#my hands have been unprecedentedly bad this winter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

Photo

With Zero Power

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 3382

For @spiderman-homecomeme, with the following prompts:

winter power outage

holiday smut

“I can think of one way to warm you up.”

Summary: Peter and MJ return from skating to find their apartment not quite how they left it. Between the warm fuzzies of the evening they've spent together and the holidays right around the corner, it isn't hard to find a little romance in the situation.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t beautiful,” MJ insists, “but think how much lighting a tree that size costs. With the number of homeless slowly starving in this city? With the number of children below the poverty line who are going to school in this weather—” The arm she waves is instantly layered in thick, wet snowflakes that glisten as they pass beneath a streetlight. “—without winter coats and boots?”

“With the number of college students trying to make rent with only their girlfriend to live with because their three previous roommates staged a mutiny and forced the couple out because the volume of their nighttime activities was, quote, ‘obnoxiously loud and unprecedentedly lengthy’?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“I’m making a point.”

“I agree with your point,” Peter says. “Completely. I already told May I’m volunteering with her all next weekend, and I’ll call Pepper tomorrow to see where she’s committed Stark Industries’ holiday donations.”

“And ask her to triple the amount.”

“I can suggest it,” he laughs, “but I’m not her financial advisor.”

“Mmm you should be though,” MJ says, shifting from holding his gloved hand to pulling his arm around her. “You’re so sexy when you’re redistributing the amassed wealth of a late billionaire.”

There are icy crystals glimmering in her eyelashes. She’s beautiful. He could walk the borough with her all night, live in a loop where they’ve always just disembarked from a late bus, disoriented to step from its stark light into the soft glow of the snow on sidewalks that aren’t cleared with the same diligence as they are in Manhattan, around Rockefeller Center, where they’ve spent the evening skating. That would be a nice life—tonight, with her, forever.

Peter halts them for a moment and wraps his other arm around her too, pulling his girlfriend in to kiss her. He sways them as he does it, smiling against her mouth, her cold nose pressed into his cheek.

“Did you have a good time though?” he asks. MJ nods and her face rubs against his.

“My rental skates were a little tight, but I did wear two pairs of socks, so it’s kinda my fault.”

He has a new pair of skates for her, exactly the right size, but they’re wrapped in red paper featuring dogs with candy cane antlers, waiting to be snuck beneath her tiny artificial tree on Christmas morning. A totally outrageous gift—figure skates in immaculate white leather, like she wears in the pictures he’s seen of her at childhood skating lessons—but he hates it when all his money goes to rent. This might finally be the gift to make her cry. He’s cracked the bottle that stores his girlfriend’s tenderest feelings before, making her eyes shine the winter he knit her a terrible, uneven scarf (she’s wearing it now), and he’s certain the skates will be the thing she really loves. She’ll cry with joy, she’ll say they’re too much, he’ll carry her from the little tree to bed and keep her there until she’s begging for more instead of less. The thought makes Peter grin now.

“Take a bath when we get home. Your feet will feel better.”

“They’d feel better if you carried me,” MJ suggests slyly.

But she screeches when he jerks her against him and, in the relative darkness of their street, looses a web, swinging them both into the air. They pretend it’s still a secret how much she’s grown to love the sensation of sailing through the night with him. What Peter is far from secretive about is how much he loves the way she clings to him, trying not to feel too guilty when he remembers he should attribute some portion of her grip to the time he dropped her. Ah well, it’s in the past. His girlfriend’s laughing shakily as he lands them on the roof of their building and crawls deftly down the wall to the fire escape.

“Cute,” she says, shivering with the aftereffects of cold winter air whipping around her face. The tone is both complimentary and accusatory. “But we have to climb down now, unless…”

MJ’s eyes narrow.

“I… might’ve left the window unlocked?” he asks, because asking implies someone else has the answer, that there is a buck to be passed, as much as he would simultaneously like to hang on to any spare bucks during this expensive season.

“Peter, you can’t do that. You know break-ins are more frequent during the holidays.”

“Yeah,” he allows, edging the window open, “but who’s gonna climb up to the twenty-second floor to try to get through our window?”

He dives inside, then helps her through. The proof that she had a good time tonight is that she lets the window thing drop. Peter shuts and locks the window as loudly as possible behind them.

“Didn’t we leave a light on?” she asks.

“I’m not—”

“When I say that,” MJ cuts him off, dropping her voice to a hiss, “I mean I know I left a light on.”

Instantly, he’s stepping around her, keeping his arm out to hold her behind him. She has a bad habit of going rogue in dangerous situations. More likely than not, she’d grab a kitchen knife and end up stabbing him by accident as they checked every room for intruders. Safer for him to lead.

But it’s not a break-in.

“It’s cold in here,” he realizes.

As they moved through the small number of rooms that make up their hideously overpriced apartment, they left the lights off. Now, MJ smacks at the closest wall switch. Nothing happens.

“Aw, come on,” Peter begs the overhead light. He tries a lamp. Click-click, click-click. Nothin’. “Man!”

“Fucking Rockefeller Christmas tree,” his girlfriend accuses, though it’s not possible that even an energy-suck of that size could drain their building, way out in Queens. “I’m not having a bath now. I’ll be freezing when I get out.”

“Ok. Let’s get some candles first.” Peter starts to walk away from her, down the hall. “MJ, where are the candles?”

With his enhanced vision, he can see her well enough to catch the eyeroll. Fair.

By the time they have a dozen candles lit, it smells like every holiday scent at once. Vanilla smudges cloyingly across the sharper sweetness of candied orange peel, the heaviness of pine battles the richness of milk chocolate, and the cinnamon that seems to have been included in every candle is giving Peter a headache until they agree to space their light sources out. The room is darker with the candles far apart, but the smell is bearable. He also doesn’t mind how the flames catch in MJ’s eyes when she blinks, how a streak of gold will dart across her throat when she turns her head to watch him watching her.

Peter’s mouth is dry when he stammers out, “Y-you look incredible,” like they’re sixteen again and he’s got his gaze fixed on her legs because it’s 90° and she very reasonably wore shorts to school.

“How I feel is cold,” she admits with a small smile. She stirs under the blanket that’s draped across both of them. He strokes her shoulder over her wool cardigan. “I really was looking forward to that bath.”

And because the way she says it sounds nothing like how a person might casually look forward to anything, Peter swells a little in his jeans and shifts his legs closer to hers.

“Were you?” he asks.

MJ’s gaze goes from his mouth to his eyes as she smirks subtly. She knows she’s got him. When does she not have him? The complaints of their former roommates were undeniably valid. It’s a miracle he and MJ accomplished enough in undergrad to even get accepted into grad school. If she hadn’t been the responsible one, he would’ve been pretty damn content to spend those four years in bed with her.

Innocently, she rests her head on his shoulder. He swallows thickly.

“Mhmm. I was looking forward to getting out of my cold clothes. I was looking forward to grabbing a big, thick—” She grips his thigh suddenly. “—towel from the closet to wrap myself in when I was done. I was looking forward to using my cranberry bodywash in the tub. That one smells really good, right?”

Peter nods because forming a sentence in this moment is beyond him.

“And it foams up really well,” MJ continues, tilting her face, passing her lips lightly across his earlobe. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard so quickly. “So, I was looking forward to popping those bubbles when I ran my hands all over my body to work it in.”

“Fuck,” Peter groans. He digs his fingers into her waist, through the sweater, blood pulsing in his groin.

She shrugs, abruptly nonchalant.

“Mostly, I was just looking forward to being warm.”

“I can think of one way to warm you up,” he pledges.

Trust me, he mentally urges. Right now. Trust me like you trusted me to keep you on your feet on the rink when your legs wouldn’t remember how to skate right away.

“Good, because I need you.”

“Say it again?” Peter requests, hand on the back of her head as she raises it from his shoulder.

“I need you, Peter.”

MJ’s hand jumps from his thigh straight into his lap and squeezes him through his jeans. He crushes their mouths together, the two of them breathing in hot pants like they can warm each other that way. Making to move over her, he’s pushed back instead, winded from more than the shove as his girlfriend straddles him with the practiced efficiency of a quickie before Spidey patrol or as an incentive between study breaks. When she rolls her hips against his… shit, she might observe Christmas on the 25th, but the friction of her grinding on his dick is the only Christmas he’ll ever need to celebrate. He plunges both hands deep into her hair to seal their mouths together and slumps into the couch, offering maximum opportunity for her to rock that beloved place between her legs along his erection. He’s already feeling warmer.

“No,” she yelps when he tries to push her sweater off. She snatches it back on and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. “I’m still cold.”

“Ok. Let’s work on that.”

Peter tilts his chin up in invitation and repositions his hands on MJ’s ass. When she kisses him in a slow brush, he begins forcing her back and forth over his lap. He groans into her mouth to feel her angle her hips just right and shiver. Not letting her back down, he grips her and drags her across his erection repeatedly, until she can’t kiss him anymore, until her forehead’s pressed hard to his and she’s hissing his name. The oscillation of her hips in his hands is hypnotic, even with his eyes closed. He’s groaning and trying to hold back, having a hard time concentrating on an idea of what to do next to get his girlfriend off before he reaches that point himself. He wants her warm skin against his when he sinks inside her, not a sudden gush in his jeans.

Still grinding, MJ sits up straighter. She doesn’t take her sweater off, but she pulls down the front of the camisole she wears under it and tucks the material below her bared breasts. Peter’s happy to enjoy the visual while he rubs her over his dick, but she grips the back of his neck and compels his head forward.

“What do you want exactly?” he teases. “I’m a little confused.”

Eye narrowed down at him as she pants, MJ plucks one of his hands from her ass and guides it up to her face. It fucks him up pretty good when she folds down all but two of his fingers, sliding those into her mouth; she sucks with that almost-angry gaze locked on him before bringing his wet fingers down to circle her nipple.

“Ok, ok,” Peter says desperately.

“Just helping.”

A laugh pops out of his mouth, but then he touches his lips to her breast, kissing lightly as she sways. Her hand twitches on the back of his neck. Ok, he thinks again, pulling her nipple between his teeth. MJ moans blissfully and heat floods both Peter’s face and his groin. He jerks roughly against her and clutches her body close when she comes, cradling his face to her chest. There’s still something of the briskness of their walk home to her smell as he inhales against her skin, but also wool and the smoke that’s clung to her after lighting the candles. Her scent is rich. He feels rich, with his arms wrapped around her.

She shimmies her shoulders and the blanket drops. When she slips out of her sweater, Peter rushes to tear his hoodie (and the t-shirt caught up with it) off. MJ halts him in the act of flinging them away; right, candles. Gotta aim for a spot where he won’t start a fire. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans as quickly as he can, gasping in relief at the sudden extra room for the erection bulging beneath his boxers. His plan, as he hooks his thumbs into his waistband, is to yank his clothes down only as far as necessary, then guide MJ back on top of him as soon as she’s out of her sweatpants and pick up where they left off with her first orgasm. But, bottomless, his girlfriend settles on his lap before he’s ready. She shuffles forward, rubbing herself against him, making his boxers damp. Peter closes his eyes as they roll back. His hands skim blindly up her arms to fiddle with the slipping straps of the camisole she still wears—if the way it’s clinging to her from only below her breasts to her navel can be called ‘wearing’.

She kisses his cheek.

“Peter.”

He opens his eyes and watches her tilt her head to speak quietly near his ear. Candlelight seeps over and through her hair. He kisses where it pools on her naked shoulder and her soft breaths form words.

“I want you to bend me over.”

Peter turns his head and groans into MJ’s neck.

Running her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Is that a yes?”

“’Chelle, you say, ‘jump,’ I ask, ‘how high?’” he promises.

He whips a condom out of his pocket. She draws back and smirks at him, eyebrows raised.

“And how did that get in there?”

“I might’ve grabbed it while I was looking for the matches.” When his girlfriend continues to stare at him, he adds, “It’s dark! You were lighting candles! I dunno, MJ, it seemed kinda romantic. Why are you still looking at me like that?”

“You’re cute when you babble.”

“Stop talking,” Peter interprets with a sheepish smile. “Got it.”

She climbs off of him and stuffs the blanket into the corner of the couch while he stands and whisks his jeans and boxers down his legs. He almost trips peeling his socks off because MJ waggles her bare ass at him very unfairly.

“Come on, I’m getting cold.”

“I’m—” he starts, struggling with the condom. “I am… I’m going as fast as… there!”

Peter bounds onto the couch and catches MJ’s face in his hand, kissing her lovingly. Then desperately. Then sloppily pulling away to sneak a hand under the back of her top and press her down until her elbows rest on the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he strokes his other hand from the back of her neck all the way to her ass. This is kinda hot with her shirt still on. He’s glad that, for as much as they discuss and debate things like the misuse of municipal funds on holiday decorations, they’re still in their hasty days. Still young, still eager. He grips himself and flexes his fingers as he traces the head of his dick through MJ’s arousal.

“Getting cold,” she repeats.

“Spider-Man is here to help, ma’am,” he jokes, pushing inside her.

Fuck. Peter works his hips gently forward and back, building up to plunging deeper the same way he tiptoes out into the water when they visit the beach too early in the year. But this isn’t like the chilly springtime ocean because she’s warm as she takes him—so, so warm.

“Uh, MJ? Baby? Sweetheart? I thought you said you were cold,” he grits out.

She presses back against him as he finally thrusts all the way in.

“I always keep the home fires burning for you.”

“Well, that was raunchy. You’ve been living with me too long.”

“How could I ever move out with perks like a December power outage?”

Grinning, Peter begins a loose swing of his hips, gazing down MJ’s back at the shadows and light sliding over the rounded edges of her neck, her shoulder blade, her ear as she tips her head to let her hair hang to the side. When her low moans start, he repositions his knees on the couch cushions and digs in with his toes. The wet smack of driving into her is loud in their little sanctuary. He takes her by the hips as she bows her head to her crossed forearms, moving faster, gliding in and out with more grace than he has when navigating an ice rink with skate blades on his feet. MJ spreads her legs wider and drops her head even lower. She is graceful, with the steep slope of her back that Peter can’t resist pressing a hand to. At his touch, she bends even further and he chokes on an already raspy inhalation.

“Faster, Peter,” she requests.

Not loud, not demanding. She knows he can hear her because he’s always listening for her voice. It coaxes him onward from beneath the urgent slap of his thrusts.

He hunches over her, wrapping one arm around her waist as they buck together, his other hand diving between her legs. She’s soaked and her hips are jumping in time with his, so it’s hard to keep his fingers on her swollen clit. Suddenly, MJ has her hand over his, directing his fingers. Reality grows hazy as pleasure creeps into his thighs and trickles invisibly down his stomach, like the phantom touch of his girlfriend beneath him. Peter squints against the light of their candles and so much feeling, flicking his fingers over the sensitive nub that has MJ’s legs quivering. He kisses her spine and scrapes the edge of her camisole with his teeth. She’s shaking too hard to thrust back. Groaning, Peter bucks in a quick burst, holding her body up as she threatens to slump flat.

“You warm yet?” he huffs. “Show me you’re warm.”

“Peter… almost.”

Abruptly, he sits back on his heels, hauling MJ with him. Sweating now, Peter bounces her on his lap. His hands squeeze the smooth skin of her hips. She gasps before moaning deeply and reaching up to wrap an arm behind his neck, arching against him.

“God,” he mutters, looking down over her shoulder to watch the jiggle of her breasts and the tension of her stomach, “I already want you again.”

Because of his words, or his hands, or his cock slamming up into her, she climaxes, clenching around him and stuttering over his name. Peter buries his nose in her hair to avoid the overpowering scent of the candles as his senses sharpen to the finest point; he’s learned this only happens when he’s lost in either the pain of a grave injury or the satisfaction of releasing into MJ. He pulses, hips snapping, hugging her against his chest, flushed with warmth from the top of his ears to where his toes grip the couch.

“Bath?” Peter pants in her ear, dick still twitching inside her. “I swear I won’t let you get cold.”

Just like that, the overhead light and the lamp on the end table blink on. Huh. Power’s back.

“Or maybe you don’t need me to,” he says.

MJ turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll grab the candles. You hit the lights.”

#promptmas #my writing #spideychelle #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

60 notes · View notes

wordsablaze · 3 years

Text

15~ someone you can trust

tell me your problems (i’ll chase them away) Internal scars can be difficult to deal with but Eskel vows to heal any that Jaskier is weighed down by if it’s the last thing he does…

A/N: okay so i’m sorry it’s been ages but here’s a slightly longer than usual dose of these dorks being in love that i hope compensates :)

previous chapter

@random-nerd-3 @betaray-jones @w-s-kibela @in-love-with-writing002 @screaming-flapjacks @havenoffandoms @lasaga666 @mayastormborn @alllthequeenshorses @little-piece-of-tamlin @selectivegeekwithstandards

Eskel wakes in an empty bed.

It’s more than a little disorientating because the last thing he can truly recall is getting onto Scorpion and he has no idea how they got back to the inn - if he really had been that injured and unaware of his surroundings, he doesn’t want to think about how low his chances of getting back in other circumstances would have been.

“Jaskier?” he asks as he bolts upright, then winces as the healing wounds on his back complain that he’s moved too fast. Giving himself a moment to adjust, he rolls his shoulders and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

He doesn’t get a reply, obviously, but Eskel can hear singing from below and he assumes the bard must be performing. He has no idea how Jaskier can perform for several days in a row, especially with his logic that every performance deserves his best efforts, but it’s impressive to say the least.

By the time he gets downstairs, the noise has died down almost entirely, which he’s been around long enough to know means the performance is close to ending. He orders food for both himself and Jaskier before settling at the only empty table, not bothering to ask for a drink because he’s more than sure Jaskier’s rose song will take care of that. And as expected, both Jaskier and two pitchers arrive at the table within the next few minutes.

“Eskel! What are you doing? Aren’t you meant to be resting?” Jaskier asks a little breathlessly before grabbing a drink and promptly finishing most of it.

He shrugs. “I’ve had long enough to rest.”

Jaskier smiles, then notices the plates and his eyes light up. “And you managed to get us food!”

Eskel frowns; he really didn’t think acquiring food would be considered such a hardship. Before he can ask what’s so special about it, Jaskier starts eating and, not wanting to interrupt that, he does the same. Except it’s not the same because Jaskier is doing something odd with his hands, in the sense that he seems to be trying not to do anything with his hands despite eating with them.

“Are you okay?” Eskel blurts.

Jaskier freezes mid-chew and smells like sharp panic for a good few seconds before he shakes his head and swallows, then nods quickly. “Of course. Whatever made you think otherwise, darling? I could not be better!”

Well, that’s not very convincing.

“Jaskier? Why are you lying?”

This time, Jaskier stops eating altogether. He smells like ash and mud and burnt vegetables and Eskel only has enough time to deeply regret his words before Jaskier is gone, an empty mumbled excuse hanging in the air between them as the red of the bard’s doublet disappears through the door.

Eskel curses.

He wants to immediately follow Jaskier like he had last time but he can’t just leave his lute lying around; he deposits it back in their room as fast as possible before leaving the inn, closing his eyes for a moment and letting himself seek out the warm honey and ink that the bard seems to leave a trace of wherever he goes.

Left.

Then right.

And right again.

Through a very narrow alleyway.

Left.

Around a bend.

And past a broken gate.

“Jaskier?” Eskel calls softly, but it’s not like he needs to; he’s in what seems to be an isolated patch of wildflowers and it’s clear which way the bard has run through them. Trusting his instincts, he walks over to the nearest tree and leans against it, sighing softly. “I apologise, bardling, I didn’t mean to… upset you. I was just worried, is all.”

He counts a full minute before Jaskier lands beside him. Literally lands beside him because he’d apparently been in the tree. He blinks, resisting every urge in his body that tells him to jump backwards, and glances over Jaskier, happy to find him uninjured at least.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Jaskier says quietly.

“You didn’t,” Eskel says immediately, then shakes his head when Jaskier raises an amused eyebrow at him. “Well, I suppose you did. But I only meant that you don’t need to lie if uh, if you’re not alright.”

Jaskier bites his lip as if he hadn’t considered that and whether or not Eskel had been worried before, he definitely is now. Still, he waits for Jaskier to finish contemplating whatever it is he’s contemplating, unwilling to risk offending him further and ruining yet another of his days - the bitter expression on the bard’s face when he’d thought Eskel was leaving yesterday is still fresh in his memory.

“I wasn’t lying,” Jaskier says eventually, his voice oddly thick, “I’m fine. I’m merely tired from playing for such an unprecedentedly energetic crowd but it's nothing a lovely meal and warm bath won’t fix. In fact, I very recently purchased some lovely rose oils and I simply cannot wait to use them.”

“Why didn’t you just say so back at the inn?” Eskel asks. Ash mixed with lavender. Something bad along with something good. Eskel has no idea what to make of Jaskier’s emotions because the bard himself can’t seem to pick between them.

Surprisingly, Jaskier steps back. “Alright so I may quite possibly be lying now. In truth, I didn’t purchase any rose oils because Alija ran out and I couldn’t bring myself to bother her with a singular order and really, that would take a week and a half at the very least, at which point we’d be long gone and it wouldn’t be worth all the hassle anyway. Did you know there are several different types of rose oils and only two of them are truly suitable for-?”

“Jaskier. Stop, please,” Eskel interrupts.

He stops.

Eskel sighs deeply before offering the bard what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Did something happen yesterday?”

Jaskier just shrugs, smirking a little. “Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Giving an excellent performance, saving a ridiculous witcher, acquiring a meal free of charge, the usual results of my endless charm.”

“Then why did you run?” Eskel asks. He hates how this feels like some kind of interrogation but he can’t understand why the bard had gone from enjoying his food to seeking refuge in a tree and he doesn’t want it to become a recurring mystery.

“I don’t… I don’t know?” Jaskier replies eventually, frowning. But when Eskel says nothing because he knows better than to believe that, Jaskier sighs. “I just thought it’d be better if I gave you space. You’re already injured, I didn’t want to make it worse.”

There’s a moment in which Eskel debates on whether or not to tell Jaskier that he’s done nothing but somehow make life impossibly better, but he decides against it for the time being. Instead, he gently nudges Jaskier and shakes his head. “I didn’t need space. It’d have been better if you’d stayed.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “You mean that? Even though I, uhm, lied?”

“You don’t owe me total honesty,” Eskel replies, shrugging, “I was only asking in case there was something I could do to help.”

He doesn’t like the way Jaskier looks as though that’s a foreign concept to him. He also doesn’t like the way he’s immediately filled with the urge to find whoever’s responsible for that and make them regret it - he’s not even sure how he’d do that to be honest.

“As much as I appreciate that, darling witcher, I’m afraid it’s merely a consequence of providing so much bardic goodness to the world, nothing to be done about it. Should we- that is, would you like to return to the inn?” Jaskier asks, and still it’s unclear exactly what emotions he’s experiencing.

Eskel swallows down the instinct to ask anything more and simply holds out his hand. Jaskier hesitates for only a moment before a wide grin spreads on his face - accompanied with the scent of honey and ocean waves so he knows it’s not forced for the sake of politeness - and he slides his fingers into the gaps between Eskel’s.

Gods, he’s addicted to the feel of their hands being connected.

“I ought to thank you,” Jaskier whispers as they begin walking. “I simply have to thank you, really. For- for following me. I can’t say I was expecting it but I greatly appreciate it.”

“How did you learn to climb trees so well?” Eskel asks, unsure of how to react to such gratitude, glad that walking means he doesn’t have to face the heavy sincerity in Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier chuckles, squeezing his hand. “How else was I meant to observe the life of witchers without being devoured or torn apart or meeting some other equally ugly end?”

Eskel splutters on nothing in particular, turning to face the bard with wide eyes. Jaskier only raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, and Eskel is abruptly reminded that he’s not the first witcher to be claimed by a bard.

“So you’d… watch from above?”

“Sometimes,” Jaskier replies, turning his head back towards the road, though his gaze seems to go somewhere far beyond the path, into a past that Eskel cannot follow no matter how hard he tries. “It wasn’t always an ideal plan if the monsters could climb too. Or fly.”

He thinks Jaskier’s pulse quickens but it’s back to normal before he can question it, and he wonders - not for the first time but certainly more deeply than he has before - just how different this version of the bard is from the version that Geralt had half-heartedly grumbled about over several winters.

Jaskier gasps sharply as they get back to the inn, letting go of Eskel’s hand and sprinting inside. When he too enters, Jaskier is standing by the table they’d previously occupied, his teeth worrying his lip as he frantically glances around.

“What is it?” Eske asks, concerned by the abrupt shift in mood.

“My lute! I left her behind! Eskel, I left her and she’s gone! Oh, how could I have been so careless? Stupid, stupid, stupid-”

“Wait, wait. Jaskier, your lute’s back in our room,” Eskel interjects, placing a hand on his arm and gently pulling his hand out of his hair where he’d started to pull on it.

“Back in our… what?” Jaskier trails off, predictably heading straight for the stairs as soon as the words register.

This time, he enters the room to see Jaskier kneeling on the floor, cradling his lute to his chest as if it were his child. Not that Eskel has much knowledge of what it’s like to cradle or be cradled but he’s been alive long enough to gather as much.

“I can never thank you enough,” Jaskier declares when their eyes meet.

Eskel’s face heats up and he shrugs, shutting the door behind him. “It was the least I could do, bardling.”

“You are impossibly considerate, my darling,” Jaskier says in the same no-argument tone, placing the lute down gently before rising to his feet and throwing himself at Eskel, his arms looping around the witcher’s neck.

None of Vesemir’s training had ever prepared him for anything like this.

“Your… your darling?” Eskel echoes. He knows Jaskier had referred to him as his witcher before but that was halfway in jest and regardless, to be known as someone’s witcher is hardly the same as to be known as someone’s darling.

Jaskier pulls back, his palms settling against Eskel’s cheeks, the tips of his fingers sliding ever so nicely into his hair. “Are you alright with that?” he asks, his breath just about brushing over Eskel’s lips.

Eskel is honestly too busy wondering what he’s supposed to do with his hands to consider the concept properly. Thankfully, Jaskier seems to realise that and his sour-scented nerves dissolve into amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles warmly, his thumbs tracing small curves under Eskel’s eyes. “I’ll let you think further on that, shall I?”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply as being overly aware of how close they are means Eskel can clearly feel as Jaskier winces, even though his face barely gives his discomfort away. He frowns, covering Jaskier’s hands with his own and guiding them down between them, stepping back a little as he does.

“You’re hurt?” Eskel asks; Jaskier’s fingertips are red and warm to the touch and judging by the guilty expression on the bard’s face, that isn’t exactly normal.

“I- It happens. It’s only painful when I play for rather extended periods of time. I may have also used up the last of the salve I had without checking to see whether I would be able to acquire any more but it’s nothing serious, I promise,” Jaskier explains, pulling his hands out of Eskel’s grip.

Not that Eskel lets him, tightening his hold on Jaskier’s wrists only enough to keep them in place as he hums thoughtfully. “I might have a solution for that.”

Jaskier’s curiosity seems to outweigh any doubts he has and he shrugs. “Alright then, do your worst.”

“I’ll do my best for you, bardling,” Eskel chuckles, sitting down cross-legged in front of the bed and waiting until Jaskier does the same, which doesn’t take long on account of their hands still being connected.

Eskel lets go of Jaskier’s left hand and places both hands around his right one, guiding him into curling a fist and slowly letting it go again until his fingers are flat, stretched out. He repeats the process several times until Jaskier’s confusion fades into acceptance, then gently squeezes his hand reassuringly.

He finally takes his eyes off Jaskier and the bright awe in his eyes as he keeps one hand around the bard’s wrist to steady him and uses the other to gently rub circles into his first knuckle, moving along to the next after a few moments. Jaskier’s breath hitches as his fingers brush the calluses on his fingers and Eskel pauses, forcing his hand to slow down lest he ends up causing pain instead of relieving it.

It would be nothing short of a crime, he thinks, to be trusted with the hands of bard and break that trust by compromising their ability to play. In fact, the weight of trust Jaskier is placing in him by letting him, a witcher who more often than not uses his hands to create violence as opposed to comfort, do as he pleases lies heavy on his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, moving onto the next finger and going a little more softly this time. There’s an unfamiliar scent around them, something quiet and golden and herbal, but Eskel doesn’t let his focus waver, making his way along each finger until he’s done, then carefully tugging on each one to stretch them and watching as Jaskier exhales, his shoulders relaxing.

Jaskier starts to pull his hand back as they both pause for a moment but Eskel laces their fingers together and shakes his head. “We’re only getting started yet,” he says quietly.

“My mistake,” Jaskier mumbles back, an easy smile playing at his lips.

Eskel uses their interlaced fingers to flex Jaskier’s wrist, slowly bending it in every direction before taking his hand back, stroking from the tips of his fingers to the edge of his palm, smiling each time Jaskier’s hand instinctively curls and he has to pull his fingers back. Jaskier seems to find it just as amusing as him, both of them laughing quietly when it happens for the fourth time and it seems like he’s simply attempting to steal Eskel’s thumb.

He flips Jaskier’s hand over and traces invisible paths from his nails to his wrist and back again. When he moves on to the skin between each finger, Jaskier gasps, not in pain but in something like surprise. Eskel waits for him to nod his approval before continuing, then repeating his earlier sequence of working his way down each knuckle, this time taking special care to focus on his fingertips and gently relax them.

“Almost there,” he murmurs as he moves his attention to Jaskier’s wrist, once again flexing his hand before rubbing upwards from the base of his palm. Jaskier shivers as Eskel’s fingertips run along his arm, his eyes falling shut as he leans his head back against the bed, the air around them filling with what must be the scent of sunbeams themselves.

When Eskel is satisfied that he’s made a difference, he laces their fingers together again and squeezes gently, letting Jaskier take his time to react. And take his time he does; Eskel is beginning to suspect he’s fallen asleep to the feeling of Eskel’s thumb tracing patterns onto his hand when Jaskier finally opens his eyes.

“How did you learn to do this?” Jaskier whispers, his voice ever so quiet and thick with a gratitude that Eskel’s not sure he deserves for something so simple.

Eskel shrugs. “Just here and there.”

“You amaze me,” Jaskier says, and Eskel can smell nothing but genuine admiration in his voice; he has to look away so he doesn’t do anything to embarrass himself.

He’s internally very pleased that he’d managed to help though. It only feels right to have been of some comfort after Jaskier had managed to get him back to a bed in one piece yesterday and although he’s not even remotely well-versed in articulating his appreciation, at least he can pay some of that concern back.

Jaskier pokes his forehead.

“What-?” Eskel manages, jerking back a little.

Not very successfully holding back a grin, Jaskier shrugs. “You were frowning again. What else was I meant to do?”

Eskel blinks slowly, then lets himself laugh. He’s half-aware that it wasn’t quite funny enough to warrant the way he laughs so hard that he almost starts struggling to breathe but he’s lost in the freedom of this casual hysteria for longer than he’ll later admit to and, in the moment, he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

When he recovers, there’s a sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes that hints at something dangerous, something like fondness, something that Eskel wants to keep close for as long as possible. And if he is to take Jaskier for his word, keeping it - keeping him - close is actually far from impossible. What a strange and hopeful prospect.

“I find myself needing to thank you once again, Eskel. I already feel a hundred times better,” Jaskier says, pulling his hand free and flexing his fingers gently as he stretches his legs out in front of him.

Eskel raises an eyebrow, holding his hand out with the palm facing upwards. “Your other hand, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m not done.”

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, biting his lip for a moment. “Are you sure you have time?”

“I’m meant to be resting anyway, aren’t I?” Eskel asks.

At that, Jaskier’s expression brightens once more and he nods. “Yes, of course you are. I suppose this works out for the best then, doesn’t it?”

It does, but their reasoning is likely very different. Eskel doesn’t comment on that, simply shifting so he’s facing Jaskier, taking his hand and starting the same way he had before, curling his fingers into fists before stretching them out again.

Since he’s more aware of how much pressure to apply this time, his left hand is a much quicker process than the right. Again, both of them laugh as Jaskier’s fingers automatically wrap around Eskel’s thumb when he moves it over his palm. And again, both of them smile as Jaskier’s breath hitches when Eskel’s fingers brush over his calluses. But this time, Jaskier doesn’t make a sound as Eskel finishes up by lacing their fingers together, and the air around them is neither warm nor golden, unexpectedly salted.

Eskel glances up sharply to see Jaskier using his free hand to push tears away from his eyes. He lets go of Jaskier’s hand immediately, shuffling backwards as his stomach drops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. What did I do wrong?”

Jaskier lets out a noise that would land somewhere between a laugh and a sob before shaking his head. “No, no no no. It wasn’t- I mean, nothing hurts. I… I’ve been a bard since I was a child and nobody has ever… Nothing has ever helped like this.”

Oh.

Eskel doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t even try to think of anything, just silently moves so that he’s propped against the bed too, his arm leaning against Jaskier’s as he too stretches out his legs in front of him. Wordlessly, Jaskier takes his hand, squeezing carefully before his head lands on Eskel’s shoulder; Eskel tenses for a second before exhaling and forcing his muscles to relax again, adjusting so Jaskier’s head is in a comfortable position.

“You have my utmost thanks but I think I’m going to fall asleep now,” Jaskier mumbles.

“I don’t mind,” Eskel whispers. He thinks he should mind in some way or the other but he also just doesn’t have any reasoning that’s good enough to refuse the honour of acting as a pillow.

Granted, It feels a little strange to remain as still as possible whilst the bard dozes off but really, it’s nothing he hasn’t done before when various animals - usually goats - have fallen asleep in his lap or on his limbs. Although he’s almost certain that no other experience, no matter how small or adorable the animals may be, will ever compare to the soft and gratifying weight of Jaskier seeking comfort in his presence.

shout out and thank you to @jayjayjayne for being absolutely lovely and inspiring the idea of a hand massage - i hope i did it justice <3

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

#jaskel #jaskier x eskel #jaskier #eskel #the witcher #fanfic #fanfiction #slow burn #idiots in love #hurt jaskier #protective eskel #soft eskel #soft jaskier #hurt comfort #fluff and angst #eskel is a national treasure pass it on #i wasn't kidding about that slow burn wow #my writing #tmypicta

10 notes · View notes