Actions

Work Header

don't you hear me howling, babe?

Work Text:

The sparkling glow of embers floated into the tree canopy above. Destiny did not intend for them to end in fire this night. The log which had split a moment prior crackled and spit more pinpoints of light into the night sky, dancing on the breeze with dangerous grace. 

Dangerous grace himself rolled off his bard, spent after their heated coupling by the fire. Sweat glistened on both their brows, and chests heaved in sync. Geralt leaned back in to press a kiss to Jaskier’s temple, breathing in his scent once more, exceptionally raw and sharp just after fucking. It was always tinged with some kind of underlying possessive note which surprised Geralt the first time he’d smelled it on Jaskier’s skin. He’d noted it more and more recently. 

“You are…” There was Jaskier’s mouth again. It had been maybe a minute before he felt the need to talk again. Geralt stared up at the swirling embers in the rising smoke as Jaskier spoke. “Insatiable.” He puffed when he’d caught his breath.

Geralt grunted in response, rolling to his back once more. Jaskier took that as an indication to keep speaking. 

“You are!” He exclaimed. “Not that I don’t absolutely enjoy it, but you’ve had your way with me several times today. Are we celebrating something I should know about, other than the...what was that thing called again?”

Geralt almost didn’t deign an answer, but Jaskier was laying there, warm and freshly-fucked, so Geralt was in a better mood than his normal silent self. “Fleder,” he reminds Jaskier.

“Fleder.” The word rolls off of Jaskier’s tongue and he looks up as well, captivated by the name, no doubt thinking of rhymes already to spin up on their next trip into town. “You don’t usually have to take that many potions at once, do you?” His rapid change of subject used to annoy and take Geralt by surprise, but Geralt had long since gotten used to it.

“One usually does it for any large beast, but fleders are a more primitive form of vampire, and can move twice as fast if they’re freshly fed.”

“And these were definitely freshly fed, those unfortunate souls.” Jaskier said. Geralt nodded.

“These potions are dangerous. Some younger Witchers can even die if they take too many, too fast.” Jaskier was blessedly quiet, as he always was whenever Geralt talked about the intricacies of what Jaskier called “Witcherfication”. “To answer your previous question, I have a lot of excess energy for several hours, even after the initial burst the potion gives me. You’re too tempting to just let that energy go to waste.” Geralt buries his face back into Jaskier’s neck, pulling his naked body closer. Through their years together on the Path, Jaskier had learned to defend himself rather acceptably, in Geralt’s opinion. As a result of light regular combat and hiking rough terrain, Jaskier’s body had a certain strength hidden beneath the softness Geralt craved to mark so often.

Shadows of bruises and bites mingled with flickers from the fire over Jaskier’s collar and chest. Geralt watched them flit across his bard’s skin, guests of Geralt’s more permanent decorations.

“You’re going to make me sit here with an arse full of your spend again, aren’t you?” Jaskier purred into Geralt’s ear. Geralt growled and tugged Jaskier closer, eliciting a chuckle from the smaller man. “Take that as a yes, then.”

They fell into silence, both of them are exhausted from the days activities, noble and debauched. Sleep took them in its arms and held them close, safely resting another night away.


Geralt awoke with no bard in his arms, which was his first indication that something was off. He tried to write it off, Jas was probably close by. The strong scent of both of them still on the ground and bedrolls masked where Jaskier could have gotten off to, but Geralt was patient, and stilled himself, listening to the forest more intently than before.

Wind whipped through the upper canopy of the trees, the parts that touched the sky and reached further still. Small animals around them chattered in the morning sun, and moved freely in the light, predators asleep for now. Leaves and other foliage shuddered in the light breeze pulling itself sleepily through the trees. But no Jaskier, who usually talked to himself amiably when all other conversation partners were occupied.

Geralt’s initial worry turned to annoyance. They’d been traveling together for years now, and Jaskier should know better than to stray too far from camp alone. Geralt turned to Roach to tell her just as much, when he caught sight of Roach.

She was still tied up at the low bough near the clearing they’d set up camp in, but was obviously in distress. Geralt ran up to her, shushing her gently and patting her neck, checking her over for any injuries. “What happened?” He asked aloud, holding her bridle in one hand and swiveling his head around. If something had happened long enough ago that Geralt hadn’t been able to detect it and Roach was still spooked, it must have been very bad. The Witcher whirled around at a sudden noise. How had he not heard another approach?

Geralt got halfway through a sigh of relief when he saw Jaskier, just a few yards away, but the sigh stopped in his throat when Geralt saw more. Jaskier was still naked as the night before, but covered in dirt and mud, even in his hair. The bard never let himself get that dirty, even when selkimore guts were spraying in every direction. His feet looked bloody and raw from running around on the forest floor without any shoes or protection. He was in a stance Geralt recognized in wild animals who were seconds from attacking. Geralt didn’t know what exactly was happening, but Jaskier looked like he was moments from springing across the camp and taking down Geralt.

The most terrifying part of all this were Jaskier’s eyes. His pupils were blown wide, so wide that not even Geralt could pinpoint his regular blue irises at this distance. Black, glassy voids were what replaced the normally expressive beauty of Jaskier’s eyes. Around his eyes were faint, inky veins that trailed up his forehead and over his cheekbones. It was obvious Jaskier was under the effects of one of the Witcher potions.

Several thoughts were piecing themselves together in Geralt’s mind.

Jaskier would never take one of the Witcher potions. He’d seen the effects of them, and after their talk last night, he wouldn’t have dared risk his own life like that. He’d seen what happened to the bandit who unwittingly stole and ingested one from Roach’s pack. Jaskier was not eager to end his own life, despite what he chose to do day in and day out with the Witcher. Even to get this kind of effect, the potion must have been dosed just the right amount to not kill him.

The worst realization was this: if Geralt could not smell or hear Jaskier approach at twenty feet, would he even be able to keep up in a fight? A fight was imminent. Geralt did not want to harm Jaskier, but he would not leave himself defenseless out of worry for the other man.

“Jaskier.” Geralt finally said, sliding seamlessly into a defensive stance. “What are you doing.” He intoned, with no feeling behind it.

No answer came from Jaskier, but his throat let out a low grumble, on its way to a growl. It was so strange to hear such a guttural noise from Jaskier’s sweet lips that Geralt was caught on his back foot when Jaskier finally sprung.

The tussle was brief, but that was only due to the unbelievable speed of which they fought. Geralt blocked every swipe of Jaskier’s hands, curled into claws as they were. Jaskier was screaming a toneless noise into Geralt’s face, spit flying off his tongue wildly. And everything about him was wild, wasn’t it? Jaskier was actually gaining on Geralt, and pushing him backwards towards the treeline. Roach was whinnying in fright as the fight continued on, Geralt on the defense.

Jaskier didn’t smell like himself. He smelled like a dirtier version of himself, pine and soil and mossy wood rot. Like blood, bones, and teeth. Geralt could see those eyes much better now, but the only emotion conveyed was primal rage.

When your back is against a wall and you’re unarmed and can’t predict your opponent’s next move, surprise is your only armor. Vesemir’s voice sounded amused in Geralt’s head. The thought had been unbidden in his mind and the memory had Geralt thinking about how foolish the advice seemed. He never thought he’d be outmuscled by an opponent before. He was bigger, stronger, faster, until it was Jaskier trying to go for his throat with his teeth. Surprise, surprise, how do you conjure surprise?

Geralt did the only thing he could think to render this feral Jaskier surprised. He leaned into the danger and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s. After the initial bite, Jaskier stilled, still tense but more focus in his eyes. “Jaskier.” Geralt grunted against his lover’s mouth. He managed to weave his thick arms around the smaller frame before him, and flipped their positions so Geralt had Jaskier’s front pinned to the tree nearest them. Jaskier let out a snarl of indignant fury, and thrashed around wherever he could, which was to his sides. Geralt was only good in battle under the aid of the potions because of his history fighting without a plan. That ancient, primal instinct to kill as fast as possible was focused through the lens of steel and silver. Jaskier, however, only shook and howled at the life-threatening urge to claim.

Geralt kept shouting Jaskier’s name in his ear, as loud as he could, until the one thought could get through the red haze of Jaskier’s thoughts. Geralt wrestled him down to the forest floor, shoving those bitten shoulders into dirt and fallen leaves until Jaskier submitted. Blood was pounding in his ears as he shifted his hips to better pin Jaskier’s legs to the ground.

Jaskier’s loud, breathy growling transformed into huffing, panting, and then… “Geralt.” a flood of relief like an ocean threatened to drown him at this first sign of humanity. “Geralt.” Jaskier repeated.

“Jaskier.” There were a million questions threatening to bubble past his lips but all he could say was his bard’s name, like a prayer, a plea.

“Need...fuck. Fuck!” Jaskier shouted, squirming once more. He was fighting the effects of the Witcher potion as hard as he could, and this departure from his base instincts only caused pain, Geralt knew. “Hurts…” he whined. It twisted Geralt’s heart to see him this way, but he knew the fight was far from over. “Geralt, it hurts!” he was screaming now, and Geralt recalled the conversation they had just the night before.

I have a lot of excess energy, even after the initial burst the potion gives me…

Jaskier would just have to ride this out, Geralt knew. It would be torture unless he had somewhere to put all of that feral power. “Jaskier I…” he didn’t want to voice the thought he had aloud, felt shame for the first time in all of this. “I might have an idea.”

“Anything. Anything please just let me move…” Jaskier was crying between his wails of agony, and Geralt was surprised he could hear him.

“You have to fuck, Jaskier. Your energy has nowhere to go with no monsters around.” he said it quick so he wouldn’t lose his nerve, and the logic was sound even as he said it. “Do you think you can do that?” Geralt shifted his grip, still in control, still in power. Why was he so worried?

Jaskier was nodding, face against the dirt. There were twigs and leaves in his hair, and Geralt’s heart ached in his chest to see his prissy bard reduced to a wild animal like this. “Please.” he whined, already rolling his hips into the loam. “But I—”

“I won’t let you hurt me, I’m going to flip us over.” Geralt said slowly, right in Jaskier’s ear. After some maneuvering, Geralt was looking up at Jaskier, finally. The black veins were gone, but there was still that void in his eyes.

Jaskier’s face twisted into one of worry, fighting the urge to just start ravishing the Witcher beneath him. “Geralt, what about—?”

“I’m fine. I consent to this. Jaskier, you need this, I want this.” Geralt took hold of Jaskier’s hands, and pressed them down to his chest urgently. “Take all you need of me. I am yours.” The moment was serious and grave, but Geralt felt the tenderness cushion his fall.

Jaskier nodded, and gulped, still nervous. Geralt would have to convince him into these urges, forgetting how difficult it was to succumb to them. Geralt pulled him down in the dirt with him and pressed their lips together. Once, Geralt worried his hands, bloodstained as they were, would dirty Jaskier, and he would run. Jaskier now joined him willingly in the dirt, kissing him frantically and groaning.

“You smell so good.” he whined against Geralt’s neck, and Geralt let out a bark of laughter.

“You know how I feel now, bard.” Geralt knew, for all the danger he was putting himself into, Jaskier needed to be gentled through this. He let his hands roam all over the trim frame before him, and ground his hips down into Jaskier’s naked body.

Jaskier could only gasp and bite off a moan in return, hands gripping at broad shoulders like the edge of a cliff.

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.” Geralt encouraged. Now half-hard against one another, the rest came easily.

Jaskier had never sought to dominate Geralt like this without being invited to, and this proved to be a new experience for both of them. Geralt was under the impression that Jaskier preferred to be taken, be held down and told he’s good, but seeing the shift in Jaskier, letting that possessive nature he pretended not to have, take over? It ignited something in Geralt that had always been a semi-lit fuse, the need to give Jaskier everything he ever wanted.

They moved together so fluidly Geralt for once thought he could spin poems the way Jaskier could. Jaskier was a solid weight against him, confident in his nakedness the way he was when they were more than alone, in the middle of nowhere. Jaskier ground their erections together, a growl ripping from his throat at the rasp of skin on the laces of Geralt’s breeches. Geralt tried to untie the cords at the front, but nearly came right there when Jaskier took hold of the top seams and ripped them off of Geralt’s thighs like it was paper from his notebook. Precum oozed out of Geralt’s cock, desperate for whatever Jaskier was going to give him.

Jaskier was leaving bites of his own all down Geralt’s torso, spit smearing with dirt in a filthy trail all down his chest to his cock. Jaskier’s mouth didn’t know what it wanted to do, and settled on laving over the head of Geralt’s thick length, breathing heavily and indecently into sweaty skin. “Fuck.” Geralt grunted, hands coming up to Jaskier’s head and gripping into his hair, hard, how he likes.

Jaskier’s guttural moans of delight lit up every nerve Geralt had inside of him. Geralt knew he wasn’t going to last long, and this wasn’t over until Jaskier was well and truly finished. The movement of Jaskier’s arms looping under Geralt’s knees was imperceptibly quick, and Geralt gave a shout of surprise at the feeling of thumbs spreading his ass open. A hot, wet tongue followed, and Geralt felt all the air sucked from his body. Nobody had ever, ever attempted to take him apart as thoroughly as Jaskier intended to.

While Geralt always knew Jaskier’s lips and tongue were sharp-witted and intelligent, he never knew it more than now. The absolutely filthy act should have repulsed Geralt instantly, but for now, he was reduced to a tightly-knit area of nerves alone. The rest of his hulking body, be damned. He was hardly a man to begin with, but Jaskier undid him as if he were one.

A shuddering breath tripped on its way out of Geralt’s mouth, and landed on a sharp keen when Jaskier’s tongue pressed in past that tight ring of muscle, into the core of him. His jaw was forced open when Jaskier’s fingers found their way into it. He pressed his forefinger against his squirming tongue while Jaskier’s other fingers explored the inside of Geralt’s mouth, memorizing his teeth and gums with his fingertips. Geralt could hardly breathe at the sensation. Jaskier’s tongue only probed inside of him further, getting him absolutely soaking wet with spit. A hot blush covered most of Geralt’s face and chest.

A finger joined Jaskier’s tongue inside of Geralt, and he let out a guttural groan at the intrusion. Jaskier liked hearing those noises, half-gagged as he’d left his Witcher. The hand moved away from his mouth to grip that sharp jaw he’d been dreaming about since Posada. Geralt already knew there’d be shadowy bruises on his face joining the other marks that adorned his body, and he understood the need to claim. He didn’t understand his own inner need to submit. That was new.

Jaskier’s hands took and took, opening him up while simultaneously grabbing at him like a precious commodity. The heady feeling of being wanted so desperately filled Geralt with a warmth he couldn’t explain. He had to give Jaskier everything he wanted, because that was just how they were. The grip on his jaw gave a squeeze at the base of his throat, a reminder that Jaskier was still somewhat in control, here. Geralt swallowed in return. The hand drifted further down, still.

And was feeling him up like Geralt was just as bountifully-bosomed as the whores they’d fucked in the past. Another surprised, pleased moan ripped from his mouth. It was almost overwhelming to learn so much more about himself than he knew before. Fuck meditation. Jaskier’s hands and mouth and cock gave him all the enlightenment he needed. He groaned and gritted his teeth when Jaskier left four equidistant scratches down his pectorals, pinching and teasing at his sensitive nipples.

With two fingers opening him up, Geralt could tell that his feral lover was growing impatient. He’d been ravishing Geralt for what felt like fucking years . Finally, finally, Jaskier rose up, after a sloppy kiss to the tip of Geralt’s weeping cock. The hand that had been inside of him just a moment ago wrapped around Jaskier’s cock, flushed purple with need. The bard was breathing hard, fighting for control at the feelings swirling in his brain. Geralt didn’t want anything else but what came next with Jaskier’s whims.

Geralt managed to pant out, “In me, Jaskier, in me.” before he felt the head of a cock at his entrance and his brain shorted out.

The slow, sure, unending push forward was a brain-bleaching rapture that had Geralt throwing an arm over his eyes, searching wildly for something, anything, to ground him back into the moment. He registered that his throat was working hard, pushing out hoarse whines of need into the air between them. His hips canted upward to better take Jaskier, who snapped his hips forward in surprise at the new angle. Geralt’s entire body lit up with feeling, and his arms wrapped around Jaskier desperately.

Jaskier always liked it rough when Geralt gave to him, and their positions being switched made no difference here. His pace was punishing, hard, and the leaves scattered away from under them, leaving them fucking on nothing but the dirt. The slap of skin on skin was adding more fuel to the fire already inside of the Witcher, and he felt like a man lost at sea, paddling through choppy waters. His nails connected with Jaskier’s shoulders, knocking loose a twig that had gotten stuck there. The long draw of scratches down Jaskier’s back only quickened the pace inside of him, and Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes at last.

There was a small ring of blue peeking out between the large void of his pupils and the corners of his eyes, for which Geralt was relieved. The plan was working. He just had to get Jaskier more worked up so he would truly unleash. His hands changed direction, scratching up the other direction as Jaskier slammed in as hard as he could, making him shout in surprise. His cock was leaking all over his belly between them. Quick as lightning, Jaskier pulled back from his spot hovering over Geralt and grabbed the Witcher’s wrist, leaving a harsh bite against the part where the skin was most delicate. The most scented, to his wild senses. Geralt felt more exposed this way, suddenly finding himself with his hands held up above his head. Jaskier slid his palms up until their fingers laced together.

Meeting eyes again, the trust that Geralt felt for Jaskier only strengthened. Even now, in the blind lust he was enacting, he was here, saying I’ve got you, you’re here and mine. Geralt pulsed his fingers between Jaskier’s in response. Their coupling drew slower and more intimate, Jaskier’s belly dragging against Geralt’s cock in luscious friction that brought Geralt closer to the edge than he’d realized he was at before.

Jaskier left another bruising mark against Geralt’s lips, nipping him teasingly with a bite before moving to his pulse. Geralt gave himself over willingly, passing every part of what he could offer through his moans and his body. He felt split open in more ways than one. A steady sucking bite high on Geralt’s neck brought him back to the small point of nerves he’d been...gods, years ago by now.

He knew why Jaskier was targeting his wrists and neck. He wanted to claim Geralt the way Geralt had claimed him as well, on every pulse he could sniff out. There was an animalistic side that Geralt didn’t let out too often, but when he did, Jaskier was often left looking like a pretty sunset of bruises across his skin. Jaskier growled near Geralt’s ear and clamped his teeth down, hard. Even through the haze of all this pleasure, Geralt could feel the skin break beneath Jaskier’s canines and premolars. 

Geralt was cumming all over the both of them, shouting desperately and breathing hard. Jaskier was panicking above him, drawn out of the moment at the taste of blood on his lips. He hadn’t bitten anything lethal, but Geralt was hazily pawing at his arms and hushing him.

“Geralt, Geralt, I’m so sorry, I...did you just cum?” he’d stilled his hips for the moment, looking down at the Witcher. Geralt’s eyes were blown out with lust, glassy and unfocused. He’d never been fucked so good in his life.

Geralt watched dumbly as Jaskier brought his face down to where Geralt’s spend had landed. He breathed in deeply, and his body hardened with tension. He sloppily licked over and sucked the cum off of Geralt’s bitten chest, moaning and growling at the taste.

The post-orgasmic haze blurred the next moment, because in one second, he was on his back with Jaskier deep inside of him, and the next, he was flipped onto his front, his ass wrenched up so he was on his knees. Jaskier pushed into him in one swift thrust, and Geralt saw fucking stars. He almost said as much, but instead could only whine.

He attempted to get up onto his hands, or fuck, even his forearms, but Jaskier surprised him by wrapping his hand, the hand that was in his mouth, around the tangled mane of white hair on Geralt’s head. His grip was wide and powerful, and shoved his face down into the dirt. His pace was wild, arrhythmic, taking as much as he could get. Geralt could not move even if he wanted to. The thick weight inside of him felt so fucking good, he could die with Jaskier’s cock in his ass, and wouldn’t even be angry. The hard breaths made leaves and dirt flutter away, and without the capabilities to even close his mouth, Geralt felt his chin get muddy as he drooled into the earth.

Jaskier was grunting and growling all manner of nastiness, leaving bruises on Geralt’s hip as he pulled him by his hair onto his cock, pushed him off with his hand, and did it over again. And over again, and over again. Geralt was nearly crosseyed in pleasure by the time he was flipped unexpectedly again. Jaskier’s hips stuttered a few times inside him again, lips finding lips and teeth meeting teeth. Jaskier pressed his high whines and keens into Geralt’s mouth as his hips trembled once, twice, and he bit down on Geralt’s lip so hard it split as he filled his ass with cum.

They kissed through the blood, Geralt’s pretty sure he chipped a tooth or something but could not give even a single fuck. Jaskier practically collapsed on top of him, keeping his ass stuffed up with his softening cock as the last of the potion drained from his psyche. Geralt was petting his hair the way he always did after these things. Jaskier wasn’t letting him get even an inch of space, pressing wet kisses all over his skin.

“Dun’ hurt n’more.” he slurred into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt could only give a weak laugh, barely any sound behind it due to his wrecked throat. He could hardly hear anything. His senses were absolutely shot.

“You...fuck, Jaskier.” he puffed, squirming once more in delight, feeling full and warmer than he ever remembered being in his life.

“Guess we need to wash up, hm?” And there was his Jaskier, turning his nose up at any sign of nature on his body, as usual. Geralt could only smile (as much as he could, with bruised and bloody lips) and lay his head back into the dirt, happy as can be.