#jaskier x eskel adjacent

[westmoor]

none go hungry

Jaskier isn’t sure what woke him, or why he’s awake at all.

Daylight is a late visitor this far north, and only days have passed since the turning of the sun, long hours of darkness tend to blend into each other.

The dying smoulder of the hearth suggests the morning is approaching, but still some ways away - Jaskier can not imagine anyone being awake at this time. 

Footfalls past his door prove otherwise.

Abandoning the safe warmth of his bed seems a wholly foolish endeavour. But curiosity wins out in the end - it’ll be the end of /him/ someday - and he unweaves his mind from sleep and limbs from furs and blankets, mindful to pull on the thick woollen socks Geralt had gifted him upon arrival before putting his feet on the floor.

Although he is wearing every layer within reach, by the time he gets to the end of the now-empty hallway with a sneaking suspicion whoever passed by did so in the direction of the courtyard, he regrets their scarcity.

It’s too early.

And far too cold.

He hurries to catch up, as fast as he can without snuffing the light.

It’s not Geralt, which rules out a quarter of the available suspects and makes him all the more curious.

The front hall is also empty. Unsurprising considering the noise-maker’s head start, but unexpected due to the implications and sure enough: There’s a drift of powdered snow across the floor, not given enough time to melt.

Heading out now, in the snow and the cold and the dark, improperly dressed and alone, is beyond reckless. 

All the best things in Jaskier’s life so far have been brought by recklessness.

The courtyard is cold and clear, full moon high in the sky and the snow, fresh that afternoon and now frozen to a crisp and shimmering, lights the grounds from below. There is some sort of poetry, he thinks, in how the darkest days of the year seem to make the brightest nights.

His little candle is useless at a distance, but after the closed-in dark of the keep, the open-air moonlit dark of outside renders it unnecessary. Scanning the layout of the outer buildings he soon spots his mark: The broad line of Eskel’s shoulders stand out starkly in the white.

For the first time since rolling out of bed, he faces a real dilemma.

Witchers are a guarded breed, that’s a lesson well learned. Weeks of shared meals and close quarters have whittled away at their defenses and helped him find a place among them, but next to Lambert, predictable in his unpredictability, and Vesemir, inherently venerable, Eskel has been the greatest challenge by far.

Not because he isn’t friendly. Rather the opposite. Eskel, it seems, has found a way to forge politeness into armour. 

The dilemma is this: Either to respect the distance the other man has placed between them, or seize this opportunity to sate some of his curiosity with both hands and run with it.

It’s not much of a dilemma.

He mouths a thanks to the gods for the width of Eskel’s bootprints as it allows him to step in them, but curses them for the distance he has to traverse. He’s not even halfway across the yard when the latch on the stable door is flicked open with a crack and he forces himself not to run despite the frost starting to melt through the knees of his breeches. 

But when he finally reaches the stables, he stops just short of entering.

Eskel has left the door half open and lit a couple of the hanging lamps - for the animals’ benefit, presumably, as a Witcher would hardly need them - and is unwrapping something in his hands.

Jaskier hovers in the doorway, suddenly realising he didn’t have an entrance planned.

He won’t need one.

“You should come inside,” the older wolf interrupts, “Geralt will have my head if I let you freeze to death out there.”

Not needing to be told twice, Jaskier has the door shouldered shut before he can even think of a retort, rubbing his hands together to stave off the oncoming shivers. He feels the need to make a peace offering, even if the words had held no hostility.

Belatedly, the bard realises he must’ve heard him following before they even left the keep.

“I heard you passing by on the upper floor,” he starts, “and as this strikes me as a rather ungodly hour to be tinkering about outdoors, I figured I should come and see if you were- what are you doing?”

While Jaskier has been talking, Eskel has opened what now turns out to be a prepared package, and is breaking a loaf of bread into evenly sized pieces. 

“We used to do this.” He is portioning out carrots now, the horses stretching long necks over the dividers to bump noses against his arms in expectation. “My family. Before I came here. We didn’t have much, but no creature should greet the new sun on an empty stomach.”

This sudden well of insight into a man who up until this point has been as guarded as a Cintran stronghold takes him by surprise, and that’s probably why, when given the chance to mine it, the only word that slips his lips is “Why?”

That makes Eskel pause, a winter apple in hand. He seems to ponder the answer, as though the question, however obvious, is one he himself has never thought to ask. 

In the end, he just shrugs.

“It’s important.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s lip catches between his teeth and it’s not lost on him, the early hour or the silence of the stables, the fact that Eskel comes out here to do this alone while everyone else is safe and warm in their beds.

“Well. Can I help?”

For the first time since entering the stables, Eskel turns fully to look at him and if the light had been just a little poorer he might’ve misread the shadow cast by his scar as a sneer. But it’s plenty to see the smile that brightens those ever-so-serious features, and lamplight reflects in eyes already touched by gold, and Jaskier grins back.

Later, when the sun finally climbs above the ridge of mountains enclosing their haven, he will help him hoist a sheaf of grain - the last of the autumn harvest - into one of the great pines within the walls and watch yellow tits and sparrows flock to it. 

But for now, Jaskier accepts the fodder from hands much rougher than his own, and turns to fill the bucket in Roach’s stall.

[fangirleaconmigo]

Hey! Maybe Jaskel and a confession?

I have once again waited months to get to an ask, and riffed with the concept a bit. If you still want it, read on! 4441 words, rated T. Set in a modern au, but everyone still has their powers. 

The witchers run a dive diner, basically as front. They don't actually want any customers. But a wealthy young socialite named Jaskier is obsessed with the place, because they always pile his waffle with an obscene amount of whipped cream, and a generous number of cherries.

One night, after a long night of partying, he drags his friends there yet again. He’s a little buzzed and decides he must thank the chef.

Eskel is the chef.  (also features Yen x Renfri, as they are his friends, Ciri and Lambert, who are also working at the diner.)

-------------------

Jaskier was drunk.

Not sick to your stomach drunk. But not sober. He had trundled right past buzzed, arriving decisively at talks too loud and loves everyone. 

It was indistinguishable from his normal state, were it not for the fact that his words were fuzzed ever so slightly at their edges.

He smiled at his plate of waffles, and opened his thin paper napkin with a flourish.

The low slung skinny jeans that had fit him like a glove before they had embarked on their night of revelry and carousing, now stuck tight to him. His previously snug cropped t-shirt hung loose. His eyeliner was streaked in almost every direction. 

He was a hot mess, emphasis on the hot. And he was in a splendid mood. 

“Look at all these cherries,” he enthused, glazed eyes widening at the sight of the mound of unnaturally pink, fruit adjacent spheres that had definitely come from a jar.

His friends were tired and did not notice his fruit. They were mostly sober, and still thinking about the club they had just been to. It was a new, upscale place, converted from an old factory.  It had played the latest in experimental industrial music and had sold fifteen dollar artisanal cocktails, served by models who called themselves Master Mixologists.

They could all afford it. All three of them had made the ‘richest people under 30’ list in Forbes that year. They’d paid an ungodly sum for table service at the club, and a multitude of men had come by the table to proposition Jaskier. Yet he had left the club by himself.

“You were being a picky little bitch tonight,” said Renfri approvingly, just before popping a greasy, ketchup slathered fry into her mouth. Her lipstick was faded, but her gaze was sharp, and her loose curls looked as alluring as they had the moment they’d left the house. Yen sat next to her in the shiny red booth idly looping one of Renfri’s chestnut tendrils around her fingers.

Jaskier cut into his waffle and only one of his shoulders made the effort to shrug. “They were all fuckin boring. Tedious douchebags. That last guy...I think he left a film of body spray and hair gel on my earlobe.” He shuddered and stuck his tongue out comically, to entertain his friends, more than anything else.

Renfri snorted. “The one that was humping you from behind?”

“Might I request a little eye contact before you press your erection into my asscrack, please good sir?” He dipped his head in a faux chivalry, then speared a piece of his waffle. 

Both of the women chuckled knowingly.

“I, for one,” said Yen, “am glad that your standards are on the rise.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Renfri’s cheek. Renfri scrunched her face in an adorable grin.

Jaskier made a gagging noise. “Smug assholes.”

Yen grinned and leaned back on the booth, smugly. She was guilty as charged, though she didn’t feel especially guilty. She relaxed into the booth but then she startled. She twitched and twisted around to look at the booth as though it had offended her. “Ow!”

“You ok, baby?” asked Renfri.

“Yeah there’s just a tear in this upholstery. This place is a dive.” She straightened her black corset and touched her choker as though the shock had disheveled her and she was making sure everything was presentable. Then she flicked her finger and the rip mended itself of its own accord.

Jaskier ignored them both and stuffed a bit of waffle into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut and he moaned a little too loud. “So buttery, fuck. Gonna cum.”

“Gross!” protested Yen.  

He groaned again, drawing out the lewd sound. “I’m almost there.”

The place was empty, so there were no customers to be offended by his crude behavior. Renfri giggled.

“Don't encourage him,” said Yen. “Why are we here again? There are fifty restaurants still open at this hour. And you have to drag us to this place every time.”

“Yeah,” Renfri agreed, “Is this place even permitted? They have an actual child working the register. I don’t even think that’s legal.”

“It’s a family restaurant,” sniffed Jaskier.

“I didn’t see the grade notice on the door,” said Yen.

“It’s probably graded “D” for dodgy. For fuckin dubious,” chimed in Renfri.

“I don’t care,” declared Jaskier. “We are here because...” Jaskier lifted his plate and angled it towards them. “Look at this!!! Look at all this whipped cream!” He presented his plate like it was a new luxury car.

Yen rolled her eyes. “This is not the only faux fifties diner that puts whipped cream and cherries on its waffles. It’s just the only one that’s run down and practically abandoned. And the waiter’s an asshole.”

The waiter was indeed an asshole. There was no denying that. But Jaskier didn’t care. He put the plate down and took a deep breath as though summoning a battalion of arguments.

“Oh no,” said Renfri. “Here he goes.”

“So what!!” He squeaked, launching into his pitch for the diner. “Every other place in this city is stingy!” He flailed his hands in emotional circles. “They give you like one squirt of whipped cream and like two cherries!”

Renfri grimaced. “Gross, you said squirt.”

Jaskier continued excitedly, spearing one, two, three, and four cherries with his fork. “This whole waffle is covered with whipped cream!! And look!”

He waved his fork at his friends, the skewered cherries bunched on the tines like exhibits in a murder trial. “So many cherries!!”

“Why do you care if restaurants are stingy?” asked Yen. “You can go to the store and buy as many cherries as you want.”

Jaskier shook his head enthusiastically. He was fully gleeful now, words gathering momentum and tumbling over one another. “It’s not about that. It’s about the human touch. Everything’s gotta be measured out now. Every plate’s gotta be the same. Everything has to conform. Even cherries. Don't you ever get sick of it??”

“Not really,” said Yen. “What do I care if the guy next to me has the same food measurement I do.”

“It’s dehumanizing!” insisted Jaskier. “Cooks aren’t allowed to just be generous! They can’t improvise. They can’t make the food the way their heart tells them to.”

“This is why they say never to be friends with poets,” teased Renfri.

“They do not say that,” said Jaskier. “And fuck both of you, because I appreciate it.” He raised his eyebrows to punctuate his point. Then he wedged all the cherries in his mouth at once. A trail of juice trickled down his chin. 

Suddenly, he was flooded with gratitude. Gratitude for this hard working, probably exhausted cook that put a smile on his face every single visit with these perfect goddamn waffles. And wasn’t it sad that a person could put so much love into what they do and have it go unappreciated? It just wasn’t right. It was unjust.

“In fact!!” Jaskier slapped the table and Yen and Renfri jumped. “I want to thank the chef!!”

As if on cue, their waiter appeared. He was lanky and sinewy and had sharp eyes. Jaskier didn’t have to look at his name tag. He had been here too many times to need its assistance.

“Lambert,” cajoled Jaskier. “My favorite. The most skillful, most charming, most handsome waiter in the city.” Lambert tilted his head and looked at him as though he was done with his shit an hour ago. Jaskier was unfazed. He twirled his finger in the air magnanimously. “Would you bring out the chef, so that I can give him my most ardent regards?”

Lambert stared at him in silence for a moment. Yen and Renfri ate their food as though nothing amiss was occurring. Renfri stifled a laugh and almost choked on a french fry.

“Real smooth,” hissed Jaskier.

“What the fuck kind of restaurant do you think this is, petal?” Lambert replied.

He called Jaskier petal. Jaskier kind of liked it. Lambert’s personality was a nice tart flavor that tingled on your tongue, like salt and vinegar chips. Lambert tossed his towel over his shoulder, filled their coffee and left without another word.

Jaskier leaned forward and asked conspiratorially. “You think he’s gonna bring him? Or her? Or them?”

“No.” Yen and Renfri answered in a chorus.

Jaskier huffed. “Then I'm going to go to the kitchen myself.”

Yen and Renfri loved Jaskier. They loved his natural passion and enthusiasm. But it was three o’clock in the morning. 

“You go do that,” said Yen. She slid her arms around Renfri’s waist. “I’m going to do this.” She closed her eyes and snuggled into Renfri’s shoulder. 

“Awww, baby,” said Renfri, and patted Yen’s tumbling black tendrils. “You’re so sweet. We gotta get you margaritas more often.”

——

Jaskier was already out of the booth and winding his way towards the kitchen. The till was set on a counter in front of the kitchen, and the side of the kitchen was open so that customers could see into it. However, the silver, gleaming shelf where the cooks set out the plates obscured most of the view. 

Jaskier dropped his head and squinted, trying to spot motion in the kitchen. Just then, the aforementioned child popped into his field of view. She was a teenager with ash blonde hair, looped in braids around her head. Her name was Ciri. She worked part time, but he had still seen her here from time to time.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Sir,” huffed Jaskier. “I am not old enough to be called sir.” He was not old enough to be called sir, damnit. He was still in his early twenties. 

The girl pressed her lips into a tight line. “Fine. May I help you, princess?”

Jaskier whipped his gaze to her and a pleased grin overtook him. “Ohhhh, I like you. Yes, my young sardonic queen, I would like to send--” he twirled his hands in a loop, the same one he had used with Lambert. It was his ‘compliments to the chef’ flourish. “--my compliments to the chef.”

Just then, movement caught his attention in the kitchen behind her. He snapped to attention like an intoxicated soldier whose drill sergeant had just shown up at the bar. Jaskier’s hands slid down the counter, steading him as he walked along it, trying to align himself with the figure behind it in order to get a clear look.

He could only see him from his waist to his shoulders. 

But oh, bless the merciful gods and their sacred semen, what a torso.

The cook was muscular and broad and dressed in white v neck that unselfishly displayed the dip between his pecs. Jaskier’s friends complained about the garish lighting in this place, but with this absolute specimen of a man standing under it in a thin white shirt, Jaskier could make out a lovely thicket of black chest hair. 

He would never let them speak ill of this lighting again. Never.

The stark white of the shirt offset the man’s olive skin and the sleeves strained at his biceps. He had a crisp black apron strung around his neck and tied at his waist. It was exactly the kind of waist that Jaskier fantasized about when he was alone with his own cock in his hands. It was thick and solid--the waist, not Jaskier’s cock, though an argument could be made for his cock sharing those attributes. But it wasn’t solid in a ‘has never eaten a carb and has the name of his gym tattooed on his ass’ kind of way. The man looked strong but also had soft layers that someone named Jaskier Pankratz could happily snuggle right into.

The cook’s forearms flexed as he wiped down the counter, and Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight. He was a tall, broad man himself. It took an especially brawny man to be able to lift him or throw him around. And those were the kinds of forearms that would do the trick.

“Is that the cook?” asked Jaskier, his voice cracking. Ciri had followed him in his trek down the counter, looking at him as though he had sprouted horns. Usually, customers who needed your assistance didn’t dash away from you.

The man behind the counter must have heard the cook, because he dipped his head down to look between the shelving and the counter.

Jaskier met his eyes and froze. Jaskier never froze. He was gorgeous, young, and wealthy. He had enough men and women throwing themselves at him that he had grown slightly blase about the whole thing. 

But this man was a revelation. Jaskier actually rocked back on his heels. This man’s eyes were the most unique and lovely shade of dark buckwheat honey. More importantly, they were soft and kind. He had black hair, which was to be expected, given the lushness of the black hair on his chest. His nose was wide and his lips were full and plush. The top of his cupid’s bow tugged up on one side, pulled by the scarring that covered one side of his face.

“Holy mother of fuck,” uttered Jaskier, his eyes widened the way they do when you reach the top of a ridge and see the waterfall just as a rainbow glimmers into life above it.

The man flinched and pulled his face back out of sight.

Ciri’s voice changed from lightly sarcastic to acid. “Do you have a problem with my Uncle Eskel?”

“Wait, come back,” Jakier whimpered, staring at the man’s torso, but already yearning for his eyes to return.

“I said--” repeated Ciri. She hadn’t heard his whimper and was still waiting for an explanation as to why he was staring rudely and slack jawed at her uncle. “--do you have a problem with my uncle??”  

Jaskier looked back at her and recoiled at the murder in her eyes. He made a note to never piss off this child. “Yes,” he said loudly. “I do have a problem. This is supposed to be a restaurant and you’re hiding the most delicious snack away in the kitchen.”

Ciri blinked, face blank.

“Your uncle is criminally hot,” said Jaskier, bluntly. “He’s a great cook, is that handsome, and has those forearms? There ought to be a law. I’ll propose one to my father. No one should be that attractive.”

Her face faltered doubtfully but also softened.  “Oh,” she said. “I see. I mean, that’s good.” 

“And those biceps--”

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “Ew. I’m leaving now.” She slipped away to wherever restaurant hostesses slip to when they don’t want to see a customer ogling their uncle.

Jaskier was unperturbed and unconcerned. He had come up here to thank the cook, and that was what he was going to do.

“Excuse me,” he called. He tried to make his voice flirtatious and musical.

The man --Eskel, he now knew-- was shuffling silverware. The silverware stopped clinking at the sound of his voice.

“Are you the earth angel who makes my delicious, buttery, waffles with the generous helping of cream and cherries?” Jaskier persisted.

In the far corner of the diner, Yen and Renfri paused their conversation and instinctively slunk closer to the wall and farther from their companion making a ruckus at the counter.

Eskel leaned in, and once again, Jaskier’s breath hitched. He held the man’s gaze steadily and flashed a toothy smile, hoping that Eskel would find it charming. He popped his hips to one side and leaned forward on the counter. Jaskier was fully aware of his powers. He knew that his cropped top dipped down when he did that. He’d seen several men at the club, metaphorically boring holes in his chest with their stares.

Eskel’s face once again disappeared from sight. 

“Can you come out here, so I can properly thank you, gorgeous??” he called even louder.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he heard a grumble from somewhere in the back, probably from the office. It was definitely Lambert.

Eskel threw down his towel and was suddenly gone. Jaskier held his breath and waited. Hoped. Eskel could be leaving to hide in the office, or he could be coming out to speak to him.  After a few moments of absence, Jaskier began humming to himself. Then he started singing.

It was a song set to the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. It spoke of waffles and whipped cream, and hungry, grateful, tired men, who just wanted to thank the extremely handsome cook.

The song died on his lips when Eskel appeared through the swinging doors.

He had on a lopsided smile and his eyes glittered with amusement. Jaskier blew out a relieved breath. People were either absolutely charmed or utterly irritated by him. There never seemed to be any middle ground.��Thankfully, Eskel’s expression placed him in the former category.

Eskel walked over, running his hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. Then, the full force of his beauty was directly in front of Jaskier. Only the counter separated them.

Jaskier swallowed hard. Eskel’s eyes followed his throat bobbing. Then he locked eyes with Jaskier again. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” 

The gorgeous man was teasing him. That was another positive sign.

“Jokes on you,” Jaskier said. “Turns out I enjoy it when you call me sir.”

Eskel’s smile widened. Jaskier's knees suddenly felt like jelly. He willed them to steady themselves. Then he cleared his throat.

“Yes, I wanted to thank you for my delicious dinner. I appreciate your hard work and your--” his eyes flicked down, suddenly feeling the tiniest bit bashful. What if Eskel thought this was as overblown as his friends did? “--artistry.”

“You’re welcome,” said Eskel. He put his hands on the counter.

Jaskier looked down at his own fingertips as though he were checking his black nailpolish. He didn’t want to stare at Eskel’s hands like a weirdo. “I like the cherries,” he whispered, attempting a breezy tone.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Eskel. “Jaskier, right?”

Jaskier looked at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

“You’ve told Lambert.”

Jaskier offered Eskel his hand slowly, mind whirring at the implications that he had spoken about him to Lambert.

Eskel took it, but instead of shaking it, he drew it towards his mouth. Jaskier’s stomach fluttered as Eskel brushed his knuckles with a light kiss. “The pleasure is mine.” Eskel’s lips were every bit as soft as they looked, and his hands every bit as warm and strong.

“Fuuuuuu-” whispered Jaskier under his breath.

“Can we please put an end to my suffering,” cut in Lambert, who had come out to gather some plates. They hadn’t even noticed his appearance, but now he was unavoidable. He didn’t even look at them as he cleared the dishes, but he spoke loud enough for the whole diner to hear, even if the whole dine was just them and his friends. “He’s off in a half hour. Here’s his number. Get out your phone, petal.”

Eskel blushed a crimson red but nodded his assent. Jaskier fumbled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. “Ready?” said Lambert loudly from the table where he was clearing the ketchup bottle. “I’m not gonna repeat it.

“I can--” began Eskel.

“Five five five,” said Lambert cut in, strenuously and slowly, “three one two, zero zero.”

Jaskier tapped in the numbers eagerly and then batted his eyes at Eskel. “E-S-K-E-L?”

Eskel nodded. “That’s it.”

“And the cranky man is right? You get off in a half hour?”

Eskel nodded again. “That’s right too.”

“Do you mind if I---wait? Do you want to get a coffee? Or--”

“I’d love to.” Eskel answered eagerly, almost cutting him off.

Jaskier fluttered in place for a moment, not knowing what to do next.

“Meet me out by the back door?” Eskel asked. 

“Yes, alright. Yes. Of course. I will.” Jaskier turned on his fashion booted heel and walked back to the table, making an airy squealing noise all the way back to Yen and Renfri.

They were deep in each other’s lips.

He was insufferable for the next half hour, gazing dreamily into the middle distance and repeating Eskel’s name occasionally, apropo of absolutely nothing.

----------

Jaskier, Renfri, and Yen filed out the jangling, scratched, glass front door. Lambert held it for them, as he planned to lock it up after them.

“I’ll meet him around back? There?” Jaskier pointed in the direction he thought the back door would be.

“Yes, finally.” said Lambert. “Thank fuck.”

Jaskier was halfway through the door, but he stopped stock still and turned to face him. “Finally? What do you mean?”

“I mean finally,” said Lambert. “If you took any longer to notice him, I was gonna have to take out a second mortgage to pay for all those jars of cherries we go through. Butter’s not cheap either. Spoils faster than oil.”

“I-” Jaskier stopped stock still. 

“I can see the gears turning,” said Lambert. “He’s gonna be out in like five minutes. That’s how long you’ve got to have your epiphany.” 

The girls were already halfway around the building. 

“So that was all...Just for me?” Jaskier asked.

“S’what I said.” Lambert made a shooing motion with his arms. He shut the door after him, clicking it locked.

Jaskier walked in silence to the side of the building where Yen and Renfri were waiting. 

---------

A few moments later, Eskel emerged from the back door, his apron gone, and an open button up thrown over his shirt. He had one strap of a backpack slung onto his shoulder, and he walked in long strides. He smiled bashfully and rubbed his cheek as he drew close.

The girls had refused to leave Jaskier until they were confident that he was safe with Eskel.

“Hi ladies. I’m Eskel.”

They shook his hand in turn. “Renfri. Daughter of one of the most notorious mob bosses in the city. And if you harm a single floppy hair on this head,” she ruffled Jaskier’s hair, “you’ll wish you were never born.”

Eskel nodded mildly. “Of course. I promise it won’t come to that.” He turned expectantly to Yen, awaiting her threat.

A chirping issued from someone on Eskel’s person. He creased his brow, wondering who could be calling him at that late hour.

“That’s me,” said Yen. “I took down your number when your friend was shouting it out. I just wanted to make sure it was the right one.”

“Dear god, woman,” said Jaskier. “He gets the picture. You’re both terrifying. Please leave. Go the fuck away.”

“Not quite yet,” Yen took out her phone. “If he’s going to your house I want your address.”

“Uhhh-” stammered Eskel. “My house?”

“That’s what I said,” said Yen.

Jaskier sidled closer to Eskel. He waited to hear whether he would be invited to his home. He very much wanted to be invited.

“I--don’t know. I don’t want to assume--” said Eskel. He glanced shyly at Jaskier.

“Just in case?” said Jaskier. He leaned closer and skimmed his hand down his chest suggestively, hoping Eskel would get the hint.

Eskel dutifully recited his address to Yen.

“Alright,” said Renfri. She clapped her hands together as if to say job well done everyone. “Have fun boys.”

Their driver had arrived right on time, and both women kissed Jaskier on the cheek, then ducked into the black leather back seat and pulled away.

Jaskier felt their absence, leaving him blessedly alone with Eskel. He glanced at him sideways and his heart pattered. “Sorry, they’re just protective.”

“It’s three in the morning and they don’t know me,” said Eskel, “I get it. I’m the same way with my family.”

“Thanks,” said Jaskier. “Thanks for understanding.”

He slipped his hand in Eskel’s. Eskel turned to face him, a surprised smile on his face. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together. 

“So,” said Jaskier.

“So,” said Eskel. “You don’t slather whipped cream and dump entire jars of cherries on everyone’s waffle?”

Eskel’s head dropped back and he made a noise that was a cross between a groan and a laugh. “Lambert told you.”

“Lambert told me.” Jaskier leaned against Eskel, playfully nudging him with his shoulder. Eskel was like a tree. He didn’t even budge. Jaskier changed tact and just enjoyed being pressed up against him. 

“Yes,” he said. He looked at Jaskier, and the sensation of being so close to him was absolutely lovely. “Can you blame me? You come in here looking like-” he looked Jaskier up and down, “--that. And being stupidly adorable.” He clapped a hand on his chest. “I’m only human. Mostly.”

Jaskier drew even closer, tilting his head temptingly towards Eskel.

“I’m honored.”

“Coffee?” asked Eskel and nodded in the direction where presumably, there were more coffee shops.

“Coffee.” agreed Jaskier.

“I know a place down the street with more courteous waiters.”

Jaskier laughed like a tumbling brook. “I can’t wait.”

He started to pull away towards the sidewalk, but Eskel’s hand held him tight. Jaskier pulled to a stop by the force of it and bounced back towards him. Eskel must have taken a step forward, because Jaskier found himself suddenly pressed up against his chest. He tried to control the surge of warmth stealing through his body.

“Before we go,” said Eskel. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for months.”

Jaskier chewed his lip and tipped onto his toes, hoping Eskel meant to do what he hoped he would do.

Eskel took his chin gently and pulled him close.

And Eskel kissed him. 

One thing Jaskier liked about first kisses was that they were unpredictable. No one can know what a first kiss will be like. A person can be gorgeous to look at, but then they press their lips to yours and it’s like kissing a door. A person can seem confident and saucy, but their kiss turns out to be timid and listless.

All he knew about Eskel was that he had kind eyes, and could make a mean waffle. Eskel could have kissed him any old way and he wouldn’t have known the difference.

The way Eskel kissed him was with an alluring mix of tenderness and passion. He pressed against him, hot and sensual. He was self assured, and his kisses held promises.

A man who kissed you like that could do anything. He could make love to you gently. He could bend you over a table and fuck you mercilessly.

Jaskier was pretty sure he was already in love. Sure, he had just met the guy. But Jaskier had never been accused of exhibiting anything resembling caution or prudence.

Eskel finally pulled away, and they panted softly in the quiet, abandoned parking lot. 

“Alright cherries,” said Eskel. “Lead the way.”

And so he did.