Chapter Text
The water is absolutely frigid, but Geralt either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, as he’s fully submerged in the serene, silver-white waters of the river within seconds of stepping down off of the bank.
Jaskier, on the other hand, is much more sensitive to the water’s temperature. It wouldn’t be fair (or practical) to ask Geralt to use Igni to heat up such a large body of water, and so he simply takes a seat along the riverbank, rolling up the bottom of his leggings so that the fabric doesn’t get wet before lowering his legs into the water.
He still hisses the second he makes contact with the water, gooseflesh erupting along his bare skin.
Geralt turns around, nice and slow, settling himself into the space between Jaskier’s spread legs. “Are you cold?” He runs his hands along Jaskier’s calves, using just the tiniest hint of Igni to encourage the blood flow in the muscles. “If you’re too uncomfortable, I can—”
Jaskier shakes his head, leaning forward to press a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “I’m fine. It just came as a little bit of a shock, is all.” He takes out his loofah and dips it into the water, “Now, come a little closer so that I can make sure you’re nice and clean…”
Geralt obeys, coming so close to Jaskier that it’s impossible to give him a proper bath without thoroughly soaking himself as well. But that’s okay, because as soon as he works the soap into a lather, the sweet scent of orange and honeysuckle mixing with the scent of grass and dew and earth, he’s pressing the loofah to Geralt’s collarbone (he sweeps up over both of his shoulders, his cornflower blue eyes tracking the movement of the suds as they work their way down over his bulging pectoral muscles… the water rivulets manage to find every little nook and cranny, mapping weaving paths over Geralt’s beautifully sculpted body).
Although he knows that Geralt can handle a rougher hand, he keeps his touch light, applying just enough pressure to cause a soft pink hue to come over the Witcher’s skin. Despite the fact that his body is not sensitive to fluctuations in temperature in the same way that Jaskier’s is, the ice water is having an effect on his body… His nipples are dark and swollen, and the corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks up into a smirk as Geralt lets out the most delicious moan as he passes the loofah over his left nipple. He gets a similar result with the right, before leaning forward to blow cool air on the Witcher’s delightfully sensitive skin.
“J-Jas…” Golden eyes flutter closed as Geralt’s entire body starts to list. He ends up bracing himself against Jaskier, and it’s then that Jaskier realizes that the only way that all of this can possibly end is with both of them thoroughly soaked in river water. “Don’t tease…” He chastises, even as he leans further into Jaskier’s touch.
“What? This?” Jaskier drags his tongue over the swell of his bottom lip as he brushes the loofah over both of Geralt’s nipples, one after the other. “I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about… teasing, pah… I’m just trying to help you bathe, that’s all.”
“Bullshit.” The loofah dips down lower, tracing over each of his abdominal muscles until it reaches his belly button. “You’re just trying to torture me.” He says.
Jaskier makes a sound of mock shock and offense. “What a mouth you have on you. Do I have to wash that out with soap as well?” He asks. When he receives no answer, he continues, “You knew exactly what you were signing up for, darling. An absolutely thorough cleaning, where I scrub down every last orifice—”
“Hgn…” Geralt presses against him, and the last of the water that was soaking in the loofah is released, thoroughly soaking Jaskier’s slacks. The fabric molds to the prominent swell of his cock—
The bard leans forward, his lips pressing against the shell of Geralt’s ear, “Until the only alpha you smell like… is me.”
Once he’s finished washing the Witcher’s front, he takes a bit of frankincense oil and dusts it over his various scars. While he knows that quite a few of them are older than he is, and therefore have probably faded as much as they ever will, it can’t hurt to see if he can make them fade just that little bit more (especially those that he knows particularly bother Geralt, like the marks the striga had left behind on his neck). Once he’s satisfied with his work, he carefully turns Geralt around and starts in on his back. There are quite a few scars on his back that’re still sensitive to the touch, and so he’s careful not to aggravate them as he drags the loofah down over his skin.
Geralt is gripping his knee hard enough to bruise (he secretly hopes that it does bruise—it’s rare for Geralt to lose control to the point where he leaves lasting marks on Jaskier, and while many alphas might consider it taboo for their omega to mark them up, Jaskier would gladly march into a gig with a ring of bright red hickeys around his neck, reeking of sex and satisfaction) as the loofah dips down over the pronounced curve of his ass, gliding down between his cheeks to tease at his sensitive hole. Jaskier is aware of the precise second that the sudsy material hits his swollen rim, because his entire body convulses and—
Melitele’s tits, that’s a lot of slick.
It’s a bit hard to see in the moonlight (being submerged in water doesn’t help, either), but Geralt is thoroughly drenched. So much so that, when he pulls the loofah back, he can no longer smell the orange and honeysuckle soap that he’d been using to scrub his omega clean… All he can smell is Geralt’s arousal, his need.
It’s not unusual for Geralt to produce slick out of season. The mutations coursing through his body cause his hormones to fluctuate all over the place, causing his heats to be so sporadic it’s almost like he doesn’t have them at all. Which, honestly, is fine by Jaskier.
Heat sex is fun for all of five minutes. Once you reach round six, you’re really just praying that you’re still alive to see the end of it.
Wetting the loofah in the water, he makes another pass at Geralt’s quivering hole. The omega positively keens at the touch, arching his back and lifting his ass into the air to give Jaskier better access to his tight little furl. The loofah once again comes back drenched in slick, and so Jaskier discards it. The purpose of this bath was to make sure that Geralt was drenched in his scent. If all he does is end up bathing his mate in the scent of his own desperation, it’ll be like he’s broadcasting the fact that Geralt is a strong, healthy omega to every alpha within a ten mile radius. And that was just… no. Just no.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s growling until Geralt is peering over his shoulder, a few strands of silver-white hair clinging to the sides of his face with icy water. “J-Jas? Is everything o-okay—”
The rest of his sentence drops off abruptly when Jaskier drops into the water behind him, causing ice-cold water to splash up against his freshly washed back. With strength that neither man knew he possessed, Jaskier pushes Geralt up against the river bank and lifts his deliciously plump bottom up out of the water. His lute-calloused fingers press firmly into the heavily muscled globes, pulling them apart just far enough to reveal the Witcher’s fluttering hole. Off-white, translucent, honey-scented slick is slowly oozing from his channel… Jaskier licks his lips and dives in, licking a wet strip along the length of his crack before curling his tongue and diving right in.
Geralt actually yelps, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the muddy planes of the riverbank. He ends up with quite a bit of dirt underneath his nails, and no better of a position to show for it, as Jaskier’s tongue slowly begins to piston in and out of his depths. Each thrust of his tongue is accompanied by a wet squelch, tiny waves rocking around them.
“J-Jaskier…” Geralt cannot help the way that his hips push back into Jaskier’s face. There’s a part of him that wants him to hold back, reminding him that the bard needs room to breathe. There’s another, more primal part of him that just wants to desperately chase his pleasure.
The primal side is winning.
Jaskier continues to work him open, nice and slow, until finally he draws back for air. Geralt’s slick is dripping down his chin, and a rush of embarrassment and pride swells up in him so fast, it makes him dizzy.
On the one hand, that’s a lot of slick, and Jaskier is wearing it like it’s some kind of trophy.
On the other hand, Jaskier is wearing his slick like it’s some kind of trophy.
It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, really.
Jaskier makes a show of licking his lips (and while that does nothing for the mess that’s still lining his chin, it absolutely does something to Geralt’s already achingly hard cock), before reminding him, “I did promise to give you an absolutely thorough cleaning, did I not?”
The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches, “You d-did, indeed.” Then, he leans in, until his words are little more than hot puffs of air against Jaskier’s sensitive skin, “I can think of another way you can wash me in your scent…”
Jaskier listens intently, before making a show of considering his offer. “I don’t know… do you think that you’re clean enough, little omega?” Geralt’s breath hitches—and then freezes completely when Jaskier reaches around to cup his leaking cock, “I haven’t even had a chance to wash this yet.”
“F-Fuck, Jas…” Geralt appears torn between slapping Jaskier’s hand away and rocking his hips into the firm, unrelenting grip. “I-I’m not going to make it…” His voice is positively wrecked, and Jaskier is loving every second of it.
“This close. Already?” It’s amazing how fast Jaskier can transform into an absolute fucking tease, when just an hour or two ago he’d been curled up in a ball on the edge of their cot, convinced that Geralt had cheated on him. “It’s almost like you missed me or something.”
Geralt glares at the younger man over his shoulder, and Jaskier wisely decides to shut up.
Reaching out toward the riverbank, Jaskier grabs his satchel and retrieves a small vial of oil. After liberally coating his fingers, he presses one against Geralt’s swollen, puffy rim, a shiver chasing down his spine as the warm, wet channel gives way. He massages the hot, tight walls with his finger, gliding the calloused pad along the overly sensitive skin until he finds… Geralt’s entire body tenses, his back going straight as a board before arching sharply. For just a brief second, he thinks that Geralt may’ve cum without realizing. It’s only after a few seconds pass that he realizes Geralt was just desperately attempting to cling to the very edge of pleasure—
“Shh… that’s it… just relax…” Even as he says this, he slides his finger out and replaces it with two, working Geralt open that little bit further. It’s not long until both of his fingers are launching a relentless assault on Geralt’s prostate.
“Hgn… fuck.” There’s that death grip again… only this time, instead of being focused primarily on the riverbank, the focus has switched back to Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier’s grin is positively feral as he spreads his fingers open, nice and slow, just to listen to the positively delicious keen that spills over Geralt’s lips. “F-Fuck me now.”
Jaskier seems to consider this for a moment, “Are you sure?” He asks, slowing down his pace until the movement is practically torturously slow. “I wouldn’t want to have you be underprepped…”
“Jaskier…” Gods, but that growl does absolutely filthy things to him. “If you do not take me right the fuck now, I swear I will throw you down on the pointiest rocks I can find along this riverbank and mount you like a horse. I will get myself off and leave you here with an aching knot for the rest of the night.”
Jaskier seems to be considering whether or not to take the other man at his word. After a while, he seems to decide that that’s probably his best bet at getting off that night… and so he says, “I’ll be your stallion, and you can ride me to the end of the world.”
Silence. Then, Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh, “You really know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?”
“Hey—it was poetic!”
When Geralt is this wet, it really doesn’t take more than two fingers to prepare him. And so Jaskier unties the front of his breeches and pushes them, along with his smalls, down just far enough to free his aching length. His knot has already begun to swell (just a little bit, but it’s more than enough to have Geralt keening). He lines himself up just so, but before he can take that final step, Geralt is pushing back against him, taking every last glorious inch of his length in one slow, calculated movement. Jaskier’s breath hitches, his hands wrapping around Geralt’s muscular waist, his fingers digging into that bit of fat at his hips…
Geralt ends up setting the pace (which is an absolutely horrible idea, considering that he still doesn’t have proper purchase), his hips crashing back against Jaskier’s with enough force to bruise. The water sloshes around them, still irritatingly cold despite having been warmed by their respective body heat and the vigor of their activities. But the discomfort from the ice water sloshing against his skin is the last thing on his mind as his hips start to move of their own accord, desperately pumping in time with Geralt’s own… He can feel his knot beginning to catch on Geralt’s rim—and from the soft mewls spilling over Geralt’s lips, he can feel it, too.
Reaching around, he curls nimble fingers around the thick length of Geralt’s cock and strokes once, twice… on the third stroke, Geralt wheezes, breathlessly, his entire body growing tense as he spends. Jaskier is not too far behind, rocking his hips up into Geralt’s deliciously tight, wet heat just a handful of more times before his knot ties them together. It’s only then that he sinks his teeth into the tight skin of Geralt’s neck, right overtop of their mating mark. The omega melts against him like butter, a hand moving to press against his abdomen as pulse after pulse of hot cum floods his insides.
“Do you feel better now?” He asks, breathless. Jaskier hums, “No more worries about me running off with some random alpha?”
“You smell like me.” Jaskier mumbles happily, brushing a slightly bloody kiss over Geralt’s lips before nuzzling down into the crook of his neck. His neck aches a little where he’d bitten, but the strengthened connection he feels with his mate makes any discomfort he might be feeling absolutely worth it.
“You’re the only alpha that I want to smell like.” Geralt confesses. He’s certainly the only alpha that he would want to stand in a freezing cold river with so that they could scrub some random alpha’s scent off of his skin before fucking.
“Aww… you know, sometimes I wish there was some way that I could record all of the cute shit that you say, so that I could play it back for you when you’re being a sourpuss that ‘is content to need no-one, and have no-one need you’.”
Geralt rolls his eyes, “…And you ruined it.” But Jaskier will not be deterred. He continues to happily jabber on about how Geralt smells like him now, whilst rubbing his scent glands all along the length of Geralt’s neck…
And you know what? If it makes him this happy, perhaps Geralt can bring himself to say it again… as many times as his bard needs to hear it.