Try, Please Try For Me

Epilogue

Three Years Later

Geralt looks beautiful in the sunlight. That had been the first thought on Jaskier's mind when he'd awoken to the other man staring down at him fondly, snow-white hair illuminated like a halo around his head where it hits the light from the nearby window. There are times that Geralt looks more like a god than a man, and Jaskier is still awestruck every time.

Of course, Jaskier can't see the love of his life looking like that and just not kiss him silly.

Now he's on his front, cushioned among the many pillows that he's hoarded for their bed. Geralt is above him, inside him, the rock of the witcher's hips kept to a gentle roll that keeps their pleasure teetering somewhere between too much and not enough, drawn out and aching.

He can hear Geralt panting next to his ear, soft grunts and cries of pleasure made for him alone, woven amongst the sweet words that the witcher murmurs against Jaskier's skin. He whines as Geralt mouths at the ridges of his spine, a faint scrape of teeth followed by gentle kisses that trail up to the nape of his neck.

"Geralt," he pants. "My love, my only-- please. "

The witcher's lips curl against his skin and he soothes a hand down Jaskier's side. "Don't worry, lark," he murmurs, kissing his neck. "I've got you."

An arm finds its way beneath him, holding under his chest and lifting Jaskier onto his knees so he and Geralt are flush against each other. Then Geralt's thrusts grow harder, faster.

Jaskier sees stars. The slap of skin on skin fills the room. He hears Geralt growl, feels the hot rush of his release filling him. A hand wraps around his cock, as the witcher grinds into him, hips gentling, and then Jaskier is cumming with a sharp cry of his own.

Jaskier goes limp in Geralt's arms. He's vaguely aware of the witcher nosing along the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, lips brushing along his skin. Then Geralt is lowering him back onto the bed, and Jaskier melts into the pillows, a boneless pile of contentment.

Geralt flops down next to him and rolls onto his side. Jaskier lazily strokes a hand through the witcher's damp hair and smiles, feeling drunk on pleasure.

"You know," he says, dreamily, "if it were up to me I don't think I'd ever let you out of this bed. I'd want to spend every waking moment of my life touching you. But alas, I'm afraid the world would fall into disarray without you there to protect it."

Geralt hums thoughtfully and stretches in a way that reminds Jaskier of an overgrown cat. He wraps an arm around Jaskier's middle and curls into his side, pillowing his head on Jaskier's chest. "I'm sure Eskel and Lambert could take over for a season or two..."

Oh, what a lovely thought that is. Him and Geralt hauled up in their room at Kaer Morhen, his witcher finally surrounded by all the softness and comfort he deserves and not a care in the world. Jaskier could spend every morning in bed like this one, tangled up with Geralt. Perhaps he could even steal a bottle of that plum wine Vesemir hoards in the cellar...

"Don't tempt me, witcher," he warns, "I may never let you leave."

Geralt chuckles and tilts his head to press a lingering kiss to Jaskier's mouth. "It would be worth it."

"Oh fuck, I love you so much."

If someone had told Jaskier a few years ago that he'd be happily married, lying in bed with the man of his dreams before his twenty-fifth year, he never would have believed them. He was never the type to settle down, always flitting between every attractive person that caught his eye, but Jaskier always knew his father would manage to trap him into a political marriage someday. And yet somehow the worst event of his life had turned into the best. Now he can't imagine himself being anywhere except where he belongs, with Geralt at his side and hauled up in a keep full of witchers that have become his family.