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the drowner hisses out one last desperate cry before it falls at geralt’s feet, still and slain.
the potion in his body still burns throughout his veins - his ears are keen, his nose is sharp and his eyes see everything. it’s almost overwhelming and he grits his teeth, wonders how long he has until the effects wear off. it almost hurts and his finds himself swallowing down his discomfort as his skin crawls with unleashed energy, as his heart pounds like a drum in his chest.
his eyes scan the swamp - he almost prays for more drowners to come crawling from the murky depths, because his mind is thrumming with lust and his tongue is thick with the taste of copper. geralt wants more, needs more, has to have more, otherwise his mind is going to spiral into a void of--
snap!
--geralt quietly snarls, rounds on the source of the noise with his swords as bare as his sharp teeth. he chokes back on his aggression, his growls dying in his throat as he takes note of his creeping little bard.
jaskier freezes, his eyes wide, his pulse loud.
the swamp is empty and the silence between the stretches.
geralt knows that the little lark is taking stock of his appearance and he almost wants to recoil and hide away until his expression settles into something less fearsome. humans don’t like the obsidian eyes which gleam like death; they fear them, hate them - consider them an omen of bad things, should you ever see them. they find his ivory skin, thick veins and unchecked power frightening, they find him disgusting... his aura radiates sheer horror, absolute terror, fierce and nightmarish.
so he doesn't... hold it against people, who see him and scream and vomit, who curse his existence and faint.
he--
tries to not let it bother him.
but then, here’s jaskier - brave and foolish, feisty and bold.
ever since they had first met, the bard felt no fear towards him. even before he had known who and what geralt was, jaskier had been open, friendly, adoring. then they began their travels, and his bard began being affectionate, nurturing and protective. unafraid to touch and tease, unfazed by the blood and the danger.
so it doesn’t surprise geralt that his little lark doesn’t tremble in fear, he doesn’t run and scream. seeing the genuine interest, the innocent curiosity gleam in jaskier's pretty blue eyes, settles geralt's prickling nerves.
but then.
his keen nose picks up on a scent.
normally, his pretty songbird radiates with a sweetness that geralt hardly finds in other humans. jaskier smells of blossoms and fresh air, of flowers and lemon cakes - it’s a sign of jaskier's love, because that’s all he ever feels when he’s with his witcher. sometimes it turns sharp with fear when he’s in danger, but never towards geralt - it never turns bitter with hate, never sours with fright.
it’s always soft.
now though? now it’s... spicy. the smell tickles at geralt's nose and rests, heavy like smoke, on his tongue. jaskier's eyes have widened, his pupils have dilated and his heart - geralt can hear it’s fluttering beat, caught in the cage of jaskier's lithe, alluring body. jaskier wants him, jaskier needs him. the scent is strong and it calls to geralt like a siren.
so he follows it.
he sheathes his swords and stalks towards his prey - jaskier doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. his heart beats louder, his eyes grow wider, but his scent never wavers. if anything, it blossoms further, encapsulating the swamp in a thick, dizzying cloud.
geralt rolls his shoulders back, flares his nostrils and wets his lips - he comes to stand before his bard, mere inches separating them. he drowns in jaskier’s spiced scent and feels his lips curl back - blood rushes throughout his body as he drinks in every pore on jaskier's pretty face. the bard’s lips are lewd, red and wet, gaping as he stares up at the witcher; his eyes are wide and dark, mingled with curiosity and something else.
something more.
fuck - the witcher is smothered in gore, in blood, in the fresh flesh of his kill. he reeks of death and decay, and jaskier? the bard looks untouched, pristine, lovely and... not pure, but clean. and geralt wants to ruin him, wreck him, render him mindless with pleasure, unable to comprehend anything but geralt. he looks utterly beautiful and the witcher wants to touch, wants to grab and sink into the bard’s being with his fingers, his teeth, his co--
“are,” jaskier croaks out, waving his hand limply at geralt's body, “are you okay?”
“yes,” geralt husks back, his fingers flexing by his sides, “never better.”
“oh,” jaskier breathes, before he swallows inaudibly - geralt's eyes instantly focus on the bard’s lovely throat as it moves, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting that pulse in his mouth, “geralt.”
and then there’s a beat.
and then they’re colliding into each other, desperate, ardent, burning with passion. geralt grips jaskier's lithe hips with his large hands and easily lifts - the bard rapidly, smoothly, almost instinctively, wraps his legs around geralt's body and pulls the witcher in close. they crash against a nearby tree, with jaskier pinned up against it with his lips clinging onto geralt's skin. the witcher snarls and snaps his teeth into the bard’s slender neck, tasting the lust which lingers there, the love which pools and gathers in the dips and curves. his hands are hard, tight and gripping, but jaskier gives as good as he gets.
the bard uses his nails to clutch onto geralt's shoulders, his back, before they bury deep into his hair. his fingers tangle in the wintery strands, his nails scratch idly at the scalp - it has geralt purring and grinning as he grinds their hips together. he leans against jaskier, caging the bard against the tree with his hips, freeing his hands to allow them to wander... they slither upwards, brushing against a flat stomach and budding nipples. the bard jolts and jerks his body, cursing and whining into geralt's throat - the witcher shivers when jaskier sinks his teeth into the thick muscle, laving his tongue over the pulse and sucking it into his mouth with gentle lips.
his bard is a contrary creature.
sharp and soft.
feisty and flighty.
it makes geralt hungry for more.
so he cups jaskier's face, his fingers brushing against velvet cheeks and sharp bones - the bard pulls away from his neck, his lips obscenely wet and flush. his eyes are dark, his cheeks are pink and his body quivers in geralt's grip. the spicy scent reaches its peak and geralt's restraint snaps.
his lips curl back as he delves in deep, capturing jaskier's lips for his own. his tongue dives into the wet cavern, searching and claiming every inch of the bard’s sweet mouth. his teeth bite in gently, sucking jaskier's bottom lip and grinning when the bard weakly moans in response. his hands drift, sinking low on the songbird’s body, his touch heated as it strokes against soft fabric and softer skin - he tears at the doublet, eager and yearning to feel jaskier under his hands. the chemise easily falls apart between his lust-fuelled grip and the bard bites him sharply on the ear in revenge, mutters sullenly about the cost and the quality.
like he doesn’t have nine more in his bag.
regardless, geralt hums as he flattens his hand against jaskier's stomach, his fingers idly playing with the thatch of hair which cover’s the bard’s gorgeous body... then they stray downwards, his nails dragging against the pale, flat surface, leaving behind pink lines of love and desire.
“wait,” jaskier gasps out, writhing in geralt's grip, his spicy scent spiking with panic, “we can’t-- i’m not-- i need to--”
but geralt swallows up his anxiety with his tongue, drinking away the bard’s nervous energy with his lips. he knows what the bard is thinking and it’s not that he really desires - he just wants to touch, he just wants to find the serene peace and the unadulterated joy that only jaskier can provide. the bard senses his intentions, purrs and relaxes, nodding against his witcher eagerly.
geralt uses a single hand to clutch as jaskier's face, tangling his fingers into thick locks of tawny hair. His little lark sings and croons, wriggling with relish and humming with joy when the witcher uses his free hand to grasp jaskier’s cock and pulls it free from his breeches. the bard quivers and bites at the witcher’s lips, eager and delighted with this turn of events. then geralt tugs at the laces to his own breeches, pulls out his own cock and then clasps them together between his heated grip
“oh, darling,” jaskier moans, pouring his love and desire directly into geralt's mouth, his tongue hot, his teeth sharp, “i do so adore your touch.”
geralt hums, knocks their noses fondly together and begins to fist their cocks.
“yes darling,” the bard purrs, an expert in reading geralt's mind, in dissecting his nonverbal noises and actions, “you too - you fucking too.”
their bodies melt and writhe as one, shifting as though ruled by lust, dominated by need and utterly controlled by desire. their teeth nip and break skin, their tongues a soothing balm as they lap at liquid copper.
they give into animalistic urges, descending into the overwhelming pleasure as it chokes them both, dragging them further into each other. they become absorbed, consumed and tangled around each other - they leave marks like possessive signs, eager to leave a trace of themselves embedded deep into their lover’s skin. their combined scents of lust enshrines them, a thick wall of pleasure which separates them from the outside world.
it protects them.
defends them.
shields them against unwanted visitors and trespassers.
it’s musky and glorious and geralt breathes the scent in deep, allowing it to flow through every nook and cranny of his body. it drives him to pump tighter, quicker, his calloused fingers flowing easily over satin skin - their cocks weep with seed, spilling over and allowing his touch to glide smoother and hotter.
jaskier trills with delight, and geralt watches. he adores watching as jaskier falls apart in his grip - his hands have been used to kill, to tear apart, to torture and destroy... and now he gets to use them to create pleasure and love, using them in such soft, adoring ways and--
and geralt groans as his pleasure builds and crests, his eyes falling shut, before they snap open to gaze deep into jaskier's beautifully dazed expression. he feels the potion’s effects slowly ebb away, the glowing gold embers of his irises breaking through the cold coal of his pupils. the bard shivers upon seeing the gaze, feels his soul burn and melt under the intensity, the emotion, which lingers in those gorgeous eyes.
“fuck,” jaskier husks, before his head is thrown back, his gorgeous throat on display, presented like a fresh meal. geralt buries his face into the skin and pours out his emotions into one sharp bite, latching hard onto jaskier's throat as his body spills over into the waves of sheer bliss.
“fuck,” he echoes jaskier's sentiment, as he feels the bard’s legs slip to the ground. the little lark quivers with amusement and brushes his hand lovingly against geralt’s blood-stained cheeks.
“you wonderful bastard,” he lilts, breathy and pitched, “i think you’ve ruined me.”
and that single sentiment has geralt’s body flooding with pride.
the feeling doesn’t last long.
because the pride breaks and releases the exhaustion which haunts geralt's body.
geralt exhales tiredly and settles against jaskier heavily. the bard tolerates his weight with a soft smile, bearing the burden with a light hum. he begins to croon to the witcher, praising him on protecting the bard so well from the drowners, from ensuring that the nearby town was safe. his gentle words wash over geralt like a blessing, a litany - some consider the witcher to be a creature of nightmares, a harbinger of death and despair, a monster who lacks all thought and emotion.
but jaskier calls him good.
his lovely lark strokes through his tangled hair and compliments his bravery, declares him a hero, a champion, selfless and loving. in hushed tones, jaskier calls him a good man - the gentle trills soak into geralt's skin like fine rain, warm and comforting.
he finds peace.
serenity.
he closes his eyes.
rests in jaskier's surprisingly strong and stable arms and sinks into the salvation he finds there.