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dapandapod · 1 year

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Happiness suits you

Guys is it weird to base a fic around having seen too many Geralt-has-no-social-skills-and-is-forever-alone-because-of-it, and decide no, and write a Geralt-has-no-social-skills-so-litterally-every-person-decides-to-care-for-this-poor-poor-witcher fic?

Yes I rewrote that sentence six times. I just feel like people like Geralt, *beacause* he has no social skills. They see this poor little meow meow and decide that this man needs a friend. That, and also in games and comics, Geralt is just genuinly charming (and a bit of a bastard).

Thank you Jin for helping me beta read this! <3

PLease enjoy this piece of fluff and my attempt on namedropping literally anyone Geralt has had a pleasant conversation with.

Also immortal Jaskier rights. <3

On Ao3 here

Witchers come and go from the keep as they please. Sure, they tend to gather during the winter, but the gate remains open to those who know (and can get there safely) where they are.

Snow has barely started melting, water trickling and dripping down from trees and icicles, the snow on the ground getting a crust from melting and freezing over and over again. The skies are the kind of blue it is in perfect spring days, not a cloud to be seen, the world visible for miles when you stand at a high point.

Nature is waking up, even as winter fights with tooth and claw to keep its grip over the land. Beneath the mountains, most of the snow has already turned into mud, but up here, Geralt's breath still fogs as he sighs at another one of Lambert's stupid remarks.

"I thought you didn't like to put yourself on display, pretty boy." He snarks, snow crunching under his feet, giving way for his stomping ahead.

Geralt gives Dandelion a quick look and a shake of his head no. There are things everybody is better off Lambert not knowing. The poet just smirks and hooks a gloved finger around Geralt's pinkie.

"It is about the lodgings." Dandelion informs Lambert instead, who huffs in amusement.

"For who exactly? Because I'm pretty sure your whorehouse-"

"Cabaret," Both Geralt and Dandelion corrects.

"Sure. I'm pretty sure you can house the entire spectacle there, so I guess that makes it cost efficient. Plus, you got the entertainment covered."

"We are not saying our vows in the Passiflora." Geralt mutters.

"No room." Dandelion agrees, changing his grip to just hold Geralt's hand instead.

It never fails, Geralt's stomach flutters at the contact and he can't help but smile warmly at his poet. In the sunshine, his golden curls peak out and through all his winter clothing and his nose is red.

Lambert snorts again and turns towards them.

"So where then? Wherever that lordling title of yours stem from?"

It is Dandelion's turn to snort.

"Fuck no. I don't even think they remember me there anymore. My youngest sister should be what by now, fifty-eight?"

He looks at Geralt for confirmation, who just shrugs.

"You were already old when I met you." He teases, just to hear the poet's outraged spluttering.

"You-! How dare-! Rude, Geralt! See if I will compliment your luscious rear now!"

“You have not aged a day,” Geralt amends, squeezing Dandelion’s gloved hand.

"Spare me." Lambert groans, rolling his eyes and walks ahead again. "Why won't Eskel ever join me when I check the traps?"

"Because you're a prick." Geralt reminds him calmly.

"No, Lettenhove is out of the question. And as much as I love Corvo Bianco, it is simply too far away for most of our guests. And not to mention, again, lodgings." Dandelion muses, following the movement when Geralt nudges him to the side to avoid stumbling over a branch barely hidden in the snow.

"How many people are you expecting anyway? Is the entire continent invited or something?" Lambert asks, finding the first snare by the line of the trees. It is empty, neither hare nor bait to be seen.

"Well, there are some acquaintances of mine who would take it poorly if they were not to get an invitation, not to mention my friends. And then there are Geralt's friends-"

"You mean all of his exes?" Lambert throws over his shoulder as he resets the trap and baits it again.

"Triss is holding the ceremony." Geralt says, pulling his poet close and wraps his arms around him when Dandelion shivers ever so slightly.

It doesn't do much for warmth, actually, but Dandelion hugs him back and leans his head against Geralt's chest, and well, there are many ways to get warm, is there not?

"I think most of them will come. Well. Maybe not Milva, I don't think she would wander that far from Brokilon with her daughter that young still. Dandelion, I just realized we haven't started writing invitations."

"You haven't started writing invitations," Dandelion smirks, tilting his head up teasingly. "I however, have been working on them since the new year."

"So what, Passiflora can't deal with all the people from across the country to see my brother's grumpy ass be married?" Lambert asks, and stands up to brush leaves and some stubborn snow and ice from his knees.

Dandelion turns to look at him, tilting his head.

"You'd be surprised."

Geralt spends a long few evenings writing until the candles burn low and Dandelion complains of a cold bed.

His hand is stained with ink and his fingers are cramping, but most of the letters are finished by the end of the week. The face Lambert made when Geralt handed them over, asking him to bring it to the postmaster in the village below the mountain made it all worth it.

The rest he should be able to send out or give in person before they're due to be in Oxenfurt.

They need to be there ahead of time, making sure that the innkeepers know to keep their rooms free during those days.

Technically, the ceremony is only the one day, but they decided that for those who traveled far, they will keep the festivities going for another day or so. At least in the Passiflora, they are not made of money.

"Lambert, I want you to be there. You are a pest and my brother, and I want you by my side." Geralt tells him, before Lambert leaves for the path.

For a long moment, Lambert just looks at him. He may be a prick, a bastard and an ass, but there is also an honesty to him, loyal and protective and surprisingly sensitive.

"I will be there, pretty boy. It will be my honor."

Lambert pulls him into a strangely stiff hug, clasping Geralt's forearm and pressing their foreheads together.

"Don't get eaten. Bring the Cat." Geralt mutters, before they part and Lambert climbs his horse Horse and waves them goodbye.

It would seem word has spread through Oxenfurt, and as spring shifts into summer, most of the town is decked out with ribbons and busy with preparations.

"One could almost think it's a noble getting hitched." Dandelion observes, as they walk through the little market in the square. More stalls are being set up, goods and delicacies quickly being distributed amongst them.

"Almost as if the Viscount de Lettenhove himself, a professor of the seven liberal arts of Oxenfurt, is about to leave the bachelor life behind." Geralt says, enjoying how Dandelion is pressing into his side.

"Almost as if the famous poet Dandelion has captured his muse, his love, his White Wolf." The poet purrs, leaning in even closer and teasing a finger along Geralt's wrist and inside his shirt.

Their walk is cut abruptly short, but the hot kisses that Dandelion presses onto his lips when they fall into bed, they linger for a long time.

The day has finally come.

People started trickling in during the day before, the inns, as predicted, starting to fill up. Dandelion has many friends in court, many courts actually, and their staff also requires a place to stay.

For some reason, it was with utmost glee that Dandelion invited his nemesis and rival, Valdo Marx, to their wedding. Geralt isn't sure if he understands why, but he has been asked to be one of the performers during the feast. Of course both Essi and Priscilla will also be there, along with a skald from the Skellige Islands.

Ciri and Cerys joined them a few days earlier to help with the final preparations, along with Yennefer, Istredd, Triss and Eskel.

Lambert has yet to show up, but Geralt isn't worried. He has saved a room for him at the Passiflora, far away from their own, just to be safe. One never knows what kind of sounds comes from his room if he actually brings Aiden.

Geralt is happily surprised to see Cahir there, together with Regis and another man he doesn't recognize but is introduced to him as Detlaff van der Eretin. Not long after is he swept up in a big hug by Shani, and then a large man with a red beard pats his back, hard. Turns out that is Dudu, and his chosen shape of the day.

More and more people, from near and far, from far past and more recent memory, trickle in through the city gates before they close for the night.

In the early morning, Lambert stands gaping with his Cat in tow, finally understanding what the fuss was about.

"Alright. Lodgings. I hope you saved us one." Lambert shrugs.

The ceremony is held in the university gardens. It was the easiest way, and most inexpensive, to bring them all together, even if some of the elder professors gave the few elves present a sharp side eye.

There is more than one tale about the one-eyed elf who side eyed them just as sharply back. Iorwreth only stayed during the ceremony, considering he is technically a criminal still, but he left a big impression.

Triss stands in the center of it all, Geralt and Dandelion in front of her. She is holding an ancient book that looks heavier than her, and older than all three of them combined, but she holds it easily in one hand, as she guides Geralt and Dandelion through the motions.

It is hard to look away from his poet, his sunshine, the love of his life. They are clad in matching outfits, trimmed with golden edges, their hair loose around their shoulders.

Geralt doesn't cry often, but when he had read Dandelion's vows the night before, he couldn't keep it back. Dandelion wasn't much better off when he read Geralt's, and they had spent the eve sitting back to back on their bed, sniffling and wiping away tears.

It helped them to get through them now, Geralt's voice thick with emotions as he reads them out loud now, in front of everybody.

Eskel subtly slips Lambert a handkerchief when Geralt has to stop and take a deep breath to go on, and Lambert takes it without a word and passes it to Aiden, refusing to wipe his own tears.

Not all guests join them for the feasts, some of the locals have to go back to work and some with... well, a price on their head, need to get away from people.

Hjalmar comes to congratulate them, bringing greetings from Crach, who had to stay behind with his Jarl duties. Zoltan brings a gift of the finest dwarven Spirit, and a pair of silver rings.

"I know it is tradition for you to exchange rings during the handfasting, but this snotty bugger-" Zoltan points behind himself, at a somewhat younger dwarf with a very uncombed beard, "-decided not to wake up this morning. Sorry for being late."

Many old friends come up to them during the feast. Vernon Roche and Ves, Keira, Mousesack, Aiden brought a letter from Letho, who declined the invitation but appreciated it nonetheless. Vesemir held a speech that had Geralt crying again, the sorceress Corinne Tilly from Novigrad brought greetings from their Godling friend Sarah.

At the end of the night, Geralt is exhausted, well fed, and well on his way to being drunk.

The marketplace is still thriving long into the eve, many of the guests taking the opportunity to stroll around the stalls and indulging. He finds Lambert and Coën bent over a piece of paper, muttering and making notes.

Throughout the day he could hear Lambert ask some of the guests he didn't recognize, if they were there for the groom or... the witcher.

Most likely they are trying to see how many of Geralt's friends showed up, and honestly? Some of those who showed up were actually not invited, even if Geralt knows them. Djikstra, for example, were not on the list, but was still fully expected to show up, as is his habit.

Geralt’s knee isn’t what it used to, but he still lifts Ciri up on the dance floor, still jumps through the steps with her just to see her smile.

She is so big now, with scars of her own and powers beyond them all.

When the dance is over, he pulls her into a hug, just holds her close. They don't see each other as often anymore, with her traveling the continent, and places beyond that too, and Geralt spending more and more time at Corvo Bianco.

"I'm so proud of you." He murmurs into her hair, kissing her forehead.

"I love you." She murmurs back. "Happiness suits you."

When all is said and done, when the sun has set and the stars has danced across the night sky, the evening is finally coming to a close.

Despite it being their wedding night, there is not much energy left but to undress each other, kiss lazily, and drop into unconsciousness.

Sometimes, love stories are the beginning. Sometimes, it's an end. Sometimes, you learn that your story was edged with love all the way.

Geralt isn't sure how he managed to gather so much of it around him, despite the harsh and bloodlined life he has lived.

He just knows he would do it all again, if it led him here.

#working title: geralt has friends - take that lambert #gerlion #the witcher #wedding #kaer morhen #oxenfurt #getting married #geralt x dandelion #idiots in love #idiots to husbands #so much fluff #fluff #dapanda writes #aiden x lambert #ciri x cerys #and many many many more

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