It's stronger,
His scent durning sex.
It invades Geralt's senses and he drinks it up, revels in it, bathes in it. Holds him tighter as he fucks into Jaskier slowly, deeply. He basks in his moans, the way his voice hiccups around the Witcher's name.
He grips a calf, thigh, his hip-
His arm, his shoulder, cards his fingers through damp locks, slick with sweat; he grips Jaskier's hand, stretching his lanky body out across the forest floor.
And, he's buried deep in the bard.
Soaking in his scent, imprinting it on himself, and in turn imprinting his scent into Jaskier, because he can't get enough, will never, won't ever...
He's obsessed.
Geralt bites and marks his body, feral with his scent, as he wraps his body around the bard, encasing him with his arms and savoring him with every, single, breath.