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Sangria on His Lips

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“Shh…” Eskel’s hands are oil-slick and so very, very warm as they move over Jaskier’s back. “Is that any better, love?”

The floral scent of lavender lingers in the air—ordinarily, the bard’s lavender essential oil would be much too offensive to his Witchers’ sensitive noses to use it like this, but when Eskel had managed to suss out that the oil was one of the few that did anything to ease the ache of Jaskier’s menstrual cramps, well… Eskel and Geralt had disappeared into the washroom adjoining Jaskier’s dorm, and had returned with a watered-down lavender tincture that they’d assured him, repeatedly, would be fine—so long as it was used in moderation. His comfort was important to them. He always saw to it that their wants and needs were met in excess… it seemed only fair that they make efforts, here and there, to return the favor.

Jaskier’s stomach was always particularly sensitive around this time—and not the good sort of sensitive, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies all taking wing at once. No, sensitive like he knew that he needed to eat, but the idea of forcing down something more substantial than gruel made him feel physically ill. Sensitive like anything heavier than a hot compress pressing on his skin made him want to sob. And Eskel—sweet, perfect Eskel—had understood. Even if omega Witchers didn’t experience heat cycles in the same way that humans did, the eldest Wolf had been a fast study. It hadn’t taken him long to learn how to play Jaskier’s body like a finely-tuned instrument, even in those moments where the thought of physical intimacy made him want to curl up and die.

Like now. This is hardly the first time that Eskel has ever given him a massage—and he knows for a fact that Eskel can press him even harder than this. But the brunette Witcher keeps his touch gentle and feather-light, allowing his sword-calloused hands to trace over the various muscles in Jaskier’s back, over the soft curve of his shoulder blades, over the length of his spine…

He avoids his lower back religiously, knowing full-well that any significant pressure there will just increase the pain in his lower abdomen.

Instead, he has Geralt preparing hot compresses, soaked in the diffused lavender oil. The towels are heated with Igni, and run so hot it almost hurts.

Almost, but not quite—because while there are few things in this world that Eskel and Geralt would not do, hurt Jaskier falls fairly high on that list.

“Mmm…” He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to think. Eskel’s touch feels nice—it always feels nice—but the cramps had been particularly bad that day, and he doesn’t think that this is going to be enough to get him to be able to go to sleep. “Still hurts.” He mewls.

The only indication that Eskel had heard him at all is a quiet hum, as his fingers trace nonsensical patterns all along the bard’s skin. Then, “…We could try something else, if you’d like.” The offer seems rather innocuous, at first blush. But there’s something about Eskel’s tone that bids him pause.

“D-Did you…” Jaskier turns his head so that he’s no longer smothering himself in the pillow, catching Eskel’s profile in the corner of his eye, “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“I’ve done some… research.” Somewhere in the distance, Geralt snorts. Research, yes. “It would seem as though many omegas have reported great success in relieving the pain from their cycles with… orgasms.” Jaskier blinks at him dumbly, and Eskel continues, “I wouldn’t do anything without your permission, of course. But, if there’s a chance it might help… I don’t mind a little blood.”

Jaskier proceeds to choke on the air. He’s done a great many things in his thirty-nine years, and not once did it ever cross his mind that he would find an alpha who was willing to—“You would… really?”

“Why not?” Eskel shrugs, as if they’re discussing the weather, rather than— “It’s easily the most pleasurable way to find oneself covered in blood, no?”

Jaskier still cannot quite breathe, “I don’t know that I-I can… take your cock… right now…” He confesses meekly.

Geralt rolls his eyes, “He wasn’t talking about his cock, bardling.”

It takes Jaskier’s hazy brain a moment to process exactly what it is that Eskel’s offering. Could the oldest wolf truly be suggesting..? The idea is… strangely appealing. He doesn’t understand why, but something about the idea of Eskel’s face disappearing between his legs, those massive, oil-slick hands digging into the flesh of his thighs as he forces his legs apart as he feasts on his slick folds… It does something to him. It’s, admittedly, a little difficult for him to wrap his head around the fact that Eskel would want his face anywhere near Jaskier’s cunt in it’s current condition, but then… well, stranger things have happened. He’s seen Geralt and Eskel fuck like bunnies while still soaked in monster viscera—honestly, nothing should surprise him anymore.

Eskel slowly coaxes him onto his back, settling his hips on the towels that they’d laid out along Jaskier’s bed before starting the massage. Geralt switches out his hot compress—he carefully drapes a steaming towel over Jaskier’s lower belly with one hand, while the other tangles in his short chestnut waves, his blunt nails lightly scratching at the bard’s scalp. He purrs for him, ever so sweetly, and Geralt almost manages to crack a grin.

Eskel dries his hands on a spare towel, before he settles down in-between Jaskier’s thighs. And then he waits, patient as ever, for the bard’s permission.

“Are you sure..?” Gods, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this uncertain around Eskel before. Eskel, fucking saint that he is, seems to find his nervousness endearing, at least. He nods at him, his thumb pressing deep in the crease between Jaskier’s hip and thigh and gently massaging the sharp line of bone.

“You would never force me to do something I didn’t want to, sweetling.” Eskel nods. Wouldn’t, not couldn’t. The sheer amount of trust in that sentence makes Jaskier’s chest ache for all the right reasons. “Let me help you feel better.”

“Y-Yeah… Okay.” He can feel a blush working its way up the long column of his neck as Eskel pins him to the bed with a positively feral grin.

And then he’s easing Jaskier’s legs apart, his lips teasing along the length of Jaskier’s cock, attempting to bleed that last little bit of tension from his body before continuing further. The omega is already half-hard—apparently, the idea of Eskel eating him out had gotten him a bit hotter than he’d realized—and deliciously sensitive as the Witcher drags his tongue over his aching cockhead, mercilessly teasing at his slit until it begins to weep for him.

Eskel’s tongue is nothing less than a gift from the gods, and Jaskier never wastes an opportunity to tell as much. It may seem a little odd for him to say that his favorite part about his lover is his tongue, but gods above, does he know how to use it. (His cock, of course, is a close second—long and thick, with a knot that makes Jaskier want to drool just thinking about how deliciously wide it would spread him… how Eskel managed to comfortably cram all of that into a codpiece, the world may never know). His favorite part of Geralt was his thighs, because he loved the way they would squeeze him as his teeth grazed over the Witcher’s sensitive little clit. He’d hold him so tightly, the bard worried he might burst. Gods’ knew it would be the world’s most pleasant end.

He’s torn, violently, from his thoughts, when Eskel’s nose brushes against the dense field of curls at the base of his cock—

“F-Fuck.” The head of his cock teases the back of Eskel’s throat, as the bard’s fingers sink into Eskel’s thick, chocolate-brown waves.

Geralt takes a seat behind him, and carefully adjusts their bodies so that he’s draped over the larger omega’s lap like a particularly debauched ornament. Jaskier is almost surprised by how nice the new position feels… or, perhaps, he simply cannot focus on anything besides the warm, wet suction around his cock. “I think you might’ve broken him, Esk.”

Eskel’s golden eyes flit upward, and the bastard has the nerve to wink before—a sword-calloused finger teases along his slick folds, the touch so light it almost tickles. “O-Oh, fuck.” Jaskier throws his head back, very nearly braining Geralt in the process.

The Witcher bobs his head in slow, measured strokes, as he allows Jaskier to grow accustomed to the feeling of something probing at his blood-slick entrance. Geralt, meanwhile, fusses with his hot compress, his chapped lips soothing on the sweat-slicked arch of Jaskier’s brow. “Shh… just relax, little lark. We have you…”

“Please…” He doesn’t know exactly what it is that he’s trying to ask for. All he knows is that he feels good—and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about his uterus attempting to secede from his body.

The slow movement of Eskel’s head is borderline torture. The teasing caress of his fingers might just make it so. Over the years, he’s learned just how to touch Jaskier… that his cunt is unusually sensitive, and he ordinarily can’t bear to have it touched before Geralt or Eskel had wrenched at least one orgasm from him. That he generally prefers anal sex, unless he’s at least two days into his heat—at which point, his cunt would be positively aching for something to fill it. That, as much as he likes it rough, a gentle hand is all that’s really needed to make him melt into a puddle of goo beneath his hands, or on his tongue, or on his knot. Dark tendrils of pleasure curl in the pit of his stomach, coalescing into something honey-sweet and warm

Eskel pulls off of his cock with a wet pop, the three days’ worth of stubble on his chin scraping along the inside of Jaskier’s thighs as he presses gentle kisses along the crease of his thigh… over the swell of the strong, thick muscle… and finally, to the apex of his thighs. His fingers shift, the pad of his pointer finger teasing at Jaskier’s tender little hole, as the flat of his tongue sweeps over his cunt in one smooth, broad stroke. He tries to arch his back, his hips canting downwards to chase after the delicious friction… Geralt holds him steady, changing out the hot compress yet again. That gruff voice murmurs words of comfort into his ear, reminding him that he needs to stay so very still for Eskel… that Eskel is going to make him feel so good

There’s the slightest stretch as a single finger slides inside of him, all the way to the second knuckle, and crooks gently. It presses against those tender places inside of him, working in tandem with his tongue to bring him to the very height of pleasure… He feels uncomfortably wet, a mixture of his own arousal and blood slicking his thighs, but if Eskel doesn’t mind it…

The broken moan that leaves the eldest Wolf makes it clear exactly how much Eskel doesn’t mind it…

He cums embarrassingly fast for how slow Eskel is moving. It’s not an earth-shattering orgasm, but rather… like a series of waves, gently lapping at the shore. It feels… nice—like finding out that his Witchers have come home to him after another long season on the Path. He feels like he’s home, which is probably a weird way to describe an orgasm, but he can’t bring himself to care when the damned cramps finally, finally subside. Eskel continues to lap at him, gently, until the pleasure transitions to pain—and then he pulls away, making a show of licking Jaskier’s essence from his lips. He looks like an absolute fucking wreck… but then, Jaskier doubts that he looks much better—

“Feel better now, darling?” He asks, again. Geralt grumbles underneath his breath as he tosses a wet towel at Eskel’s head. The eldest Wolf catches it with a soft chuckle.

“I do.” He breathes, surprised that he actually means it. “I do.” He pulls Eskel up, so grateful for the relief that he could kiss him, when he remembers—“Go and wash your mouth out, and I’ll see what I can do about returning the favor.”

Eskel’s grin is positively feral in the low light of Jaskier’s dorm room. “No need to repay me, lark. It was my pleasure.”