An au for your au from the wip tag game!
this one is fun! last year, i started an arranged marriage au called gold and silver, in which jaskier and geralt are princes who were childhood best friends and betrothed from a young age. in the story, geralt's father (vesemir) dies and geralt becomes king of his kingdom before he and jaskier are wed.
after part 1 was all posted, i was working on part 2 and thought to myself, "what if the boys got married before vesemir died and geralt was crowned king?" and thus, 'an au 4 ur au' was born. i honestly don't know if i'll ever finish and post it! it's 2k words of crack that i wrote for my own personal satisfaction. for that reason, i'm just going to post the whole thing (or at least what's readable) below! you don't need to have read the original fic to get it (but please do!!!)
Note: it gets a tiny bit horny, but nothing explicit
thanks for playing!
send me a wip title and i'll give you a snippet
Another minute ticks by, and the courtyard is silent as a crypt.
It is a very important day for the Wolves of the Mountain– the annual Review of The Guard. Each year, every member of the Royal Guard gathers before the royal family for a ceremonial inspection. Every soldier sits atop a fine steed, their black armor striking against the white-capped mountains beyond, and awaits the approval of their king.
Indeed, they present themselves thus this very morning, a perfect crisp and sunny day. And they continue to present themselves in increasingly tense silence. Even the horses seem to sense the tone in the air, their hooves still against the cobblestones.
King Vesemir is there, golden circlet gleaming in the sunshine, clad in his finest ceremonial cloak. His younger sons are both there, standing perfectly still at their father’s side with barely suppressed grins twisting their faces. Every noble, every attendant, and every servant down to the stable boys are present and accounted for, awaiting their king’s command for the ceremony to begin.
But His Grace remains as silent as the rest of them, fists clenching tighter and tighter at his sides with each passing second. Every eye in the courtyard rests, not on their king, but on the glaringly vacant space to his right, wide enough for two.
“Jord,” the king spits through gritted teeth.
The summoned servant appears at once just behind His Grace’s shoulder, dutifully awaiting instruction.
“Where are the princes?” the king asks.
“The princes?” Jord replies. It was the wrong thing to say.
“My son and son-in-law! Crowned heirs to the throne, those princes!” shouts the king, startling all his attendants and a few of the horses.
“Yes, of course,” says Jord, properly cowed. “I sent an errand boy to fetch them some time ago—“
“Clearly, the message was not received.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Find them. Now.”
“At once, your Grace.”
~
A few corridors and a world away, the morning is slipping by far too quickly.
A low rumble of a laugh escapes Geralt as he rolls over onto his back, shoving pillows and cushions out of his way as he goes. There are too many in the damn bed, more than two people could ever hope to need, but his husband so adores little comforts, and so the many cushions remain. A small sacrifice in the grand scheme, he supposes.
The husband in question is quick to follow, straddling Geralt’s waist and capturing his mouth for yet another string of lazy kisses. Geralt grins against Jaskier's lips, relishing in the sweet sounds he receives as he runs his hands along planes of wonderfully bare skin.
“We should get up,” Jaskier mumbles, putting a breath of space between them.
“Five more minutes,” Geralt replies.
Jaskier rolls his eyes lightly, a smile on his lips, and buries his face in the space between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, leaving a trail of kisses as he goes. “I’ve made a lazy bum of you, haven’t I?”
Geralt only hums in response. They don’t often lie in like this, in truth. Since the conclusion of their honeymooning period some months ago, many important duties have been delegated to them, and they take each one very seriously. It’s only fitting. They are to be kings someday, after all.
But every once in a great while, Geralt simply cannot be bothered to get out of bed. Not when he is surrounded by so many annoyingly comfortable cushions and his unfairly handsome husband–with nary a scrap of cloth on him at that.
Geralt's wandering hands dip down to Jaskier's muscled thighs and squeeze playfully before trailing back up, earning him a shudder. A few open-mouthed kisses against the side of his neck are all the encouragement he needs. He holds firmer, tighter, sliding his palms higher inch by inch until his fingers graze the perfect curve of–
A few harsh raps on their door startle him to stillness.
"My Lord Princes?" calls a familiar voice from outside. Geralt sighs heavily. Of course, it is Jord, his father's most trusted attendant.
"Go away," Geralt calls back, grinning as Jaskier's giggles shake them both. "We're busy."
"I'm afraid I must insist, my Lord. Your father has requested your presence in the courtyard at once."
Geralt furrows his brow in confusion and opens his mouth to ask whatever his father could want of him in the courtyard before Jaskier shoots up from the bed, leaning over him with wide eyes.
"Fuck, Geralt," he exclaims. "The Review of The Guard!"
Geralt's gut drops through the floor as he remembers. "Shit."
~
Several minutes and an inordinate amount of swearing later, two princes run through the castle corridors as fast as their formal trousers will allow. More of a brisk walk, really. And all the while, stuffing shirts into waistbands and hastily doing up buttons. The pair of them bluster into the courtyard fully dressed, but with nearly every hair out of place, poor Jord in tow.
Geralt only has time to tilt his husband’s crown, a simple golden ring to match his and his brothers’ silver ones, into a moderately straighter position before his father’s furious gaze is upon them. He straightens himself at once to the perfect posture he had been drilled on all his life as if it would save them any scrutiny. Every eye in the courtyard is on them.
His father glares over his shoulder at them both. Geralt wishes he knew how late they were. At least then he would have some idea as to how much shit they were in.
“Prince Geralt,” his father says stiffly in way of greeting.
“Father,” Geralt replies, dipping his head respectfully. His father’s glare shifts to Geralt’s right.
“Prince Jaskier.”
“Your Grace,” says Jaskier, a touch higher than his usual voice, bowing his head as well.
“Kind of you to join us.”
“Forgive our–” Geralt begins, but he gets no further.
“I’ll hear your excuses later,” his father interrupts harshly. “Let’s get this over with.”
The king turns away from his troublesome charges without another word to begin the ceremony. Geralt takes the opportunity to share a reassuring look with his husband, but Jaskier doesn’t see him, eyes trained resolutely at the ground. His cheeks are flushed bright red and Geralt wishes he could believe it was the cold wind affecting him, but he knows better.
Guilt coils in his gut as he faces forward again, pretending to watch his father’s promenade along the rows of mounted Guards. This was his fault, fool that he was. He attended this stupid ceremony every year since before he could remember, how could he forget? And now he’d humiliated Jaskier in front of the entire palace staff and every fucking noble in the kingdom.
How could he have been so careless? Jaskier has been here nearly a year, but Geralt knows how unsure he is of himself, still adjusting to a new home and hundreds of strange faces, most of which still called him ‘outsider’ behind his back. This was the last thing he needed, a debacle the maids would surely be whispering about for months.
By the Gods’ mercy, the Review is over with relative haste. The king gives the customary speech, commending the Royal Guard for their loyalty and bravery and blah, blah, blah. The audience applauds politely and all are dismissed.
Geralt knows better than to try and slip out with the crowd, but he can’t say he isn’t tempted to try, especially as his brothers taunt him from the archways. No, Geralt stays put by Jaskier’s side and resists the urge to grab his husband's hands where they pick nervously at his fingernails.
The king keeps his back to them until the last stragglers are gone from the courtyard. Geralt prays that no one is listening behind the walls, for Jaskier’s sake at least, as his father turns to face them. This is going to be ugly. He can already tell.
“Go on with your excuses. I’m very interested to hear what you came up with.”
