Of Coin and Candlelight

One

In all the years that Geralt has walked this earth, he's never met anyone who irritates him quite as much as fucking Jaskier. From the day they met, the man has tested his patience to infinity and back, and it's exhausting.
Firstly, there's the talking. How can the man talk so much? It's as though he has some form of verbal diarrhoea, constantly chirping in Geralt's ear about something or nothing, in spite of the general lack of response he receives. Geralt can't understand it. He speaks only when it's necessary, when he's carefully considered his words, and even then he uses them sharply and sparingly. He isn't a fan of mindless chatter or endless nonsense, but Jaskier seems to be master of both.
Then there's the singing. He isn't half bad at that, in truth, but lately he seems to have latched onto Geralt as the subject of his warbling and it's almost unbearable. He can't walk into an inn anywhere now without someone slapping him on the back or singing his praises, and he blames Jaskier entirely. He had that damned fishmonger song circling around and around inside his head for weeks, it almost drove him mad.
There's also the fact that Jaskier is clingy, fancies himself as humorous, seems to have no boundaries where Geralt is concerned, and invites himself along on Geralt's quests whenever the need strikes him. He doesn't feel like he's had a minute's peace from the bard since they first met all that time ago. He sometimes wonders how they've ended up stuck together, and realises that basically Jaskier decided to tag along with him and has probably forgotten to go back to his own life at some point. They go together, somehow, a little like chalk and cheese but still. Geralt hasn't found the desire to kill him just yet, no matter how irritating he is. Or rather, he hasn't acted upon it.
Once in a while, Geralt wonders if he isn't exactly the best travel companion himself and whether Jaskier puts up with more than his fair share of troubles. But then, he reasons, the bard surely wouldn't stick around if that were the case. He knows he can be, in Jaskier's own words, crotchety and cantankerous and that he's becoming more crotchety and cantankerous as the years go by, but he can't be all that bad or Jaskier would have wandered off a long time ago to bother some other poor sod.
But sometimes, just occasionally, Geralt doesn't exactly mind Jaskier, nor his company. He even quite likes him. Especially in the moments such as this, when Jaskier is unclothed and sitting between his legs, facing the blazing fire in front of them while Geralt works to massage a knot from between Jaskier's shoulder blades. Geralt is stripped bare as well, pressed right up against the bard's back, cuddling close to him to keep him warm. It's cosy and affectionate and Jaskier keeps wriggling happily, sleepily pushing back against Geralt, his body heat warming him from behind and the fire in front.
They'd been caught in a rain storm as they approached the village and both were drenched to the skin by the time they'd pushed open the door to their room, a simple offering with two uncomfortable-looking beds, an open fire (stone cold, but Geralt had it going in no time) and a window which had been left open and the rain had seeped in, soaking the blankets on the bed nearest to it, leaving only one realistically habitable for sleep. Good job they don't mind being particularly close to each other these days.
The only light in the room now comes from the cheerfully crackling fire and a few scattered candles, and he can feel Jaskier starting to doze off so wraps his arms around him, pulls him back into his chest and buries his face in the young man's hair. They sit on a moth eaten sheepskin rug in front of the stone fireplace, the door firmly locked, and the room warming slowly. Their wet clothes are draped over the end of the bed, drying, but neither of them have anything to wear to sleep in. For shame, Geralt thinks, smiling wolfishly and tightening his arms around Jaskier, who stirs lazily.
"What's keeping you so entertained?" The bard asks, his words a thick drawl with exhaustion, turning his head for a kiss.
"You." Geralt obliges, kissing Jaskier deeply and feeling him melt back against him with a low happy sound. "Us."
"Don't get all sentimental on me now, I don't believe I could stand it."
"I'm afraid my thoughts are far from sentimental at the moment..."
Geralt squeezes his arms right around Jaskier, tight enough to draw a gasp from the young man, then begins to trail one hand languidly down his chest, fingertips trailing gently over increasingly flushed skin. He nuzzles Jaskier's neck as he does, until his hand finds its mark: Jaskier's cock is half-hard against his thigh, and thickens in Geralt's hand as he starts to slowly stroke it. The sound Jaskier makes is a low one of deep, relaxed pleasure and his head tilts back to land on Geralt's shoulder.
"Mmm, don't stop."
"Unless you object, I have no intention of stopping."
Geralt works slowly, running his thumb across the head, sliding his hand down to cup Jaskier's balls, his thumb trailing just a little lower until the bard squirms in his arms. Then back up to wrap his fingers firmly around the shaft and stroke up and down, listening as Jaskier's breath quickens, his eyes falling closed and his hips arching up towards Geralt's touch. He's hard himself, pressing insistently against Jaskier's lower back, enjoying the sharp little movements he pulls from his lover that feel so pleasurable against his own flesh. He toys with Jaskier for a while, until his skin gleams with sweat in the firelight, turning his head to steal kiss after kiss from his bard's sweet mouth.
"Ride me," he growls and, at Jaskier's feverish nod, Geralt slaps his thigh, probably harder than he intended. Jaskier's response is a low, surprised oh, and Geralt stills. Interesting. Rubbing his palm over the warmed flesh where his hand had just met, he does it again, just as hard and raises a brow as Jaskier gasps in his arms and inclines his body a little, giving Geralt more access to the skin of his thigh and the firm muscle of his ass cheek.
"Why Jaskier," Geralt murmurs, intrigued. "You continue to surprise me."
And he grips Jaskier's arm, tugging him forward and to the side so he's lying awkwardly over Geralt's thigh, bracing himself on his hands, entire body trembling with anticipation. Geralt caresses his skin, reddened from his palm, and Jaskier makes an impatient, needy sound.
"Geralt..." And it's an invitation, not a protestation, so Geralt obliges. He brings his hand down again on Jaskier's ass, firmly, watching muscles tense at the impact and hearing a low cry pierce the otherwise quiet of the bedroom. Jaskier arches against him, hands forming fists on the stone, and whispers, 'again'.
Five times Geralt hits him, making sure to caress his skin in between to soothe the sting, then when Jaskier is tense and panting over his leg he grips the bard's arm again and pulls him back up, arranging him on his knees facing the fire once more. Jaskier's ass is reddened from his hand and Geralt admires it with a rare sense of pride at finding a new kink in his younger lover. He wraps his arms around the bard's waist, burying his face in thick dark hair and kissing his temple, and Jaskier makes a low sound of pleasure and pushes back against him. He wants more, and Geralt is happy to give it to him.
His pack is within arm's reach and he extracts a small vial of oil, slicking his fingers and making short work of preparing Jaskier with two fingers, pressing deep and twisting until he draws a sharp gasp and an arch from the man in his arms. Then he's pushing in, and Jaskier somehow manages to stay on his knees, his quads shaking as the Witcher takes him slowly, deliberately, biting down on the meaty flesh between Jaskier's neck and shoulder.
Behind him, Geralt reaches forward and takes both of Jaskier's hands in his, pulling him back against his body. The bard gasps as the movement pushes Geralt deeper, and the air fills with low moans from both of them as Jaskier flexes his thighs and starts, slowly, to move. Geralt is larger than average and he knows it takes time for his lover's body to adjust to him - the first time they'd been together Jaskier had cried out so loudly that the landlord of the inn had hammered on the door, convinced someone was being murdered. Now, Jaskier takes him much more easily, but can still make sounds loud enough to wake every monster Geralt has ever killed from their graves.
Sweat forms between their palms and interlaced fingers, dripping down Jaskier's spine for Geralt to lick away. He feels incredible, moving on Geralt's cock as though he was born to do it, filling the air with gasps and moans, ones that Geralt laps up with some small glow of pride. His ego isn't beyond stroking occasionally, especially during moments like this.
They change positions after a time. Jaskier pulls away from Geralt, turns and, in an uncharacteristic display of dominance, pushes Geralt down to lie on his back on the rug and straddles his hips. Their hands interlink again, Jaskier's on top, pinning Geralt's to the stone below, and they find a rhythm together once more. Geralt likes this position, enjoys the way Jaskier is totally on display above him and he can take in every little detail of the bard's appearance from his ridiculous floppy hair to his bright eyes, full lips which are presently reddened from passionate kisses, and the planes of his shoulders and chest. Sweat has gathered in the hollows of his clavicles and a bead of it breaks free, running down Jaskier's pec to his nipple, where it drips off onto Geralt who grunts in pleasure at seeing his lover so worked up.
Geralt, as always, comes silently with his face pressed into Jaskier's chest and breathing hard into the bard's skin. His arms are wrapped so tightly around the warm body of his lover that it must hurt, yet Jaskier pants and moans his way through his climax, Geralt's name upon his kips, and clings as Geralt lies back down on the rug and holds Jaskier close on his chest.
"Fuck."
"My thoughts exactly..."
Jaskier's voice is an octave higher than normal, his chest rising and falling sharply as he catches his breath, and Geralt runs a hand lazily through his sweaty hair. That had been damn good, and just what they'd both needed. They lie quietly by the fire, Geralt occasionally reaching over to sling another log on to keep it burning, and doze softly in and out of sleep.
He almost has to carry Jaskier to bed in the end. The bard is so exhausted he can barely open his eyes, and it's up to Geralt to get them both settled in the narrow, uncomfortable bed. Jaskier uses his chest as a pillow, Geralt's arm wrapped solidly around his shoulders to keep him close. The room is warm now, almost stiflingly so; with the fire glowing merrily in the grate and the rain pounding on the window pane it feels like they're removed from the world entirely and it's just the two of them, hidden away. The candles have all but burned out now, and he can't find the energy to get up and light them again. No point. They'll both be asleep before long. Downstairs the tavern is surely full, men drinking the night away, and usually Geralt would dress and go down to join them and leave Jaskier to sleep but tonight he doesn't fancy it. He's perfectly happy here, muscles pleasantly sore from the exertion and eyes falling closed as he drifts towards the edges of consciousness. Jaskier yawns hugely, pushing his sweaty hair back off his face and, as always, breaks the comfortable silence.
"What time do we have to leave in the morning?"
"Dawn."
"What time is it now?"
"Late."
"I suppose we should get our beauty sleep." He pauses. "Well, you should. I, on the other hand..."
Geralt silences him with a kiss so deep and slow that Jaskier blinks dazedly afterwards, the rest of his comment forgotten entirely. They watch each other for a moment, so close they can share a breath and Geralt could count the lashes framing Jaskier's eyes, before he presses a finger to the bard's lips.
"Hush. No more talking."
He arranges them comfortably, Jaskier facing the wall and Geralt lying on his back behind him, drawing lazy concentric circles on the skin of his hip with his fingertips and slowly falls asleep to the sound of Jaskier humming his own song - 'Toss a coin to your witcher...'.
His last thought is that the bard's voice really isn't half bad after all, although his subject of choice could use some work.