Jaskier "old-timey fuckboy" Alfred Pankratz (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2023-10-08 01:26 am
cointosser) wrote in abraxaslogs2023-10-08 01:26 am
you've never danced like this before [open]
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!
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.
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.
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.
no subject
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?
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[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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
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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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
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[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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
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. )]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Because Astarion does not reach for him after, Jaskier does not bridge the gap. He is thoroughly satisfied in enjoying the silence after, broken only by his very human breaths, the stuttering of his heart as it calms itself again.
But something still picks at him. Perhaps it is recognizing someone who has pieces of himself -- too suddenly propped up, as if he's stepped in front of a mirror.
Jaskier sits up and hardly worries much about it. It was only, for a moment... and moments happen in sex, ones that indicate much deeper things.
Things that can be settled on later, or never. For now, he does something much more important: pulling on his magic to make a basket appear at his feet. A basket filled with a bottle of wine, and glasses, a small cloth filled with steaming pierogi, and a pile of berries and apples. Oh! Even a couple of cinnamon rolls, still warm to the touch, and plum tarts. (Ooh, that part's new. Dessert. Is he getting better at this?) He pours a glass of wine and sets it next to his partner's head, quietly taking in the scars that stretch across his back. They're too rounded, too deliberate. When he stares too long, some parts of them look almost like runes. Some sort of scarification? The markings of cult ritual? Not that Astarion seems like a cultist; Jaskier's met plenty, and he's far too personable.
It's only... strange. When he met him the first time, he was almost like a startled rabbit. Now he is all long, sinewy, predatory. A man who knows how to partake. (He should know.)
He sips his own wine, and muses to himself. He's doing that thing again. That thing he did with Kylo Ren, seeing all these little interesting thing he wants to blow up... because it makes such juicy writing for a song. The Pale Elf is too literal. Blood and Sex sounds too much like a raunchy novel.
Hmm. He watches the sun on the elf's pale skin. A Taste of Sunlight. That! That's it. He digs about in his coat, long dropped to the side, for a small notebook, scratching that out with a quill. A good start.] There's wine by you if you feel like a sip.
[He's starting to think the elf may have come from some place like Nocwich. Perhaps sunlight is a rarity. Something to be savored.
Ooh, that's good. That's a good line, too.]
no subject
Soon enough he becomes curious, lifting himself into a sitting position - carefully, so not to disturb the wine, apparently - and then the small bounty of food that's appeared out of nowhere. Astarion raises an eyebrow. This man is full of surprises. His easy kindness toward Astarion is like sandpaper across his skin. Makes him feel more rotten sitting next to him.
(makes him remember all the other soft and kind ones he led to their doom)
The food he ignores, the wine he can tolerate to a degree. He studies it in the glass for a moment before taking a small sip, trying not to wrinkle his nose - and then downs the glass entirely. People might tolerate vampires, but he imagines asking outright for a few drops of blood to be donated straight into his cup might be a bit much to ask. ]
I fear this lovely spread is wasted on the likes of me. [ There's a strangely concerted effort toward gentleness in his voice. With his other hand he plucks a single red berry from the pile, pinching it between two fingers. He smiles ruefully at Jaskier. ] Your friend Alucard might be able to indulge because he is special.
[ And maybe it is the same with the Ikorr vampires. He hasn't bothered to investigate. He sets his empty glass down and drops the berry in it. ]
No such luck for me and my kind, I'm afraid.
no subject
He leans back on one hand, swirling his own wine, lifting a brow at special.
Sometimes he forgets, honestly. Not what Alucard is, but what he could be. To this day, he's never seen him drink blood except for the Nocwich wine infused with it. He's so used to associating him with pierogi (hedgehog-shaped) and roasted rabbits. Honeyed carrots. And that vanilla plant that made him so happy.]
Really? Nothing else but blood? Gods, that's depressing. [At least now they needn't dance around it. It hardly bothers him; Alucard is strange enough on his own.] So what do you eat? I'm not against it, you know... [He says, sitting up and swapping the glass to his right arm, as if to offer his left.] But Alucard's always made it seem rude to offer. He's never taken me up on it. A fact which I took personally, by the way.
[Jaskier can't fathom the idea he tastes anything but wonderful, considering his diet of naturally-grown foods, scorpion and hare meat, and a lot of wine.] Sometimes I think he's a bit too much of a lush, even for a dhampir.
no subject
He makes another sour face when Jaskier calls his diet depressing, suddenly prickly on the topic. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring the subject up, perhaps he was being too generous in his assessment of Jaskier.
(or he's just more sensitive than he'll ever allow himself to admit)
His eyes follow the swap, fixing on Jaskier's left wrist. When he lifts his gaze to meet his again, it's with a raised eyebrow and slightly narrowed eyes. ]
I can hardly speak for him, but - there's an intimacy to the act that can't entirely be ignored or denied. We are made to be beautiful, alluring. [ He leans towards Jaskier. ] Objects of desire. To some our curse, our hunger is all part of the fantasy. Maybe your friend finds it all too demeaning. Maybe he doesn't want to imagine his companions seeing him that way.
[ There's a hollow contempt to his voice, not at all directed at Alucard this time. He leans back again, lowering his chin and switching back to that mode of alluring and desirable while watching him through half-lidded eyes. ]
I wouldn't turn down the offer, of course.
[ He only has so many options here, unlike the dhampir. ]
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He places his wine down in the grass, carefully.] I would think the intimacy is the point of it.
[Though who is to say what the point of such a diet is? Vampires, to him, are simply another creature on the Continent. The same as werewolves. Or... no, it would be demeaning to call them creatures. They are not the same as hirikka, or kikimore, or even leshy. They are humans, touched by monstrosities from across the spheres.
Alucard is simpler, he thinks. Afraid of intimacy because of his past. And he has a choice. That's what really matters, in the end. If he didn't have a choice...]
Luckily, [He moves closer, and this time the offering of his wrist is obvious: he holds it to Astarion's lap, the long, ragged scar that marks his left arm turned away. Years ago he would've offered his throat, but he made a promise to Geralt. No stupid risks. Yet.] Vampires hardly have a monopoly on being alluring, nor beautiful.
[Not that he denies Astarion is either, obviously. But there's more to him, he should think -- otherwise he would be far too boring. It was that hint of hesitance from many days before. The sharp moments where his mask drops. He sees bits of Radovid in that... though Radovid was far worse at holding his mask.] I'd rather not have my friends starve.
[It's really that simple.]
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And this was part of why he'd been hesitant to accept Haelva's offer to let him feed on her. He couldn't promise that he wouldn't get carried away after the way he's been allowed to indulge himself. And, surprisingly - he actually cared if he accidentally killed her, so...
The arm is held to his lap with some surprise, as though they hadn't just been far more intimate. ]
Friends. [ He repeats the word, as if it's a curious taste on his tongue. With this offer, though - Jaskier is much larger than Haelva. And he's offering a wrist, not the strange sight of a neck already impossibly marked with his own fangs. He scoffs, pretending to look annoyed when he's told he doesn't have a monopoly of beauty - outwardly he has all the confidence in the world that he's almost always the most striking figure in any room, for better or worse. It doesn't naturally occur to him that another person might see the hint of something more to him, beyond the part he plays for them. There's only been Tav. ]
I can be gentle - [ he starts thoughtfully after a long moment, his cold hands reaching to lift Jaskier's arm by the wrist and upper forearm. His thumb traces along the delicate blue veins. Then, a sly look: ] - but I can't promise it will be painless.
[ Maybe that's what he wants, though.
If Jaskier means to have second thoughts, now is the time. If not, Astarion will lift his wrist to his mouth, fangs piercing skin like two shards of ice. ]
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[He can't help but wonder. Alucard was the same. Gods, the man's had, like, three. Altogether. His whole life. Perhaps all the blood-inclined are simply unsocialized. Or there's something very socially wrong with vampires, which is definitely the sense he's gotten after hearing about them for, oh, anywhere longer than five minutes. Seeing Hector, in particular -- knowing him -- oh yes, he understands it.]
The world is hardly gentle, and even more rarely painless.
[Oh, nice, that's a good line. He'll add it to the song. It's still a mass; a formless thing in his head, beginning to give itself limbs and digits. Figuring out its own birth. Does he want tragedy and blood? Or something more sincere?
Besides, he's had worse. He's been tortured. Exploded by Chaos. Almost assassinated. So when he raises his brows in invitation, arm still firmly held by the vampire, there is no wavering in his decision. And once he bites -- it's a sharp pain, his skin heating around it, the prick as sharp as daggers -- his fingers curl into his palm, his gasp fluttering, not quite weighted with only pain.
It is not entirely unlike being bitten by Geralt, though there is a precision to Astarion that Geralt certainly lacked. Experience, perhaps. Or something more, because Geralt was doing it for Jaskier's sake, not to taste his blood. He watches, for a moment, until blood burbles around Astarion's lips and he needs to look away... but he collects himself and looks back, feeling his whole body waver as it loses blood.
Jaskier knows himself well enough to feel when light-headedness swirls around him. He jerks, breaths weighted.] I think that's about all I can volunteer, my friend.
[And he is not too worried about pulling sharply away, if he must.]
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Like the first time, he does not want to stop. Holding the wrist up to his mouth his grip is solid. He's acutely aware of Jaskier's body, it's responses, even moreso than when they were tangled up in each other before. He feels the life slowly draining from him, the slight weakening of his pulse. He feels Jaskier's body jerk, threatening to pull away and there's a moment of hesitation, a brief second where it seems he might not have heard the request to stop.
Or perhaps he might ignore it.
But he does. He pulls his mouth away and gasps like someone who's been held underwater taking their first breath in ages, only he's smiling with a trickle of blood running down one side of his lips. There's nothing performative about this reaction, the way he seems like the lightheaded one for a moment. ]
Gods - [ he sighs, like a relief, like a weight lifted off of him and like a satisfied cat all at once ] - you're delicious.
[ And it wasn't nearly enough. ]
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His head swims, but he holds very firmly onto his consciousness. How embarrassing it would be to pass out after all that. He hasn't even dressed yet.
Jaskier holds a hand over the wound. It takes him longer than it should, than it has in the past, but his Chaos comes to him; as he holds it, sparks of blue flying from underneath his palm, the wound heals itself, with only a stain of smeared blood left behind.
Of course, that doesn't cure the lightheadedness, but that's what his meal will be doing, thank you. He doesn't summon magic food for nothing. He pops a pierogi into his mouth (still as hot as when it was made), swallowing barely without chewing.
As soon as that magic settles, he'll be... mm. Much better. Though he feels rather excellent, if you must ask. Jaskier's smile is a bit drunk, and his laugh even more so as he lays back down.]
I always had a suspicion I would be. Lovely to have it confirmed. [He tilts his head to Astarion.] Or do you say that to everyone?
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In my two centuries of undeath, you're one of the exquisite few to have me utter such a thing.
[ Although the context might ruin it. Still, it costs him little right now to stroke the bard's ego.
With a deep breath he stretches out his arms and arches his back languidly. At the long exhale he turns to Jaskier again. ]
I suppose I should get going before I'm tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon lounging here...
[ It's automatic to give Jaskier's body one more look of longing, a sense of faint disappointment in his voice. He's not at all, truthfully. Eventually the high of drinking will fade, and the itch beneath his skin will return, of hooks and strings and the taste of rot in the back of his throat while he grins through it. He starts to stand, gathering his clothes to get dressed. His gaze lingers on the little notebook Jaskier had been writing in earlier, how easy it would be to take it without being noticed right away - but he's not sure he wants to give the man a reason to seek him out so soon again. ]
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one more for the road