Chapter Text
Jaskier never stops complaining about his practice in the days following his first session, but Geralt enjoys it enough for the both of them. It’s satisfying, to finally equip the bard with the skills that will be able to protect him even when Geralt isn’t at his side, and in a much more base sensibility, the bard armed with a weapon does more than a few things for Geralt’s libido.
For all that the bard complains of sore muscles and exhaustion, he remains plenty limber and enthusiastic in their bed.
There might be consequences eventually, tying training to the expectation of a fuck afterwards, but Geralt decides easily that it’s well worth it.
After all, motivation is crucial.
Today the bard is paired off with Eskel as Geralt walks Ciri through some more sword forms, nudging her into proper position occasionally but otherwise simply allowing her to continue mirroring him. Their attention is drawn by a cry of complaint from the other pair sharing the training yard, and they look over to see Jaskier in a lock behind Eskel’s implacable arms, the bard’s dagger discarded to the side.
“That’s not fair!” Jaskier complains. “I only dropped it because I was afraid I was going to stab you! No fair getting grabby afterwards when I was trying to protect you!”
“Trust me, I was in no danger,” Eskel says, amused. “Not from you.”
Jaskier emits a noise of protest before he starts thrashing, apparently insulted enough to attempt to break free to deal out retribution. After a moment he stops, panting, before a wicked smile appears on his face that immediately has alarm bells ringing in Geralt’s head. Before he can warn his brother, Jaskier reaches back, wrapping his hands around Eskel’s belt and tugging downwards, dragging his trousers down a couple of inches before the witcher releases him, pulling them back up.
With an admirable amount of speed, Jaskier ducks down to grab his dagger, rising quickly to press it to Eskel’s throat before he manages to get his hands back up. Eskel raises his brows in surprise.
“Dirty maneuver but effective. Good job.” He moves to push Jaskier’s hand aside, but the bard remains in place.
“Say it,” Jaskier demands, and Eskel rolls his eyes.
“Really, you’ve already won, there’s no need to-”
“Say it!” Jaskier says again before he calls over his shoulder. “Geralt, make him say it!”
“You can’t just sic Geralt on me when you don’t get your way,” Eskel objects.
“I can, and I will! Now say it!”
Eskel rolls his eyes, but Geralt sees the amusement in his eyes.
“Fine. I yield. Happy now?”
He barely finishes before Jaskier thrusts his dagger to the sky in a pose of victory, letting out a cheer before he spins to face Geralt and Ciri, flushed and clearly proud.
“I won!” Jaskier cheers to him, and Geralt smiles.
“I saw,” he says, and Jaskier beams even brighter.
“Won’t work if your opponent is in a dress,” Ciri shouts back in a sing-song tone, and Jaskier sticks his tongue out at her.
“Why can’t you let me have a victory, gremlin child?” Jaskier says, and Ciri sticks her tongue out at him in return.
“Just trying to help you improve, old man,” she shoots back, and Jaskier clutches his chest as if she’s dealt him a mortal blow.
“Do you see the way she sasses me?” He cries to Geralt before he looks back to Ciri, moving closer and pointing his finger at her scoldingly. “I think, hellion spawn, that you should recall who it is who will be sneaking you treats once we’re back on the Path.”
“As if you aren’t the one teaching me how to insult people with court language,” Ciri says, utterly unthreatened. She squeaks with delighted alarm when Jaskier lunges towards her, and the two set off in a chase. With his longer legs, Jaskier manages to catch her, tossing her into a snowbank. She pops up and snatches at his legs, pulling him down as well.
Geralt watches them wrestle fondly, leaning on his practice sword. As Jaskier cries, “Hey, no biting! No biting, Cirilla!” Geralt senses Eskel moving to stand beside him.
“You’re going to have your hands full with those two,” Eskel observes. Geralt hums an agreement.
“I’ve handled Jaskier for this long,” Geralt responds, huffing a laugh when Ciri manages to stuff a handful of snow down Jaskier’s shirt, the bard immediately returning the favor before they return to their grappling.
“Should we stop them?” Eskel asks, as Jaskier manages to get to his feet, picking Ciri up to dangle her upside down, the girl shrieking with laughter as she hits at his ankles and calves as he swings her side to side.
“No, let them tire themselves out.”
They watch the two for a moment longer before Eskel speaks again.
“Any word on when I should plan on attending your big day?” He asks, and Geralt feels an immediate swirl of unease in his stomach. The being married to Jaskier part is something he’s pleased at the idea of, but Geralt has tried not to think about the process of getting there.
“No. I’m sure Jaskier will let you know, though.” Geralt knows the bard has big plans, and he’s been trying to conceal his own discomfort at the idea of a big ceremony.
“You don’t have any thoughts about it?” Eskel asks, and Geralt knows from the tone that his brother is digging for something.
“Jaskier’s the one who loves big events,” Geralt dismisses. “Trust me, he doesn’t need my input to plan something to remember.” It’s another thing Geralt has tried not to think about, exactly how big Jaskier can manage to make their wedding.
“You do want to marry him, don’t you?” Eskel asks, and Geralt turns to him, frowning.
“Of course I do,” he says. “I wouldn’t have asked him otherwise.”
“It’s just that you don’t seem very excited about it,” Eskel prompts.
“I’m happy that we’ll be married,” Geralt says carefully. It’s not a lie.
“But not about the wedding itself?” Eskel guesses, reading between the lines. Geralt remains silent. “Have you talked to him about it?”
“About what?” Geralt says, desperately wanting Eskel to stop prying. He hates sometimes that his brother knows him so well, knows exactly how much Geralt isn’t looking forward to the idea of standing up in front of a group of people as the center of attention and talking about his feelings.
“Trust me,” Eskel says. “He’ll be more upset if you don’t tell him than if you do.”
Geralt grunts a noncommittal response, and Eskel claps a hand on his shoulder. “Just think about it, alright?”
Geralt hums, and Eskel apparently decides to leave it at that, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder before releasing him.
“Besides,” Eskel says with a grin as he walks away. “From the number of proposals he managed, the bard will have plenty of other weddings to plan.”
Geralt tosses a handful of snow at his brother, who laughs as he dodges it. Eskel barely manages to avoid being pulled into the scuffle as he passes, and Ciri releases Jaskier to pursue the witcher, chasing him into the keep with a fistful of snow.
Jaskier looks to Geralt then, grinning, and Geralt feels like his entire body warms at the love and happiness in the bard’s face. He crosses to Jaskier, still partially sprawled in the snow, and extends a hand to help him up, helping to brush snow off of him partially to help and partially to have an excuse to have his hands on the bard.
He lets Jaskier drag him back to their room, the bard chattering the entire way about the many ways he plans to punish Ciri for her utter lack of respect. Geralt lets him talk as he thinks about what Eskel said, sitting on their bed as Jaskier flits around the room, tucking his dagger away and picking out new clothes. So caught up in his thoughts, Geralt misses what the bard is saying until he hears his name.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can tell from his tone that it’s not the first time he’s said it.
“What? Sorry, too much in my head. What were you saying?”
Jaskier moves over to the bed, straddling Geralt’s lap. Geralt raises his hands automatically to the bard’s waist.
“I said, I think a spring wedding would be nice, but we would run the risk of it being all muddy.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Geralt says automatically, his usual response for the wedding planning questions Jaskier has directed his way. The wedding isn’t really for him, after all. Geralt isn’t going to enjoy it no matter what decisions are made; Jaskier might as well be able to do whatever he wants with it. Jaskier, however, frowns, and Geralt smells the start of nervousness in his scent.
“You do…” Jaskier trails off, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You do…want to get married, right? You don’t regret it? Asking me?”
“No,” Geralt says immediately, squeezing Jaskier’s waist in his hands reassuringly. “I want to marry you, Jask.”
“It’s just, you haven’t really contributed anything to planning it, and you always look, I don’t know, nervous? When I bring it up.”
Geralt considers trying to distract the bard with sex, but Jaskier has the sort of focus in his eyes that tells Geralt he won’t be easily dissuaded from this line of questioning. Geralt searches for the proper way to phrase what he wants to say.
“I know you’re excited about the wedding,” he settles on at last. “You should get to plan the wedding you want.”
“And you?” Jaskier persists. “What wedding do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter. Plan what you want, Jaskier. I’m sure it’ll be nice.”
“Geralt, please tell me what you’re not saying here. If you don’t regret asking to marry me, what is it that has you looking so cagey each time the wedding comes up?”
“I don’t…like big parties,” Geralt offers, and Jaskier snorts.
“Yes, I’m aware. I do know you. Our wedding doesn’t have to be big, though.”
“It’s not just the size,” Geralt says, unsure how to continue. “I don’t like the idea of…the attention,” he finishes lamely.
“The attention?” Jaskier echoes.
“Everyone looking at us. At me. Usually at the things you drag me to, everyone is just looking at you. I don’t like the idea of them staring at me, too, while I have to talk in front of them.”
“You would be fucking miserable,” Jaskier says, filling in the blanks.
“No,” Geralt says immediately, but Jaskier can see the slight twitch of his mouth that betrays him.
“Yes,” Jaskier returns. “You would do the scowly grumpy face you do when you’re stuck at a party you don’t want to be at, and you would hate it the entire time.” Jaskier feels foolish, only realizing it now.
“You want a wedding,” Geralt says, face carefully schooled to be neutral. “You can have a wedding.”
“I’m not the only one getting married, though, Geralt. It shouldn't just be me having a wedding. It should be us getting married.” Jaskier chides. “And I’d rather you didn’t look back on the day and only remember how much you hated the whole thing.”
“I wouldn’t hate it,” Geralt disagrees. “If it made you happy, I wouldn’t hate it.”
“But you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“I don’t need to enjoy it. You deserve to have a wedding like you want. I’ve heard you and Yen planning it.”
Jaskier has done some “planning” of a sort with the witch, but only in vague terms. It's been more an exercise of imagination than actual planning. Just last night, Yennefer had tried to convince him that charming spiders into the bouquets was a good idea.
“Yennefer and I plan all sorts of things,” Jaskier says. “You should hear the plans we’ve got for the first of the three outfits you’re going to have to wear this year.” He sees the slightest flicker of alarm cross Geralt’s face at that, but the witcher apparently decides to ignore it and persist.
“You love a party, Jaskier. I know you want a wedding.”
“I don’t care about a wedding. The being married bit is the important part.”
“You?” Geralt asks, raising one dubious eyebrow. “Missing out on a chance to be the center of attention?”
Jaskier punches him on the arm lightly in reprimand, pulling back for a second until Geralt grabs his wrist, bringing the fist to his mouth for a kiss. Jaskier sighs as if put-upon, but he smiles and unclenches his hand.
“I don’t need a fancy event,” Jaskier tells him, bringing one hand up to caress Geralt’s cheek. “Not when it would make you uncomfortable. I wouldn’t have any fun if I knew you weren’t.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to go to anymore banquets with you?”
“Oh no, you’re still required to come to all of those, of course.”
“And yet you’re going to miss the chance to have an event of your own?” Geralt’s voice is doubtful, and it makes Jaskier sting slightly, Geralt believing the idea that he would care about a big event more than the witcher’s comfort.
“Darling, believe me. I’ve been to more than enough wedding celebrations with a miserable groom. I have no wish to replicate it.” Despite Jaskier’s words, there’s still something in Geralt’s eyes that he can’t quite read. Jaskier leans forward, planting himself more firmly atop the witcher’s thighs, cupping his face with both hands. “Talk to me, love. I’m close, most of the time, but I’m not quite in your head yet.” The words make Geralt smile slightly, a little crinkle at the edge of his mouth. He inhales in a way that Jaskier knows means he’s girding himself for something he doesn’t really want to say.
“I don’t want you to have to give up more for me,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier cocks his head.
“More? What exactly is it that you think I’ve given up to start with?”
“The Path isn’t exactly a holiday,” Geralt tells him, as if Jaskier is missing something very obvious. “You like luxurious things, soft beds and fine silks and good food. I know how much you sacrifice to travel with me, how much you’ll sacrifice in the future to stay with me.”
“I can do without fancy food, Geralt,” Jaskier tells him, mildly amused. He’s never been apologetic about his expensive tastes, but Geralt’s never acted as if it’s a problem before. Geralt studies him for a long moment, and Jaskier regrets his mirth when the witcher is trying to be vulnerable. Jaskier leans forward to kiss him in apology, and Geralt accepts. When they part, Jaskier strokes a gentle thumb across his cheek. “You want to say more,” he prompts, knowing it’s true.
“It’s not just things,” Geralt says slowly, and Jaskier can hear the hesitation, can hear how little Geralt wants to be saying what he’s about to say. “I know the sort of life you give up for me, Jaskier. You could be a tenured professor at Oxenfurt or a kept man in any villa of your choosing. You could be respected and adored, and instead you stay with me. I know you hear the things people say about you.”
Jaskier does. He’s been called a monster fucker or a witcher’s whore more times than he can count. It’s never bothered him, however, beyond the connotation that belonging to Geralt in some way is something to be ashamed of.
“Words don’t usually bother you,” Jaskier observes. He’s been dragged away from more than one fight because of that very reason.
“When they’re about me they don’t,” Geralt says, and Jaskier magnanimously doesn’t call him out on the lie. Jaskier knows the words people fling at the witcher sting. He’s seen the tense set of Geralt's shoulders and the clench of his jaw enough times to say it with absolute confidence. “But I hate that you suffer because of other people’s hatred of me. You shouldn’t know what it feels like to have rocks thrown at you or to be thrown of an inn or chased out of a town. But you do. Because of me.”
“Oh, love,” Jaskier says, pulling Geralt forward to press a lingering kiss on his forehead before releasing him. “First of all, you shouldn’t know what those things feel like, either. Ah ah!” He stops Geralt when the witcher opens his mouth to disagree. “Watch how you speak about my future husband.” Geralt gives him a look, but Jaskier sees the softness around his eyes, ruining his attempt at looking grumpy.
“I don’t have a choice about that, Jask. People will always hate me. It’s different for you. You suffer because of me, not because of anything about you.”
“For all that you call me dramatic, you should really step back and take a hard look at yourself sometimes.” Jaskier informs him, booping Geralt’s nose to ruin his scowl. “And I need you to listen to me: I choose you, Geralt. I chose you then, and I choose you now, and I will choose you fifty years from now even when I’m still choking on your morning breath and picking your hair off of all of my clothing. The rain, the mud, the ignorant shit heels, they’re nothing next to having you. There is nothing I wouldn’t do or pay for that, Geralt. I love you, with every inch of my greedy little heart.”
“But people-”
“Fuck people,” Jaskier says firmly. “They don’t know you, and they don’t know me. If you wouldn’t get cross about it, I’d poison ever last fucker who even looked at you wrong.” The promise makes Geralt snort, and Jaskier smiles, feeling victorious. “I mean it. Don’t hold me back next time, and I’ll prove it.”
“I don’t doubt your willingness,” Geralt tells him dryly. “Just your ability.”
“And yet you’re the one teaching me how to be effective with sharp-pointies.”
“I might have to reconsider that. I hadn’t considered how much more of a pain in the ass it would make you,” Geralt says seriously.
“The second you want to let me stop doing physical labor, let me know. I’ve been praying for it from the beginning,” Jaskier informs him, grinning before he sobers slightly. “I mean it, Geralt. I’m not giving up anything to be with you. I choose you because of everything I stand to gain. Loving you isn’t a deprivation, dear witcher. It’s a bounty. I’m so, so lucky to love you.”
“Jask,” Geralt says, his voice slightly choked. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever had, the first truly good thing that’s ever been mine. I want you to have the things you want. You shouldn’t have to give things up for me if you don’t have to. If you want a big wedding, you can have it. I want you to have what makes you happy.”
“I have you, silly wolf,” Jaskier says. “That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.” He pretends to look thoughtful. “Besides, I think it might be a little late for either of us to wear white.” The jokes gains a bark of laughter from Geralt, and Jaskier grins.
“You might catch on fire from blasphemy,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier looks offended.
“As if you’re a beacon of abstinence. I’m sure you’ve been ridden more than any horse you’ve owned.”
“And you haven’t?” Geralt asks, eyebrows raised. “From the number of spouses I’ve had to protect you from alone, you’ve fucked more than anyone else in this keep combined.”
“As I recall,” Jaskier says grandly, “you’ve benefitted mightily from my extensive experience. Would you prefer a green lad, too shy to even look at a cock?”
“As opposed to you, master of cocks?” Geralt says sarcastically, and Jaskier tilts his chin arrogantly.
“Master of cocks and cunts, you rube. I’ll thank you to use my proper title in deference to my expertise.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Geralt says, his tone long-suffering but affectionate.
“And yet you chose to marry me anyway,” Jaskier informs him. “Who’s the real fool here?”
“Debatable.” Geralt leans in to kiss him, remaining close when they part. “Are you sure you won’t be disappointed, not having a wedding and a feast and whatever else you’ve been gossiping about with Yen?”
Jaskier tucks a strand of hair behind the witcher’s ear, nudging him gently under the chin once he’s done.
“Geralt, we could pinky promise to be loyal husbands in sickness and health and whatever fuckery might find us, and I would be just as satisfied as if we’d had a week-long fete of riotous celebration.”
Geralt hums, but Jaskier still sees the lingering doubt on his face.
“How about this?” Jaskier offers. “We make no plans. Zero. We go back on the Path in spring, and whenever it feels right to make it official, we’ll do it then, just you and me. Roach can be our officiant.”
“She might have some trouble signing the document,” Geralt says, amused. “Her handwriting is atrocious.”
“So are most priest’s,” Jaskier dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“You won’t be disappointed, though?” Geralt says. “What if it isn’t fit for your songs?”
“Darling, you should know by now that I can make anything fit for my songs,” Jaskier chides. “And besides, there’s poetry in doing it this way. Nothing special, just honest and heartfelt. You and me and your horse, like it’s always been,” Jaskier pauses for a moment, thoughtful. “You might have to let Ciri throw some petals at you, though. I did promise her she could be flower girl.”
“You mean it, really? Exchanging vows in a camp on the side of the road or a shitty inn? That will be enough for you?” Geralt’s eyes are searching, and Jaskier keeps his face open, hoping that Geralt can read the love there.
“You are enough for me,” Jaskier says simply before he smirks. “I will demand at least a week of honeymooning, however. Newlyweds should always have plenty of time to fuck each other senseless. We can’t break that tradition, at least.”
“Gods forbid,” Geralt says seriously. “And do you have any ideas for where you’d like this marathon fuck to take place?”
“An aunt of mine has a chalet near the coast she rarely uses. We can commandeer it for a while. Sun and sand and water and lovemaking. For a full week. That’s my price. Also wine and food. Lots of wine and food. Sun and sand and water and wine and good food and lovemaking.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Geralt teases.
“I do know my worth, dear witcher. Do you agree to my terms?”
Geralt pretends to think about it, and Jaskier tugs at his hair until he smiles, pulling Jaskier’s hand away and holding it in his own.
“What about two weeks?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier gives him a surprised look, brows raised.
“You’d give up your Path for two whole weeks?”
“I’d give up much more for you, Jask,” Geralt tells him before he tilts his head, smiling slightly. “Besides, it’s not as if fucking you in a feather bed for a couple of weeks is a great trial. I’ve spent most of my life on the Path. I can give you two weeks without it. Three if the wine is good.”
Jaskier laughs.
“My aunt owns her own vineyard,” he tells Geralt. “She’s gotten rich on selling it to royalty across the continent.” Geralt makes a considering noise.
“Perhaps we should plan on three, to be safe.”
“If I’d known it was this easy to get a holiday out of you, I would have proposed years ago,” Jaskier complains.
“I think you were too busy propositioning me for most of it to bother trying to make an honest witcher out of me,” Geralt tells him.
“Well, if being propositioned is such an imposition, I’ll just go and leave you in peace then.” Jaskier moves as if to get off of Geralt’s lap, but the witcher tightens his hands around the bard’s hips, holding him still.
“Let’s not get hasty,” Geralt says, tugging Jaskier closer to press together in the most delicious way. Jaskier rocks his hips slightly, grinning at the way it makes Geralt shut his eyes briefly against the sensation. When he speaks again, his voice is a low, dark velvet tone that makes Jaskier shiver all over. “After all, if we’re going to spend three weeks fucking each other senseless, we should probably practice.”
“It does make perfect, so they say,” Jaskier agrees, voice shaking slightly at the end when the witcher leans forward, sucking a hot kiss against the tender skin of his throat.
After a moment of marking his neck, Geralt rolls them to pin Jaskier to the mattress, linking their hands on either side of the bard’s head. Jaskier squeezes affectionately, and Geralt returns the pressure, even as his hips do frankly sinful things where they grind against Jaskier’s.
Consumed in their practice, they end up missing supper, making love late into the night until they’re both a sweaty, disheveled puddle, exchanging slow, lazy kisses. Eventually Geralt rolls onto his back, pulling Jaskier against him to rest his head against his chest. Absently, Jaskier plays with the medallion around the witcher’s neck, tracing his fingers over the wolf design, as familiar to him now as his own reflection. He smiles, a soft, pleased thing, when he thinks about the design that will soon decorate the back of it, a physical representation of a bond he had barely dared dream of for so long.
Perhaps, he thinks as he drifts off, lulled by the satisfaction of good sex and a steady heartbeat beneath his ear, he should take pain medication more often, if it means getting things as good as this.