you've never danced like this before [open]

[cointosser]

Who: Jaskier and YOU
When: October catch-all, prior to event
Where: The new Casa de Mojo de Witcher, and Jaskier's plant shop in Cadens
What: Being a good business owner and bullying his family into a better home.
Warnings: N/A!

A SONG OF SAPLINGS

In the midst of the Cadens desert sits a small oasis surrounded by four walls. A Song of Saplings is (one of) Jaskier's pride and joy. This plant shop lay in the heart of Cadens's thriving market, with a handcarved, inviting sign of a tree's branches wrapping around the name of the store. A tiny bell with a sound similar to a bird's call rings as one steps inside -- only to be assaulted by a wall of green.

The goal of A Song of Saplings is to fill the desert with color. While most plants Jaskier offers are hardy cacti and woody bushes, there are special selections of flowers, saplings, and plants that simply should not be growing in the desert. Bright pink roses, verdant oak saplings, and a fuzzy-leafed favorite called "wolf's ear" are displayed among the store's rich wooden shelves, all personally grown by the Gem of the Phoenix himself. A selection of local artisan-crafted pottery fills one of the back shelves, each piece stamped by its creator. Other similar art for one's garden is for sale, including statuary of dragons, decorated birds, mermaids and unicorns -- pieces of the Continent that Jaskier has commissioned to decorate Cadens. And, of course, phoenixes.

At the back of the shop is a door that boasts a sign reading "EMPLOYEES ONLY", a bit of a modern touch Jaskier has picked up as advised by some of his more contemporary companions. Inside is a room set up similar to a break room, with a cushioned couch pushed against one wall, a small table with a smattering of chairs surrounding it, and a shelf containing cleaning tools and solutions. There also appears to be a miniature well where one can draw fresh water from, though it does not sink very deep.

The front counter of the shop bears a bowl full of candies and a young woman with a head full of black braids and what appear to be horns naturally curling from her head. She wears a facemask that covers her nose and mouth that, as is rumoured, she never removes. Quille's voice and face always remain somewhat blank and detached, but she is startlingly dedicated to aiding those who come seeking specific foliage. She can often be seen sweeping the same spot for an hour, or plucking leaves off the plants -- wait a second, did she just eat one? Further rumours circle that she is a daemon that's been exiled from her home, orphaned and left to thrive on Cadens's streets on her own, but Quille will limit conversation only to the purchasing and selling of plants. Somehow, she has extensive knowledge of every single plant in the shop, and appears to be its only employee.

CASA DE WITCHER

Away from the hustle and bustle of the markets and Cadens's main streets is a rather decorated home, a stone wall giving its land a small bit of shade and privacy from its neighbors. The front entrance has two strangely rich and green box flowerbeds to welcome visitors, and a long, rough doormat gives indication of how little the owner wishes you to bring in mud and dirt. Even from the ground level, one can see that the rooftop patio is full of green plants and one twisted, knotted tree with bowed, weeping boughs and small white flowers.

Connected to the side of the house is a shed and a stable, housing two horses and, bizarrely, a bright golden chocobo. Along the walls are various tack and saddles for the creatures, and what appears to be a series of shelves that, upon closer inspection, have cat prints left behind in the dust. One large black horse and the chocobo are very friendly to any guests peeking their head in, but the second horse will snort and may bite if visitors come too close.

Inside the home are long hallways that lead to three different bedrooms, all decorated vastly different, respectful to their owners. The hallways are lined with shelves containing all manner of potted plants, skulls, and bones, along with something that looks suspiciously like a petrified lizard. A dining room has been set up with a rather expensive-looking icebox, and generally the small kitchen is always filled with bread or the smell of it. Curiously, food never appears to rot here, no matter how long it's left out in the open.

The home's dwellers are often seen going on and out at all hours of the night, sometimes bringing back monster corpses or... parts... with them. And more often than not, one can see (and/or) hear Jaskier sitting on the patio, practicing his music.

Comments

[ancunin]

[ He wrinkles his nose at 'stinky'. Fair is fair, though. And while he notices the stare, he reads little into it for the moment. He does draw attention, whether he means to or not, for obvious reasons. Elves are a stranger sight here than vampires, somehow.

Both arms extend out from his sides with languid grace, widening open the front of his cloak to reveal a better look at the clothing underneath as he strikes an effortless pose for a second. ]

It's certainly a start, in no small part thanks to someone. [ Well, multiple someones if you count the pockets picked in Libertas. But, details. Dropping his pose he approaches the counter, letting his gaze scan the rest of the shop with mild interest, landing on the figure in the corner for a second before flicking back to Jaskier with a curious and assessing look. ]

So - a famously successful bard and a shopkeep? [ His appraising gaze lingers downward for a moment before returning to meet his eyes again, tilting his head with amusement. ] Are you hiding a wife and a gaggle of whelps down there too?

[cointosser]

[It's only fair. A barracks is no place for anyone who smells halfway decent.

And with the way he dresses, perhaps he's already made his way out of it. Jaskier hopes so; not only for the elf's sake, but for the Free cities. Every less soldier is less power Marlo accumulates. And gods know she has plenty of it already.

Jaskier gives a little clap at the pose, which isn't supposed to be sarcastic. Honestly, he's fucking thrilled to meet anyone in this bloody city who has an eye for fashion who isn't his tailor. That's about the only thing Thonre has going for it.]

And an honour it was. [He leans across his counter, taking in Astarion's grandiose gestures. A showman, he thinks. Perhaps someone in theatre?]

A man must keep his fingers in many pies. [He answers with a wink -- which quickly turns into a choked laugh.] Oh, gods, no. I am not the marrying sort, and even less likely to brood. [He has distinct aversions to anything resembling certain sorts of commitment, actually.] I like to keep my options -- and my free time -- wonderfully open.

[Which may seem strange with a business and a home, but he specifically has people to take care of such things if he desires to wander.]

cw: potential reference to sexual abuse/trauma from here on out

[ancunin]

[ Oh no. He was prepared to 'sleep' on the streets, there was no way he was returning to the barracks that first night. Fortunately, he managed to avoid both thanks to a soft-hearted innkeeper with an affinity for Summoned - since that's what everyone here considers him, now. Apparently. Not spawn, not infected. But still other by a different name, not of his choosing.

Something else to add to his ever growing pile of grievances.

This one, however, doesn't lay its blame with Jaskier personally. Astarion is pleased enough to be admired in the moment, just as he's amused with the answer given. It gives him pause as he studies Jaskier from the other side of the counter, amused and thoughtful. ]

I happen to have an abundance of free time at the moment, and - [ he glances over at the figure in the corner... eating leaves? No, that's not his problem - he turns back to Jaskier with that slight blip interrupting his sultry (unsubtle) proposal: ] - if you've some to spare as well, perhaps now that I'm so very fresh and clean, we could... explore those options together.

[ It would be different, he thinks, than if he had followed through the other day. Not a debt being paid, per se. And not lowering himself, like it would've been with the blood merchant. Just a bit of fun, and in the daylight no less. When's the last time he was with someone and didn't lead them to the dark? Not in two centuries.

It had been... fine with Tav. ]

[cointosser]

[Says one without a bit of business to attend to himself. But he can hardly fault a man for wanting to look for work so immediately. The only reason Jaskier bothered was because Thorne was much more stifling, and it was full of nobles with the dullest entertainment imaginable and coin purses that were sorely in need of being lighter.

Jaskier hardly needs much prompting at all for a bit of fun, but he must say how encouraging it is to not be the one taking such... forward motions.

His smile sticks, encouraging and lit with interest. There is not a drop of subtlety in this man, and that is an extremely attractive quality. Sometimes it truly is that simple. And even when it's not -- it still is fun.] What an impression I must have made for you to spend such valuable time -- abundant or not -- seeking me out. [He gives a glance to Quille, who is already far too experienced with the sort of people who come by, seeking Jaskier out. And Melitele bless her soul, she's never asked a single fucking question. She simply takes over when he steps out, even on a whim.]

I can't imagine not making room for you, my dear. [In his schedule. Clearly. He walks around the counter, fingers tracing lightly against its edge.] Do you have a place in mind? I'm open to all possibilities.

[ancunin]

[ It feels like a lock turning shut behind him, he can almost hear the click as it happens when Jaskier steps out from behind the counter. And with it comes a sudden, unwanted sense of dread. A weight that falls from his heart to his stomach, and a reedy, sadistic voice whispering in harsh tones this is what you asked for, isn't it?

There's the briefest flicker of something almost unreadable in his expression as he watches Jaskier (Insight, DC 18). His body and instincts take over immediately, this is a well worn path for both. ]

You are a man with the city in the palm of his hand. [ He continues slyly, leaning over and close to his ear to whisper, letting his hand settle on the one Jaskier is using to trace with: ] Take me somewhere in the light. Where I can taste the sun on your skin.

[ Somewhere bright. Somewhere with windows open to the sky, or a closed garden path. It doesn't matter.

It'll be different, he tells himself. Steels himself. It's his choice. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier remains blissfully unaware, though he can say there is a precious rareness to the occasion; not that he isn't a terribly attractive both man and opportunity, but he can admit the people who get so thoroughly to the point are those he makes frequent fun with, or those who are his fans.

Since Astarion was not awash with praise for his song, he can possibly write off the second. (For now.)

Jaskier catches the dark in his eyes (lovely shade of blood-red, by the way) that he may have taken for shyness in anyone else. But that can't be it, as he is about to say, with a heated, quiet laugh:] As subtle as a hole in the head, aren't you? I love it. [Goosebumps rise pleasantly. The city is hardly his to hold, but knows his way about it. And his ways out of it. Plenty of pretty places to take him, but he can't help but want to drag his new, beautiful friend to an equally beautiful place.] I know just the place. But how do you feel about portals? [He offers his hand.] I made a park, and you've never seen a better place to take in the sun.

[ancunin]

[ The look he gives in response reads 'guilty as charged'. Subtly wasn't usually a requirement for his marks: the sad and desperate and lonely creatures they often were, those not likely to be missed as Astarion and his siblings were instructed for their selections. ]

You made a park?

[ That genuinely seems to derail him enough to repeat it as a question, eyebrows raised, his head bobbing once for each word. It's not what he was expecting - and really, if the man likes to indulge in a little exhibitionism he doesn't have to make up grand achievements. Still, he takes Jaskier's hand in his own after that brief hesitation, all trace of it skillfully wiped clean again with a grin. ]

Well then, lead the way.

[ His hand is unnaturally cool to the touch. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier just makes an open flourish of both hands with a raise of a brow and a grin, like he's saying, of course.

Luckily, he hardly needs to lie about anything to be the most interesting person around, but he'll also never miss an opportunity to show off Willow Memorial Park, even if there's... now that he's thinking about it, there may be a bit of disrespect bringing someone for a bit of fun to his park in memorial for the dead of Libertas, but. Perhaps they would be very glad he's getting a little action.

Also, he doesn't completely trust that a man who only knows him for having money wants to take him somewhere alone just for sex, so being surrounded by plants he made with his own magic, knowing he can stop any potential stabbings in an instant, is a plus. Jaskier thinks smarter, not harder. Because he'll be hard soon enough. Hah! Unless he's being stabbed.

Jaskier takes his hand, gives Quille another "take care of the front!" reminder, and leads the way to the portal to Libertas. Thanks to him, of course, it has easy access, and he practically prepays for all his little trips. He gives a little raise of his brow to find Astarion's hand cold -- what, out in the desert? Is he nervous? -- but doesn't let go of it.]

The walk gives me a little time to hear about you. Especially being new to the world! So to speak. Unless you prefer being a mysterious rogue about it all? I've met plenty of those in my time.

[Honestly, he doesn't ask most questions out of more than mere curiousity, or fascination with other spheres. But he did promise Geralt he wouldn't put himself deliberately in danger. Even if sex with incredibly hot men is absolutely worth it.]

[ancunin]

[ Oddly, given the way he's been acting this entire time, Astarion seems to miss (or ignore) the little look Jaskier gives him when he takes his hand to lead them on - and he takes his hand back as soon as they're out the shop door. There's a moment where he seems to wrestle with the instinct to lift his hood back up, then decides against it.

In spite of how he acts, Astarion has deeply mixed feelings about standing out in a crowd. Let people stare today, he decides, his mood already darkening - this he can control. After some more exploring he'd come to find that he was hardly the only non-human in the cities, but they still remain a small enough minority that passersby turn their heads to look as they walk. It's just as likely the bard drawing attention too, though.

Calling him a mysterious rogue elicits a sharp laugh. Hitting the nail on the head, are we? ]

Have you? Well - prepare to be disappointed, then. I was a magister in my previous life. Dreadfully dull and tedious work. [ He shrugs and waves his hand, not a single lie leaving his lips, even if this story is two centuries old and all but the major details allude him. ]

But you do get invited to the most wonderful parties - almost every major house has at least one wayward son with a tendency to rack up multiple offenses. Minor ones, of course.

[ Everyone wanted a magistrate in their pocket. The bribes were nice, he remembers fondly.

When the spawn sought out noble targets, these sons were usually a good bet. Some families were less broken up than others to lose a third son who was also a troublemaker. ]

[cointosser]

[Ah! A shame. He lets the hand go, though, watching his companion as they walk with a curious eye. But it isn't the idea of him being a magister that's so curious -- okay, well, that is a little curious, a handsome devil like him, but the lines in his face tell Jaskier enough about his age to feel out he isn't some young pup anymore -- but that phrase.] In a previous life? What a fascinating way to put it.

[A little incorrect, if you ask him. Jaskier does not consider his life on the Continent, on his own world, separate from the one he lives now. Unless Astarion is only telling him of his past job, and he's spent a bit of time without one. Which... you know, a bard is hardly one to judge. He very much respects freelancers.

He may be reading into things far too much to make him more interesting. Now that he thinks of it, an elf as a magister. No, that is strange. Even though opinions have moved with the waves on the Continent, there is not a time in Jaskier's lifetime where an elf would be instructed with that sort of position. Perhaps among his own people, but in human affairs? Hardly. But! He's learned, especially upon meeting Urianger, that not all elves are living the same circumstances.

And honestly, he is glad for that.

Sorry. He's still listening.]

A perfect way to weedle your way through the courts, I imagine. Er. If you had courts. [Not the judicial sort.] Royal ones. With coin in hand, even. [His sigh is plaintive.] If I miss anything from home, it's the parties. The balls. Oh! The food and hand-to-hand brawls. One time I was at the betrothal party for the local princess, and the whole affair came to a screeching halt when a man with a hedgehog's head blew down the doors and declared his right to her hand in marriage. Turned into an absolute bloodbath.

[Why does his tone suggest he sort of misses that, too...? It was simply so fascinating! The songs he got out of it! Er, after all the killing was done, of course, and he was safely home... in the bed of Lady Carwinna, in large of heart as she was as derriere.] People really don't respect the power of a good curse anymore.

[For artistic inspiration, obviously.]

[ancunin]

[ Besides a single arched brow - oh? is it?, he does not elaborate on the first comment.

Astarion does (more than he would sometimes openly admit) enjoy speaking about himself (barring certain topics), but it's preferable to have a conversation partner that can carry some of the weight when necessary - unlike some of the patrons he's met at the Sarstina. ]

We have courts of all kinds in most of the Sword Coast, though even the upper echelons lean more mercantile than dynastic. But actual kings and queens? How delightfully antique.

[ It's hard to say whether he means that as an insult or not. More likely that Jaskier can sense ambivalence from him, or perhaps a lack of respect for titles themselves. A title alone doesn't necessarily grant power. It's a start, though. He also doesn't appear particularly fazed by the story beats - an animal-man, a curse, a bloodbath, or Jaskier's almost wistful retelling. Considering the lunatics Astarion travels with and the deranged situations they keep finding themselves in, there's little left to shock him.

Although, that's probably tempting fate at this point.

As they make their way to the portal he notices those eyes he expected on them, every so often a random passerby does a doubletake. More often, they're looking at the bard and not him. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. ]

Are there so few parties in the Free Cities? [ He sounds almost disappointed. ] Or are they just not to your particular tastes?

[cointosser]

[Jaskier gives a little noise that could be called an annoyed huff.] I've been told I'm a bit of an antique. I mean -- not me, but my sphere. The world I've come from. Though I swear if you go on about how bards are outdated, I'll be forced to kill you myself.

[It's completely a joke.

Mostly. He'll kill him with words. He's so exhausted, hearing it.

Though he is intrigued that Astarion's reactions are so muted to that story. It's one of his favorites! It's not even one of those "you had to be there" stories! And so encapsulated he is in impressing his new friend -- or at the very least, intriguing him -- Jaskier hardly notices the looks. To be honest, he's quite used to it, to the point he's assumed it's because he is here, not Astarion's appearance.

He hands the man a portal stone of his own, stepping through. On the other side, in Libertas, he continues as if he barely paused. The city still bears the scars of its attack, but most of the reconstruction is well on its way towards completion. He sets the path towards the park, which already marks a especially green horizon in the distance.]

There are too few, especially to my tastes. It's tragic. And when there are parties, I'm afraid it's because Alucard and I are the cause. No one knows how to throw them properly -- ah, well, except the fae. Ooh, you missed the fae party, didn't you? A lovely masquerade. There was a fight midway through it. And some giant snakes. It was quite fun, as masquerades go.

[ancunin]

[ At the threat he laughs, his head thrown back in such a way that might give a view of the bite scars on his neck, the glint of his fangs. ]

Then we both have nothing to worry about there. Bards have stood the test of time - the entire coast is crawling with them. Now, ones of any actual talent... [ Bards are truly a dime a dozen in Baldur's Gate. That some can legitimately inflict psychic damage on targets might be new to Jaskier - though Astarion has no reason to believe that's singular to his own realm. 'Sphere'. Whatever.

That's disappointing news on the party front. The last one he attended was that depressing affair with the tieflings. And the only soiree he'd been expecting to attend more recently had been at Cazador's palace...

A fae party sounds intriguing, at least. He's never bedded one. Probably for the best, though. Fae, devils, vampires - they all want the same thing from mortals in the end.

He raises an eyebrow at the mention of a certain name... ]

Alucard? He didn't strike me as the partying sort when we met...

[ At least not the sort of parties he's now imaging Jaskier must enjoy. ]

[cointosser]

[It's not as if he hasn't noticed. There was some leeway when the elf was wearing his hood, but it's far harder to hide any of it now, in the sun, especially when he laughs.

And especially when Jaskier's best friend -- at least made in Abraxas -- also has fangs. So. There's that.

But he hardly sees a reason to mention it now.]

Unfortunately, any fool with an instrument can call themselves a bard. It's insulting, really.

[He went to university, thank you. He even learned and mastered all seven liberal arts! Hardly any bard even somewhat near his caliber can claim the same. And that is why most of the bards he knew in Oxenfurt were dead.

Either the bad music, or the monsters. It's always either/or.]

Oh, so you've met. [Jaskier's eyes travel across Astarion's body.] Well, of course you have. [That's more because Alucard, despite his assurances he is not a public sort of man, still seems to meet everyone around. Not because they're both -- well, you know. That feels a bit assumptive.] He isn't. But he enjoys setting them up, and he has brilliant ideas and is quite handy. And he very much enjoys drinking. So we hold the party, or the charity, or whatever event comes to our pretty heads... and I take the front stage, so to speak, while he lingers to the shadows. It's a rather perfect arrangement, really.

[ancunin]

[ It's true enough. He's a monster, and he's led many a talentless bard to their demise.

There's always outliers, though. Like Volo. How that man is still alive is a mystery.

Astarion listens to Jaskier explain his relationship with the dhampir, forcing himself to keep a smile plastered on his lips. A dhampir claiming to be an architect was bizarre. It's less surprising to hear how Alucard has ingratiated himself into society, and Astarion's mind immediately goes to darker places in spite of the kindness Alucard had shown him.

And he very much enjoys drinking. Well, of course he does. ]

You must make quite the pair. [ His empty smile turns sharp again, and his gaze travels pointedly toward Jaskier's neck, as if seeking something... ] I hope that I'm won't be... encroaching on any already claimed territory, so to speak.

[ Vampires get weird about this shit. He doesn't want to start up with another one over a person he barely knows. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier stops walking, giving him a snort as he figures, exactly, what Astarion is supposed to mean by that. He has not met a single person who would assume, especially after meeting Alucard, that they were together. The man's about as outwardly sexual as a grapefruit -- excluding his recent bout with the corset, which he'd still looking incredibly uncomfortable in when he was stared after.]

What? As if I'm his pet?

[For someone who picks apart every word and expression like Jaskier, it isn't hard to pick up on Astarion's strained smile, nor his hesitation with that particular... relationship.

He's never had anyone be strange about Alucard, besides Hector. And considering their history, he isn't surprised by that. Should Alucard not have told him if he already knew this man? After a moment of further consideration, he continues walking. No, it isn't that, he decides.] Hardly. And I doubt very much Alucard would ever insinuate that was the case. I'm not anyone's territory, thank you. Though, if there's something you see that you would like to have, you are free to ask.

[If he's going to keep up with all the salacious staring, after all.]

[ancunin]

[ The decisiveness of Jaskier's answer should be a relief. Instead, he's a little taken aback by his blunt answer. Maybe Astarion is too used to thralls and those wretched mortals who come to their house's door begging to be turned. Few other types are willing to consort with vampires, and none to be friends.

Well, none but a very, very small few. And he's often made to question their intelligence on many an occasion...

He glances away from Jaskier very suddenly. ]

I meant no offense. His kind are actually quite rare in our realm. [ As far as he's aware. For all he knows there's a secret enclave of dhampirs somewhere out there. ] I've only had the - [ his mouth twists with the words that his spits out mockingly: ] great displeasure of meeting vampires who were made, not born. You wouldn't normally find an honest man consorting with one, nor would I particularly recommend it. At best you'd end up six feet under and stay there, at worst - you'd claw your way out of the dirt as one of their many slaves, an extension of them and little else...

[ At the end of this he seems to finally catch himself again, rolling his eyes and waving a hand in a way that's almost self-deprecating, and deceptively light. ]

Of course, I'm beginning to understand things work... differently, here. [ He raises both eyebrows, asking in the mocking imitation of innocence: ]

I suppose I've gone and ruined the mood then, haven't I?

[cointosser]

[Jaskier takes him in with a mild wave of his hand, as if to say it hardly matters. There are few things Jaskier truly takes offense to, and Alucard's claim over him isn't one. (It's music. It's basically only his music.

Besides, that dhampir has been turning him down for years.]

I recognize that, even from Alucard's world -- from what I understand -- he's a bit of anomaly. I was lovers with a necromancer from the same world Alucard hales from, and he said most vampires were bloodthirsty megalomaniacs. [Jaskier shrugs.] Well. The ones he worked for, at any rate.

[But he won't speak on Alucard's father, in particular; it is not his subject to raise.

If Astarion is a vampire -- which he suspects quite well now -- he certainly has the right to such... particular opinions. To Jaskier, there's not much difference between those who are made or born. Geralt's own dances were with made vampires, and they all tried to kill him, too.]

Hardly. For me. [He emphasizes. Astarion's moods, he's finding, rise and fall as easily and quickly as the sea's undulating waves.] I don't take offense. And there's hardly anything that can dissuade me from an hour of fun. But if a different air has struck you, I don't mind a walk around the park and a bit of talk. It sounds as if you've had your fair share of... [He considers the word.] adventures with vampires. And I do love showing off my park.

[It's very sweet of him to ask, though.]

[ancunin]

[ Lovers with a necromancer? Darling, you get both more questionable and interesting by the minute. ]

How could you tell? [ said mockingly in direct response to the comment adventures with vampires, however there's no bite in his tone. It appears he's calmed back down from whatever further (self-inflicted) rant he might've built to just a moment ago. ]

Well, since you're not so easily dissuaded, and are perfectly unclaimed by vampires and mortals alike, let's continue on and see what private wonders your gardens have to offer. [ Like a chameleon he shifts back to sultry and completely unsubtle, offering Jaskier a look through hooded eyes. He leans over as they walk, lowering his voice as his hand raises to brush against the small of Jaskier's back. ]

I meant what I said about wanting to taste you in the light.

[ An hour of bliss he can easily give. ]

[cointosser]

I'm a wonder at paying attention.

[There's also a bit of teasing sarcasm himself. However, he does like a man with a mercurial sort of danger to him; as long as he is still interested, so is Jaskier. He has lived his life quite well following his lovers' whims -- that, to him, is the most fun part.]

Plenty, I suspect, even for you. [He gives him a equally unsubtle wink. Willow Memorial Park stretches out from them, beginning with simple fields of grass (a wonder in a desert, if he need remind anyone), with the park's namesake willows dotting here and there, one particularly large, blossoming one leaning over a water feature, a small pond that leads to a fountain farther out. In the dead center of the park is a large memorial stone, similar to a monolith, made of many different bits of art -- tiles, and bricks, and painted stones -- that shift together magically, forming a long list of names of those lost in the attack on Libertas.

Jaskier leads him to a nice thicket between several willows, littered with pale pink petals, and as he turns back to pull him in, a thin wall of bushes and wind-swept willow branches forms a polite screen around them. Somehow, the plants form perfectly to leave sunlight shining down upon them.

The bard takes him by the shirt, leaning down a hint.] Here we are. Right in the heart of the park. [He gives half-lidded eyes, with a little flutter to the lashes.] May I kiss you first?

[He's had lovers who prefer to not. Or to pretend they're not leaving their husbands or wives cucked -- which definitely speaks to Jaskier's earlier days as a rake, not as much now. His lovers understand he is not a one-body sort of man.

And -- all right. Perhaps he wants to test those fangs.]

[ancunin]

[ Astarion touches his chest in a pearl-clutching manner while his practiced grin contradicts it entirely. He won't argue, even if he doesn't believe that Jaskier is capable of showing him anything he hasn't already experienced in two centuries at this.

Except for the light. Maybe, maybe that might make it a little different this time.

(maybe it would make him forget for a moment the cold hands waiting to shackle him by the throat and remind him what he is, and what he always will be - the chance of freedom that's slipped through his own fingers)

It's pretty for a graveyard, he thinks. Of course it was in the name all along, but he realizes this when he sees the list of names. This doesn't kill the mood for him, in any case. It's funny, even, though he keeps that to himself. Inside thoughts, darling. The cover of the trees is a nice touch. He would've been disappointed after all that Jaskier led him to some dark corner. As it is, he lifts his chin for a second and closes his eyes, letting the dappling of sunlight play across his face before he meets Jaskier's gaze. ]

You hardly have to ask, my dear. [ Where his tone had reach higher in the more manic parts of conversation earlier, his register deepens a bit now, his speech slightly slower with it as he teases over the words. He takes a half step forward with hands settling at his waist, canting his head just so - inviting Jaskier to meet him in the middle.

His focus is on those points of warmth dancing against his skin from between the boughs. His body knows all the steps. ]

[cointosser]

[As Jaskier carefully watches him, he can guess that such an expression is not for the garden itself. As proud as he is of it -- and will always be of it -- he understands there are few and far between who would truly appreciate the depths of magic and planning and artistic merit such a park required. How it requires magic to run even now... though it is mostly self-efficient.

Astarion did mention the light. Perhaps he has a particular fondness for it. Jaskier understands: the dappled sunlight through treetops rises particular feelings in him. It is not accidental that he has come here many times to write his songs, laid out under a blanket as the willow whispers above him.

He did not, unfortunately, bring a blanket. But he can do with a bit of an itchy ass from grass if need be.

He smiles.] It's only polite.

[And perhaps to make sure he's not accidentally eaten. To be fair, his experiences with vampires are limited: Alucard is a vertiable freak from what Jaskier is used to, and the ones on the Continent were mainly trying to kill and maim people, Geralt especially. Though there was that one, once, that he heard stories of among his travels... in bits and pieces, over a year. He's not sure if he believes the tale of a vampire in love with a monster.

But if a man can love monsters, then why not a monster as well?

Jaskier takes the invitation eagerly, meeting Astarion's pretty lips. He is all equal invitations himself: loosened buttons and his questioning fingers, exploring what he's allowed once it's offered. It's not for Astarion's sake he's careful; his first dalliance with his lovers is one where he learns the most. What they like, what they do not. Where to touch, and where not to. It's not once or twicce he's had to stop half-cocked, so to speak, for an interruption, or an unwanted word, or a sudden realization that perhaps fucking around one's marriage is a sin, or something.

The only thing that may give him any sort of pause is the touch of scars underneath his fingers -- but truthfully, after years of knowing Geralt's body, such a thing is hardly new to him. And after Nadine, he knows well to not ask, for such things can be even more personal than one can imagine.]

getting into nsfw territory

[ancunin]

[ Astarion only 'eats' those who are already slated to die anyway, and only bites a friendly neck or wrist when explicitly offered. He's only ever asked the one time, the first time he fed from a thinking creature, just to test if he could. Pride kept him from asking a second time, and continues to keep him from asking even Haelva.

He's more than ready to be done with talking by the time their lips meet. Always he takes a moment to adjust to his partner's wants and needs. By now he'll have already discerned his target's experience level and skill (depressingly, these two do no always go hand in hand), along with deeming them safe in the sense that they aren't likely to turn to unpredictable violence unless something goes completely sideways.

He's not shocked so much as quietly amused by the care Jaskier takes at first. Astarion answers every one of these entreaties, lips parting to welcome his partner's curiosity the next they kiss: his teeth are indeed sharp, the cuspids on both rows are what most expect when one thinks fangs. As shirts come undone he invites him lower still to tease at the waist of his trousers. There's time to press his lips down his neck, along the ridge of his collarbone and the curve of his beautifully sculpted chest (he's far broader than he would've expected beneath all those lovely, lovely clothes). He tastes the slight tang of sweat on his skin from the heat of the day, just above the steady thrum of his pulse that calls to his hunger like an itch in the back of his throat.

Jaskier... he whispers his name against his skin.

There's no acknowledgement of his scars when fingertips bump against them, only that a moment later he pulls back, his appreciative gaze like a caress as it tracks up toward Jaskier's face.

He focuses on the warmth of his partner's hands, the strips of sunlight that caress him whenever the wind shifts the willow leaves. They sound like the ocean above him, like waves that could carry him away. ]

Show me how you want me. [ Lips brush against Jaskier's ear.

(Optional Perception Check, DC 18. Succeed: You think your partner is enjoying himself, enjoying you, but you catch something in his gaze, the edges of his mask and a hollowness that wasn't there before. )]

[cointosser]

[It's truly a shame Alucard's never taken him up on his offerings, because it would have given him a little experience on how one works around fangs (and been very lovely even despite his inexperience, to boot.) Alas, he is not the one Alucard has his eyes on -- and granted, Jaskier is hardly thinking of much else when he has such lovely company as he does.

Oooh. He shivers. Gooseflesh appears where those lips trails across Jaskier's skin. Astarion truly has the voice for low, sensual whispers. Perhaps not the name for it in turn -- too many syllables to draw them out. Hardly a point against him, though. It's unique, to be sure.

The scars, he finds as he explores, are much more expansive than he'd first thought. Perhaps, in time, there shall be a story to them. But there is a care to him now that hadn't been there before, when he brazenly asked Geralt for the story of his... and crafted one himself if he wasn't satisfied.]

Haven't I already? [His want is universal: in the movement of his hands, lips on lips, or an exploratory tongue. Still, never shall he reject the invitation to be bolder. So he draws himself down and pulls Astarion with him, kicking boots off between his legs to tumble across the grass. He takes hold of Astarion's hands, drawing them to his waist -- then lower. But he does pause, lifting one hand back to trace a knuckle over his pale chin.] There's hardly need to think so hard about it.

[It's all fun to him.]

[ancunin]

[ There's hardly need to think so hard about it. He almost laughs then and there. Instead, cants his head with the hand that tracing over his chin, with the sharp smile of someone given a challenge (the same smile he's done a thousand times before). Hands expertly slip beneath untied laces and cloth.

Sometimes, depending on the mark, he holds back. With Jaskier, he gives the full performance, expertly improvised - though perhaps slightly quieter than if they were indoors with the privacy of walls. No need to draw too much attention. He works with both his hands and then mouth in no particular hurry, the bard's body might as well become the instrument. He lavishes and teases him to the edge over and over before giving him his release, and then finding his own brief moment of oblivion in a tangle of limbs and buried deep as he cries out.

This one brief moment, at least, isn't an act.

When they're both spent he's quick to roll on his side on the grass, putting a few inches of space between them. The hunger, the ever constant pain in his middle, surges back in like the tide, killing whatever afterglow he might've enjoyed if he wasn't... this. He's abruptly too aware of the sheen of sweat on his skin in an unpleasant way. He says nothing for a long moment, only listening to his partner's breaths and reaching a hand up toward the light between the branches. His fingers spread wide, and he fixes on the connective skin between the base of his middle and forefinger, the way the light turns it translucent. ]