." Not because noone cares or wants to speak to them, but because they've arbitrarily blinded themselves to people who do! There will of course be Willoughbys and Mariannes who don't care about you and think little of you, but at the end of the day they're a minority, and in terms of social interaction they're really no different from every other Middleton who might genuinely care.

It's ironically a fate that will most likely to hit hardest a Marianne or Willoughby who falls from social grace. After all, if they lose whatever privilege of personality or appearance, wealth or youth that keeps them afloat, they'd have noone to care about them or to talk to! Just lots and lots of Middletons, or probably worse. And befriending those people would involve, gasp, lowering your social standards! Descending to the level of people whom you have implicitly thought to have been beneath you this whole time! And now you've become a Brandon, who is old, and most unfortunately boring, and who only interacts with the Middletons, who don't count.

What a terrible fate!

Final Thoughts: So yeah, I think Willoughby was wrong, and also I think he's more than a little disdainful. He's definitely the kind of guy who has always had the luxury of arbitrarily making his choice of social affiliation, and has never had to challenge his prejudices. If he thinks nobody wants to talk to Brandon, well, on top of not being correct, he's also quite satisfied to play his own role in Brandon's perceived ostracisation. Not saying you are obligated to socialise with people whom you don’t have any interest in, but man, there’s no reason to do ‘em like that.

Wait, I've definitely used both the words pride and prejudice in this tangent. Hmm.

Anyway, making friends, and especially connecting with them, can be hard, but Brandon at least seems to be doing fine. The kids just have a superiority complex.

[kirk-spock-in-the-impala]

Between You and the World (5 of 6)

CHAPTER 5: Touch - Early Spring, Year 1254  (on AO3 here)

CW: mentions of hunger and associated weight loss caused by food scarcity; non-consensual touching (not sexual and NOT between Geralt and Jaskier); Geralt's headspace

Approximately 6,100 words under the cut.

______________________________________________________

This year, after spending the winter apart, Jaskier and Geralt reunited in Novigrad.  Jaskier had received a lucrative offer from the family of one of his schoolmates from Oxenfurt to be the noble family’s bard in residence for the winter season – no doubt prompted by Jaskier’s recent win at the Bardic Continental Championships – so Geralt had returned to spend the winter as usual with his fellow witchers in Kaer Morhen.  

 After the long, dark winter had finally started to lift and the snow cleared from the mountain pass, Geralt had set out from Kaer Morhen to make the several weeks long trek across the Continent to Novigrad with Roach, clearing up minor contracts along the way.  The winter past had been a long and hard one, bitter cold and heavy snows resulted in a lean spring, with many plants and animals having failed to survive the winter. It would be a difficult growing season and villages would face a run of hungry weeks before the spring crops flourished.

 When such conditions struck, merchants and innkeepers were unwilling to share their food stocks with a Witcher, preferring to keep the valuable goods for “good human folk”, as one particularly outspoken merchant had put it.  Geralt was used to such a reaction and had packed as much as he could carry to tide himself over until he reached Novigrad.  Strips of jerky, dried fruits, and hard biscuits from Kaer Morhen’s stores shared limited saddle bag space with Roach’s oats on his ride out from the old keep, but he could only carry enough for half the journey – less if he failed to strictly ration himself – so he alternated hunting with eating from his stores.  

 With harsh spring conditions following a bitter winter, hunting days often ended as fasting days, and Geralt quickly turned from lean to thin, what little fat he carried burning away to keep his body moving.  He wouldn’t die from the lack, witchers could survive long periods of total deprivation, but he was looking forward to the fresh, warm meals he would share with Jaskier in Novigrad before they set out on the Path once more.   Perhaps they could spend the next winter together again in Oxenfurt.  Geralt could never abandon his Path, but Jaskier had shown him that little breaks, little indulgences, could brighten his existence without threatening his purpose.  Geralt’s heart warmed and a small, private smile crossed his face as he thought of his friend, fond memories lending eager anticipation his journey.

Geralt reached Novigrad on a blustery, overcast day, soaked through and covered in mud from the heavy rains that had followed him the past several leagues.  The sea breeze was bracing and flocks of gulls screamed overhead.  All around the large, walled city, hardy, coastal plants were just starting to come into bud and leaf as the days warmed from winter’s chill.

 Jaskier must have paid the guard to watch out for him because he met Geralt at the gate, dressed warmly in a thick, woolen cloak and doublet, winter breeches and boots all new and of the highest quality.  

 Jaskier beamed when Geralt approached, embracing him firmly, headless of the mud and water soaking into his fine clothes.  Geralt breathed in Jaskier’s scent, rosin and honey immediately soothing, and returned the quick embrace before following Jaskier deep into the wealthiest part of the city.

 Jaskier had spent the winter with the family of his dear friend, Lady Annabelle de Rottermund, the daughter of Countess Rottermund, a wealthy, noble lady who had settled in Novigrad after the death of her dearly departed husband to be closer to the arts. She was a patron of all the bardic students at nearby Oxenfurt, ensuring the instruments, instructors, and facilities remained top-notch, and was known to employ a special favorite bard or two to provide entertainment for her winter social gatherings and elaborate balls.

 Jaskier told Geralt about his season as they walked through the cobbled streets, sun just starting to peek through the heavy clouds, the sound of Roach’s hooves echoing off the surrounding buildings.  He told Geralt about the thrill of performing for a large, appreciative crowd, about the many long discussions he’d had with Countess Rottermund about the history of the bardic arts, and about the slow, quiet hours he had spent composing and practicing, improving his craft day by day.  

 As they approached the large townhouse occupied by the Countess Rottermund, its large, stone façade taking up an entire city block and climbing up four, glided stories, Jaskier spoke of long nights, of endless days spent looking out the window, restless for adventure.  Just before they entered the yard, halting Geralt with a soft hand on his elbow, Jaskier told him about how often he thought of Geralt and how glad he was they were reunited.  Geralt was so touched by the words that he didn’t know how to respond, so he let his instincts dictate, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s and closing his eyes for a moment, feeling Jaskier’s warmth against him.  As usual, in Jaskier’s remarkable way, he understood.

 With a broad smile, Jaskier took Geralt’s arm and led him through the large, wrought iron gate, nodding to the guard as he passed.  He showed Geralt the stable he’d chosen for Roach, a spacious corner stall with thick, sweet smelling straw, and introduced the young stable hand.  After leaving strict instructions, and watching to see if the boy was competent, Geralt was satisfied and left Roach to be pampered, following Jaskier up into the house.  

 To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier not only led him in through the front door, rather than the servant’s back entrance, but up to a large guestroom on the main floor of the home.   Geralt was conscious of each speck of mud he left on the carpets, of each drop of rainwater he left in his wake, and felt his shoulders tensing, waiting for a manicured footman to jump out at him in a rage.  He slunk behind Jaskier like an old hunting dog who knew he was breaking the rules, trying to make himself as small as possible in the grand space.  

 Jaskier, of course, was comfortable as anything, striding confidently through the finely appointed halls and greeting each servant as they passed.  This is the life he deserves, Geralt thought, comfortable, safe, warm, nothing like the Path.  But he knew by now that this life was not what Jaskier wanted. For some inexplicable reason, Jaskier preferred jerky and campfires with Geralt to all the trappings of noble life. After all their years together, Geralt accepted that Jaskier’s choice was made, but he didn’t think he would ever fully understand it.

 Jaskier finally stopped, pushing open a richly carved wooden door and leading Geralt inside the well-appointed bedchamber.  There was no question that they would share, as was their wont.  An enormous, four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in thick, soft furs.  A fire burned merrily in the hearth, chasing away the chill, and carpets and tapestries ensured no speck of stone was exposed that might chill an unwary occupant. Off to the side of the room was a separate bathing chamber, an unimaginable luxury, with a deep, soaking tub cut into the floor, steam rising from the surface of the water.  

 Jaskier smiled as he saw Geralt’s attention latch onto the bath.  “I knew you’d like that,” he said. “I had them draw it for you before I left to pick you up.”

 Geralt hummed in appreciation, dropping his dirty pack carefully to the side of the hearth, far enough away from the flames to be safe, but still on the flagstones and well away from the fine rugs.

 Jaskier continued as Geralt peeled off his boots and armor, carefully placing each piece by his wet pack to clean and dry later.  “Countess Rottermund wants us to attend her for dinner.  She recently acquired a large plot of land about thirty leagues up the coast and wants to update her bestiary and determine the best possible monster deterrents to keep her new vassals safe.  If you’re amenable, I believe she wants you to visit the site and help oversee implementing the protections and training the village overseers.”

 “Hmm, sounds like a long job.”  Geralt said, stripping off his soaked tunic and leggings, heading toward the bathing chamber in only his smalls.  

 “A couple months at least, I would think.”  Jaskier agreed.  “But Countess Rottermund pays well and it could help save the villagers from running afoul of the local monsters.  I’m sure she’ll tell you everything at dinner.”

 Jaskier watched as Geralt settled himself in the bath, averting his eyes as he removed his smalls before stepping into the steaming water.  

 A knock suddenly sounded.  Geralt started, eyes focusing on the outer door, which was just visible from the tub, but remaining relaxed for now.  He was safe in Jaskier’s chambers and would only become concerned if Jaskier showed any sign of upset.  Geralt watched as Jaskier opened the outer door, speaking to a man on the other side, before he stepped back and allowed the man in.  The new arrival was accompanied by two young maidservants. Jaskier looked mildly annoyed, but not worried, so Geralt sat back in the steaming water, waiting to see what unfolded.

Jaskier led the man and the two maidservants over to the bathing chamber, gesturing for them to wait at the door while he knelt next to Geralt where he sat in the bath, feet level with Geralt’s shoulders because of how the bath was cut into the floor.  

 “Geralt, Countess Rottermund sent her under-butler and two maid servants to help you bathe and dress for dinner.  I know it’s a bit heavy handed, but they’re trustworthy and it’s well meant.  Are you all right with them helping you?”

 Geralt studied the three newcomers in the doorway.  They showed no signs of aggression or disgust, simply waited patiently with a blank expression as all good servants were trained to do.  If Jaskier believed them trustworthy, then Geralt would trust his judgment.  He nodded.

 Jaskier smiled down at him.  “All right then.”  He motioned to the others to get started.  “Enjoy your pampering!”  Jaskier clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and retreated into the bedchamber, closing the inner door behind him to keep the bathing chamber warm.  Geralt heard him settle onto the lounge by the fire, pulling out a book and flipping through it before starting to read.

 The under-butler, a portly man in his late middle age, bowed slightly to Geralt.  “Master Witcher, I am Boris and these two maids are Agnes and Catherine.”  He said, gesturing to each young woman in turn.  “We are here to help you bathe and dress for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

 Boris rolled up his sleeves and lined the edge of the bath with towels while the two maids prepared bath oils, brushes, sponges, and scrubs.  The scent of the various products merged together, strong enough individually, but together they gave Geralt a slight headache.  He ignored it.  It wouldn’t do to offend Jaskier’s patron over something so insignificant as bathing products.

 Geralt ducked down under the water, wetting his hair thoroughly.  He hadn’t had a bath since leaving Kaer Morhen, and the dirt, monster blood, and body oil left his hair a dull, knotted mass.  It would take some serious work to make it presentable. Under the water, he scraped his fingers through his thick, white hair, dragging his long nails across his scalp to try and loosen the matting.

 When he surfaced, Boris was behind him, a large bar of oil soap in his hand.  Soap was uncommon given its expense, so the Countess was clearly invested in making sure Geralt was as clean as possible before meeting him. Geralt started to see Boris looming in his blind spot, but quickly suppressed it, turning and reaching out a hand for the soap.  

 Boris pulled it back. “No, no,” he said.  He knelt behind Geralt, soap in hand, and gestured for him to face forward.  “I am here to assist with your bathing.”

 Geralt glared up at him.  “I can bathe myself.”

 Boris placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and spun him around.  Geralt flinched at the contact, but allowed Boris to move him, unwilling to risk hurting him or appearing aggressive.  Boris dumped a small basin of water over Geralt’s head and followed it immediately with the bar of oil soap, scrubbing it into Geralt’s hair.  

 Geralt sat forward and away from Boris’s ministrations.  “Stop it!”  He said sharply, unable to keep the growl from his voice. “I can bathe myself!”

 Boris frowned at him, looking down at him much as he would at a dog who peed on the Countess’s carpet. “This resistance is most unbecoming, Master Witcher.  Countess Rottermund instructed us to assist with your bathing and dressing to ensure you were presentable.  We will not allow this behavior to interfere with the performance of our duties!”  His voice sharped toward the end, frustration and distaste breaking through his professional demeanor.

 Agnes whispered to Catherine behind the stack of towels she was holding, assuming Geralt couldn’t hear them.  “Given the state of him, I wonder if he’s ever had a bath!” Geralt could hear Catherine titter in response.  

 Geralt turned his glare on Agnes, making it clear he heard every word.  She gave him an insincere nod of apology.

 With Geralt’s attention on Agnes, Boris again grabbed his shoulder from behind, pulling him back to sit against the back of the tub.  Geralt flinched at the contact, but again allowed it.  Boris was a human, and a servant of Jaskier’s patron, and Geralt couldn’t risk resisting and being cast as an aggressor.

 Geralt clenched his teeth until his jaw cramped, but forced himself to stay still as Boris resumed his work soaping up Geralt’s hair.  Boris’s frustration with Geralt was clear in the rough way he scrubbed the soap in to the matted locks.  As he worked, he looked up toward the maids, gesturing at them with a flick of his double chin.

 Agnes and Caroline immediately complied, leaving the fresh towels to the side of the chamber and coming to kneel by the edge of in-ground tub, one on each side of Geralt. They rolled up their sleeves and, with clear looks of distaste, each reached into the tub and grabbed one of Geralt’s legs, lifting them up onto the edge of the tub.

 Geralt fought the urge to pull away, fists clenching under the water.  “What are you doing now?”  Geralt ground out, careful to keep his voice calm, quiet, unintimidating.

 Caroline looked down at him, a haughty look on her thin face as she scooped some strongly-scented sea salt scrub onto a foot brush.  “Helping you bathe, of course, Master Witcher.”

 Agnes nodded, mirroring her compatriot’s actions.  “You’ve been travelling so long and in such dirty conditions that we must help you clean up properly before you’re fit to see the Countess.”

 Agnes and Caroline started in on his legs and feet, scrubbing at them with the brushes as if he were a cooking pot with caked on food.  The rough bristles caught in his leg hair and the sea salt stung the small scrapes left by the hard brushes.  They took no care to avoid the small, healing wounds littering his legs either.  It took every scrap of control Geralt had to avoid kicking them off.

 As the maids scoured Geralt’s legs, Boris continued his assault on Geralt’s head, pressing the oil soap hard into Geralt’s hair as his fingernails scraped along Geralt’s scalp, catching his sensitive ears with each pass.  

 Geralt felt trapped. With the way the tub was set into the floor, the three servants loomed over him, a maid on each side and Boris’s large bulk behind him, setting his hackles on edge.  They scrubbed, scraped, and pulled at him, and Geralt felt himself starting to panic.  

 “Stop it!” He demanded.  “I don’t need your help!”

 Boris pulled hard on his ear, pinching it like he would an unruly child, servant’s blank breaking and letting his disgust of Geralt come through in his tone.  “Enough of that!  You may be satisfied living like an animal, but we will not subject our Lady to your filth!”  Agnes and Caroline tittered, sneering down at Geralt.

 Geralt’s heart rate rapidly elevated, his pupils narrowing as his adrenaline soared.  It was too much; it was all too much.  He was exhausted and hungry, unused to human touch or contact after his winter away and his long journey alone.  He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t physically resist and risk hurting them, so he was trapped in the tub, under and beneath antagonists who forced their rough touches upon him in the name of following orders.  

 He’d asked them to stop, demanded that they stop, and yet they refused.  To leave the tub, he would need to physically move at least one of the servants.  The risk of that was unacceptable.  

 His vision tunneled, body taut with tension.  The servants continued their unwanted ministrations, uncaring of his distress or of his clearly stated lack of consent to their touch, pleased that he finally ceased moving.

 Tell me before it becomes too much.  The memory of Jaskier’s voice cut through Geralt’s rising panic.  He drew a breath and called out before he lost his words.

  “Jaskier!”

 His panic must have been evident in his tone because he heard Jaskier’s book fall to the floor as his footsteps raced across the chamber outside.  Jaskier flung open the door to the bathing chamber, taking in the scene.  Geralt was surrounded on all sides, Boris behind him with his hands in Geralt’s hair, Agnes and Caroline on the edges, each scrubbing roughly at one of Geralt’s legs with a brush.  

 Geralt’s eyes were wide and wild, his pupils pinpricks.  He looked up as Jaskier entered, deep lines of tension cutting across his face, begging Jaskier for help without words.

 Jaskier felt a calm rage settle over him.  “Leave us.” He commanded, looking every inch the Viscount he was, voice demanding obedience.

 Boris stood immediately, bowing to Jaskier.  “My Lord, we have orders to ensure Master Witcher is prepared for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

 Jaskier’s eyes narrowed, managing to look down his nose at Boris despite the portly man having nearly half a head on him in height.  “Do you doubt my ability to prepare Master Geralt properly?” He demanded, emphasizing Boris’s failure to afford Geralt the respect of calling him by name.

 Boris swallowed hard, his smile gaining an obsequious edge.  “Of course not, my Lord.”

 “Then go.” Jaskier ordered, stepping away from the door in clear command.

 Boris bowed, gesturing for the maids to obey Jaskier’s command.  “Yes, my Lord.  We’ll ring the dinner gong after the seventh bell.”

 Jaskier nodded, watching all three leave, bowing or curtsying to him as they passed.  After they’d cleared the room, Jaskier shut the outer door, locking it behind him before returning to the bathing chamber and closing that door as well.  Geralt stared up at him as if he were a savior, tension melting from his frame. Geralt heaved a sigh and settled back into the steaming water, drawing his legs back into the tub, sinking down until the water reached his chin, white hair fanning around his neck.

 Jaskier lay down next to the tub, eye level with Geralt, chin resting on his crossed arms, headless of the water soaking into his fine woolen clothes.  

 “What happened?” He asked gently.

 “They wouldn’t stop.” Geralt said, his eyes regaining a hunted edge.  “They just kept touching me, scrubbing me.”

 Jaskier pressed his lips together.  He had expected better of the Countess’s servants.  “And none too gently from what I saw.”  Jaskier said.  “I’m so sorry about this, Geralt.  I wanted you to have a nice, relaxing bath after your journey.”

 Geralt sighed, looking down at the water before catching Jaskier’s remorseful gaze.  “I still can, I think.”  He offered a small smile, quirking an eyebrow.  “Will you help?”

 Jaskier smiled, eyes softening.  “Of course, whatever you need.”

 Geralt gestured up at his hair.  “I can take care of the rest, but I need help with this mess.”

 Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head fondly.  “You never do take proper care of your hair.”

 Geralt scowled in mock annoyance.  “Well, I’ll be sure to carry a bath with me next time I travel.”  His lips twitched around a smile.

 Jaskier laughed out right, poking Geralt’s shoulder.  “You’re impossible,” he said, indescribably fond.  He sat up, removed his boots, and carefully rolled up his breeches.  “Is it all right if I sit behind you?” He asked, tone carefully neutral.

 Geralt looked up at him, trust apparent in his open gaze.  “You’re the only one I trust at my back.”

 Jaskier smiled, warmth filling his chest.  Geralt showed him all the time how much he trusted Jaskier, but it was unusual for him to say it so bluntly.  

 “All right then, lean forward a moment.”  Jaskier instructed, positioning himself behind Geralt, one bare leg in the bathwater on either side of him.  Once he was settled, he placed a gentle hand on each of Geralt’s shoulders, guiding him back to rest between Jaskier’s spread legs.  

 Geralt shifted slightly before settling, letting out a sigh of contentment.  

 “All right?” Jaskier asked, picking up the discarded oil soap.

 “Hmm.”  Geralt nodded.

 Jaskier inspected Geralt’s hair, seeing the matting near the scalp and the small flecks of detritus throughout.  Satisfied it wasn’t a lost cause, he worked up a lather from the soap by rubbing it between his hands before setting the bar aside and applying the foam to Geralt’s hair, rubbing it in with long, gentle, circular strokes.  Geralt let out a hum that was practically a purr, melting back into the edge of the tub between Jaskier’s legs and closing his eyes.

 Jaskier hummed a light tune as he worked the soap through Geralt’s hair, carefully picking out bits of detritus.  When he was satisfied, he filled the small rinse basin from the tap used to fill the tub, and tilted Geralt’s head back to rinse the soap out of his hair.  Geralt’s eyes stayed closed, his face relaxed.  If it was Jaskier behind him, then there was nothing to worry about.  Jaskier’s touch was both tolerable and welcome, soothing a part of Geralt that had lain dormant since his childhood.

 With the soap rinsed clean, Jaskier uncapped the bottles of oil one by one, sniffing each before settling on a bottle of lightly scented lavender oil, hoping the calming scent would help ease any remaining tension from Geralt’s unfortunate experience with Countess Rottermund’s servants.  

 He poured a generous amount of oil into his hands before carefully working it into Geralt’s hair, finger combing out the tangles and patiently working through the matted sections.  Geralt thought he might melt.  Or fall asleep.  Jaskier had helped him bathe before, whether because of injury or because the grime in his hair required it, but there was something different about this time. Something was shifting in the air between them, something that had changed with the embrace they shared back at the Alderman’s hut in Lindenvale the summer before.  

 As Jaskier worked the last tangles out of his long, white hair, Geralt leaned over, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s clothed thigh.  Jaskier’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before continuing to work, moving from Geralt’s clean hair down to massage the knots out of Geralt’s neck and shoulders.  Geralt let out a sigh of contentment, relaxing completely into Jaskier and letting Jaskier take care of him.

 As they heard the sixth bell ring out in the distance, Jaskier dropped a kiss on the crown of Geralt’s newly cleaned head.  He reached for one of the towels, wiping the oil off his hands.  “We have about an hour before dinner, so I’ll set out your clothes while you finish up, all right?”  Jaskier waited for Geralt to nod and sit up before he pulled his legs out of the tub, drying them off before standing and heading back into the bedchamber. He left the door open behind him.

 Geralt stretched his arms up, cracking his neck and rolling his newly loosened shoulders.  He felt more relaxed than he could ever remember being, despite his earlier panic.  It was as Jaskier had told him all these years, if he asked for help, Jaskier would willingly give it, and all would be well.  He felt the slightest twinge of guilt at his indulgence, at allowing Jaskier to care for him, but he ignored it.  Jaskier was his own man and he had shown Geralt time and time again that he wanted to take care of him and that he was pleased if Geralt allowed it. Geralt was even starting to believe that Jaskier enjoyed his affection and his touch, something Geralt had never dared to hope for in all his long life.

 Geralt reached for a small towel, lathering it up with the oil soap and ignoring the rough scrubs and brushes, and washed himself thoroughly, scraping off the grime of his several weeks of travel that had been loosened by his long soak in the tub. Finally satisfied, he stood, pulling the plug to drain the tub, and rinsed himself carefully with the small rinse basin, letting the clean water wash away the last of the soap.  

 He stepped up out of the tub and dried himself with the thick, clean towels before applying the lavender oil Jaskier had chosen all over his freshly cleaned skin.  Warm, clean, and relaxed, he wrapped a fresh towel around his waist and joined Jaskier in the bedchamber.  

 While Geralt had finished bathing, Jaskier had changed into formal dinner clothes, the cut of the fine silk doublet and breeches accentuating his figure and the deep blue color bringing out his eyes.  Jaskier smiled at Geralt and gestured to the clothes he’d laid out on the bed.

 “What do you think?” He asked.  “I had the tailor make them up for you.”  Jaskier had chosen a simple cut for the doublet and breeches, letting the quality of the thick, dark grey silk speak for itself.  There was a subtle pattern across the doublet, embroidered in the same color as the piece itself, adding interest without being ostentatious.  A pair of soft, black, knee high boots rested on the floor beside the bed.

 Geralt hummed, pleased with the simplicity of the clothes but otherwise largely disinterested in the fashion.  Jaskier didn’t take offense, he knew Geralt neither knew nor cared about fashion. His only goal had been to choose something comfortable and inoffensive.  

 He frowned slightly as he studied Geralt’s thin frame, concerned about the drastic weight loss. Geralt caught him looking and raised an eyebrow.  “It was a lean winter, Jaskier.  I’ll gain it back in due time.”

 Jaskier huffed. “I’m not worried about the look of you, I’m just concerned that you get enough to eat.  Can’t have you fainting from hunger during a hunt!”

 Geralt snorted, taking the good-natured teasing as intended. “I’m sure you’ll fatten me up again before we set out.”  

 “Damn right I will!” Jaskier said, handing Geralt a fresh, silk chemise and smalls. “Go on now, get dressed before we’re late.”

 Geralt shook his head fondly, but complied, pulling on the cool, soft underclothes and fine silken formalwear.  The doublet and breeches hung a bit loose, but not enough to be sloppy, Jaskier having accounted for a certain amount of winter weight loss. The soft boots fit perfectly, molding to his feet and calves like old favorites.

 Dressed, Geralt turned to Jaskier, spreading his hands in an unspoken request for Jaskier’s review of his appearance.  Jaskier looked him up and down appreciatively. “You’ll do.”  He said, smiling.  “Now, come here and let me fix your hair.” He gestured to the chair by the fire.  Geralt sat obediently, letting Jaskier smooth out his hair with a long-toothed comb, pulling it back from his face and tying it half-up as he preferred.  

 The seventh bell rang out in the distance, followed almost immediately by the dinner gong. Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulders. “Ready?” He asked.

 Geralt nodded, standing up and heading for the door.  Jaskier stopped him with a gentle hand on his elbow before they exited the room. “Remember, if you need to leave for any reason, just tell me and we’ll leave.”

 Geralt nodded. “I know you’ll take care of me.” He said simply, patting Jaskier’s hand where it rested on his elbow before opening the door for him.  

 Jaskier blinked at him, surprised but pleased by the easy acceptance.  A huge smile spread across his face as he led Geralt out the door, his hand remaining in the crook of Geralt’s arm.

  _________________________________________

  It was near midnight by the time Jaskier and Geralt returned to their chambers.  Countess Rottermund had set an elaborate table for their dinner, an intimate evening with just the four of them in attendance: Jaskier, Geralt, Countess Rottermund, and Lady Annabelle.  The food had been superb and Geralt had eaten his fill, pleased to finally have the chance to fill his belly completely.  

 While they ate, Lady Annabelle and Jaskier had entertained them with tales of their exploits at Oxenfurt and giving Geralt plenty of ammunition with which to tease Jaskier in the future.  

 Unlike her servants, Countess Rottermund, though stern, was kind and treated Geralt with respect.  He imagined the treatment was partly a result of her tolerant nature and partly a result of her clear and genuine affection for Jaskier.  Whatever the cause, Geralt was relieved.

 After they finished their meal, Countess Rottermund got down to business.  Sipping a fine cordial, Countess Rottermund described the land and villages she had inherited on the northern coast above Novigrad.  A distant uncle had died without an heir, and she was his closest blood relation.  The Countess had never met her uncle and had never lived on a country estate, having grown up in Oxenfurt and then in Novigrad, and so was relying up her uncle’s old staff to run the holding.  

 She had been up to her uncle’s manor to meet the men he employed to care for his land and vassals, and she was satisfied they were trustworthy, but all had spoken about monsters plaguing the villages they oversaw.  All the villages suffered from drowners given their proximity to the coast, but one also had a wyvern problem, another lost livestock to endregas, and yet another was devastated by noonwraiths.  When she had reviewed the beastiary the overseers used to help protect the villagers, she’d noticed it was nearly a century out of date.  And, upon review of her uncle’s accounting book, she saw that the last recording of a witcher being hired in the holding was over six decades prior.

 And so, she explained, when Jaskier informed her Geralt was coming to Novigrad, she’d asked him to set up a meeting.  Her plan was simple, but would require several months of work.  She proposed to hire Geralt to update her beastiary, to clear out the monsters currently plaguing the villages, and to help the villagers set up protections and practices to discourage new monsters from taking up residence in her holding.  

 When Geralt had protested, saying that eliminating monsters forever was not possible, she made it clear that she understood monsters were an endemic problem, but that she wanted to give the villagesr in her newly acquired holding the best possible chance against them.

 Ultimately, for a hefty sum that would last Geralt close to a year, paid half in advance, they settled on a plan.  Geralt would clear out the drowners, endregas, noonwraiths, and wyvern currently in residence on his way north out of Novigrad for the season.  Then, in the late autumn, he would return with Jaskier to her holdings, taking up winter residence in a small cottage by the coast in the center of her territory.  Countess Rottermund would ensure the cottage was properly repaired and stocked before they arrived, and would arrange for one of her overseers to bring the beastiary to him, with ample parchment and ink for her edits and additions.  Over the winter, Geralt would update and expand the beastiary.  He would also travel to each village to meet with the village overseer and set up a deterrent plan to protect the villagers going forward.  If any monsters settled in the area after he cleared out the ones currently present, Geralt would eliminate them for an additional fee.

 It took hours for Geralt and Countess Rottermund to settle on terms, but both left the negotiation satisfied.  Jaskier was delighted it had worked out and looked forward to spending the winter on the coast with Geralt.  As they returned to their room, Jaskier chattered about his plans for the coming season, the songs he would work on, the dishes he would prepare to “keep you in good weight, Geralt!”, and how much he would enjoy spending that quiet season with Geralt again as they had years ago in Oxenfurt.  He even promised to arrange for a selection of books to be brought to the cottage for Geralt to read, assuring him the library still had his record and would not send him something he had already read.

 Geralt let Jaskier’s words wash over him, exhaustion creeping up as he prepared for bed.  He removed the finery, folding it carefully, before flopping back onto the bed in his smalls and chemise, Jaskier joining him shortly after, blowing out the candles by the bedside.

 There was nothing new in them sharing a bed – they did it all the time on the Path in much smaller beds than this – but the change Geralt felt earlier made itself known again. The atmosphere was comfortable and quiet, but there was a new weight to it.  Nothing tense or heavy, but a new significance to their shared space that simply hadn’t been there before.  It made Geralt feel like he wanted to bare his soul.

 He turned on his side to face Jaskier, watching the dim light from the dying fire cast shadows on his still youthful face.  Jaskier felt his gaze and turned to him, resting his head on a bent elbow, smiling gently.  They were inches apart.

 Geralt wanted to recapture the closeness he’d felt earlier, wanted to feel that same soul-deep contentment.  He placed his hand, palm up, on the bed between them, offering what he dared not take. Jaskier immediately accepted, placing his hand in Geralt’s and squeezing lightly.  

 “I am glad we will spend the winter together again.”  Geralt said softly, still afraid to speak his thoughts aloud, but made daring by the warm, intimate environment.

 “As am I,” Jaskier said, smiling gently, affection clear on his face.  “I am honored to share your Path.”

 That touched something deep inside Geralt, and he felt some long-held fear, some long-held resistance, give way.  He didn’t know how to express what he felt in words, so he let his instincts lead, trusting that Jaskier would understand, would accept what he offered in the manner intended.

 Geralt stretched forward, closing the small distance between them and placing a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s forehead, mirroring the soft, affectionate gestures Jaskier had bestowed upon him in the past.  Jaskier’s eyes widened in wonder, his mouth dropping open softly.  Geralt searched Jaskier’s eyes and found only steadfast affection.  

 As Geralt studied him, Jaskier drew closer, resting his forehead on Geralt’s and synchronizing their breathing.  He kept his eyes open despite the closeness, watching for any sign of hesitance as he gently, slowly, leaned in and pressed his lips to Geralt’s.  

 The kiss was soft and affectionate.  Loving without demanding, passionate without burning.  It wasn’t a carnal act, but one of the deepest feeling, the sort of quiet, eternal love built up over years of trust and companionship.

 Geralt felt the depth of love Jaskier conveyed with his soft kiss and felt his eyes fill with the strength of his emotions.  He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, he simply closed the distance between their bodies, winding his arms around Jaskier and burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply of the comforting scent of rosin and honey. Jaskier cradled him close, nuzzling at his hair and pressing soft kisses to the crown of his head.  

 They didn’t say anything further, they just breathed together in their warm bed, surrounded by soft furs, and slept, content in the knowledge that they were each exactly where they should be.

Requested tags for updates: @thesunshinemanman @animaniac1017

[shenanigumi]

Kazasen. How did that not come up yet?

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WELCOME TO HELL, I’M ALLEY, YOUR TOUR GUIDE, AND TODAY I’LL BE PUTTING KAZASEN IN THE CONTEXT OF NATURE/NURTURE SINCE IT’S A READY-MADE SCENARIO

General:

Rate the Ship: Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last? Longer than anyone thinks, mostly on account of their mutual stubbornness. All contentious emotions aside, for the sake of their people and all of demonkind, they can and will stay together indefinitely. Don’t test them. (They’re doing that on their own already.)

How quickly did/will they fall in love? Do they think of one another as physically attractive? Of course; they do have eyes. Do they respect one another? By now, yes they do. Do they understand one another? No, but they’re both making a conscious effort at this point. Okay, so that means they’re at least learning to love each other even if they’re not there yet, right? Absolutely not!! How dare you imply such a thing!!

How was their first kiss? Surprisingly soft, but immediately followed by another, different, more intense first. Figures.

Wedding:

Who proposed? Kazama, for the good of both their people… after rejecting Sen’s own proposition to bear him a child out of wedlock. In light of her less-than-favorable circumstances and Kazama’s generosity, Sen had little choice but to accept.

Who are the best man and groomsmen? Not applicable given the style, but Amagiri was in prominent attendance.

Who are the maid of honor and bridesmaids? Not applicable given the style, but Kimigiku was in prominent attendance.

Who did the most planning? Sen and her people, because Kazama and his family didn’t want anything to do with a wedding. The ceremony was held in Yase as a result.

Who stressed the most? Definitely Sen. This wasn’t her idea, and she was incredibly wary of Kazama’s possible ulterior motives, to say nothing of his personality as a whole.

How fancy was the ceremony? Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? Kazama in particular would have liked to exclude Shiranui, but they couldn’t afford to give offense. He didn’t show up anyway, so it was all good.

Sex:

Who is on top? Initially Sen, much to Kazama’s indignation and fury, until she trusts him enough to let him have a turn. It is currently much more equal.

Who is the one to instigate things? Usually Kazama.

How healthy is their sex life? Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once or twice a week, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? Not too long, but more because they don’t see a reason to prolong such interactions if they are both satisfied. Their frequency makes up for it, anyway.

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? Absolutely. Even in the very beginning, Kazama is sure never to leave Sen unfulfilled, to her utter astonishment.

How rough are they in bed? Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? Two.

How many children will they adopt? None.

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? Sen, but she makes Kazama pitch in now and again, ignoring his complaints about how he isn’t a nurse. There’s no way she’s taking care of everything all by herself, and no princess of Yase delegates raising her successor to a nursemaid.

Who is the stricter parent? Kazama, but Sen makes sure to balance him out as much as she can.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? Both of them, but Sen is more concerned about the child’s well-being, and Kazama is more concerned about how those actions reflect on their reputation and character.

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? Sen, though she is not the one to make them.

Who is the more loved parent? Sen. Kazama doesn’t have the first idea how to express familial love, so he comes across as somewhat distant despite his best efforts. (But make no mistake, he is making an effort.)

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? Kazama, if they existed in this setting. And no one would dare dismiss him if he brought up a complaint.

Who cried the most at graduation? Sen, if that was a thing, but Kazama got a little teary-eyed himself.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? Both of them, but Kazama would be the one to act on it. No human law can keep him from his children.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? Neither of them; that’s what servants are for. Sen would be more willing to try.

Who is the most picky in their food choice? Sen, actually, but she knows better than to complain about anything she doesn’t like. It is unbecoming of a demon.

Who does the grocery shopping? Servants. Sen would be more willing to try, though she wouldn’t know what to look for or how to find it.

How often do they bake desserts? They are not responsible for making them, but they have desserts every now and then. Sen has something of a sweet tooth, which she does not like to admit.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? Their cooks ensure that their meals are befitting of their status as proud demons, so they both have a pretty balanced diet.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? Kazama is more likely to have one made. If he tried it himself, the results would likely be disastrous.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? Sen. She is used to going out in Kyoto and actually likes associating with humans, if only tangentially. Kazama absolutely hates things like that, but he might soften eventually if she gives him enough incentive.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidentally while cooking? Kazama, if he ever tried it. Good riddance, he’d say.

Chores:

Who cleans the room? Servants. Sen would be more willing to try.

Who is really against chores? Both of them, though in Sen’s case, this is more because her servants are employed for that reason than out of a sense of entitlement. The same cannot be said for Kazama.

Who cleans up after the pets? They don’t keep pets.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? Kazama. As far as he’s concerned, the servants can get it later.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? Both of them are concerned with reputation and appearance, though Sen is typically the more flustered since they are staying in her village.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? Sen. She left it as a tip for the servant whose job she did.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? Kazama. They relax him, which is something he could stand to do a little more of, and he loses track of time while thinking.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? They don’t have one. There are some stray cats in Yase, though, and Kazama likes hanging out with them more than he cares to admit.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? Always, but only subtly; most holidays are human in origin and have no prominent place in demon culture, even in Yase. And it’s mostly the servants who do the work, in any case.

What are their goals for the relationship? Produce a child, but not before learning to live with each other and get along, as per Shiranui and Amagiri’s unsolicited advice.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? Kazama. Noon is rare, but of the two of them, he sleeps more, and usually later.

Who plays the most pranks? Neither of them, but Sen has more of a sense of humor, so she is more likely to be facetious. Whether Kazama gets her half-jokes on the first bounce is open to interpretation.