Chapter Text
Astarion wasn’t sure which was worse: the boisterous tavern music, or the atrocious dancing it inspired. A snarl twisted at his mouth as he surveyed the crowd, scouting for potential victims. Too tall - too thin - too sober.
You can’t afford to be picky.
He could dismiss the voice in his head, but the gnawing ache in his gut was harder to ignore. If he didn’t bring anyone back, he didn’t eat. Hells, sometimes he didn’t eat either way, but if he procured a victim then at least there was a chance.
So. Astarion looked again.
The barkeep was an orange tiefling woman with asymmetric horns. She was a flirt, but he suspected it was an act to get tips. She would not be easily seduced and as a barkeep it was potentially more noticeable if she were to… go missing. Astarion’s skin prickled. Cazador hated when his spawn drew attention to themselves.
The bard was pretty, but he posed the same issue as the barkeep. Too notable. The victim needed to be a patron then: perhaps an inebriated dancer or a traveler passing through for a night. As he leaned casually against the bar, Astarion’s gaze wandered the room and he tried not to dwell on the consequences of failure.
Get it together.
Sunrise was still several hours away, at least, so he had time. He ran his fingers through his hair, tousling the pale curls. Should he try for someone beautiful tonight? Did he even care anymore?
A sudden movement caught Astarion’s eye. A man stood from a corner booth, shouting angrily as he slammed something down on the table. Several pieces of paper fluttered into the air. No, not paper. Cards. The man had been bested at cards. He stormed away, leaving his opponent alone in the booth.
The opponent in question was a large man with long, white hair. He watched the other card player leave with a stony expression, but then a subtle smile crossed his lips as he reached forward to collect the discarded cards. He examined them one by one and selected a few for his own deck.
Astarion didn’t recognize the man. He must not be from Baldur’s Gate, for Astarion felt certain he would have noticed him around town. He had a strong build and a rugged, handsome face. His sense of fashion was lacking, but he seemed the adventurer type who cared more about function than style. That black leather did accentuate his hair.
Twirling a curl lazily around his finger, Astarion turned to the tiefling barkeep.
“The house red, darling, and your strongest beer.”
He tipped her graciously with money he’d pickpocketed from a drunk gnome on his way here, and took the drinks. He made his way across the crowded tavern, slipping catlike between patrons in various states of inebriation, until he approached the white-haired man. As he’d hoped, no one else had joined him at the card table.
Astarion set the drinks down with a smile.
“Don’t suppose you could teach me a card trick? I’ve always wanted to learn.” He sat, sliding the beer across the table towards the man. “I’m Astarion.”
“Hm,” the man said gruffly. He eyed Astarion with furrowed brows, but took the drink. “Geralt.”
His voice was rough and low, like he was ill-accustomed to using it. He clearly wasn’t much of a conversationalist either.
“Or you could go another round… with me. I promise I won’t throw the cards at you. What is your game of choice?” Astarion pressed on.
Stern, silent, broody - it didn’t phase him, no more than if Geralt had been flirty or jovial from the start. Astarion adapted. He’d bedded hundreds, perhaps thousands by now. Everyone had their weak spots.
Geralt took a long swig of the beer before answering. His eyes met Astarion’s above the rim of the tankard; they were strikingly yellow. “Gwent.”
Ah, gods. Some foreign strategy game that Astarion knew only by name. It didn’t even use a standard deck of cards, but a specialized set.
“A man of strategy,” Astarion said smoothly. “I’m surprised you found someone in Baldur’s Gate who knew how to play.” He laughed lightly. “Where are you from?”
Geralt put his tankard down with an inelegant thunk. His posture relaxed somewhat, though he still looked as though he would run off to battle at any moment. “Been on the road for years now,” he said. “Not really from one particular place anymore.”
So he was an adventurer for certain, and avoiding the question. Perhaps he was ashamed of his homeland, or banished. Astarion got the sense he would not learn more right now even if he pressed, so he moved on.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter darling,” he said. “All that matters is here and now. You’re in Baldur’s Gate and the night is criminally young.” Astarion drummed his fingers softly against the table. “Are you going to teach me this game, this Gwent, or should I go find another stoic, hulking man to entertain myself with tonight?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, which was the strongest reaction he’d shown since Astarion sat down.
“I’ll teach you,” he said after a moment. For a fleeting second Astarion felt exposed under the man’s bright, yellow eyes, but then the sensation vanished. Perhaps it was lust in Geralt’s gaze - the same lust that most everyone felt when they looked at Astarion. This foreign adventurer just didn’t express his emotions in the same was as most Baldurians.
Astarion smiled his most charming smile, and extended a hand, palm up, to Geralt. “Deal me in?”
“Hmph,” Geralt grunted. “Not quite like that. You need your own deck. Most players accumulate and personalize it over time, but I have a starter deck you can use. You’ll represent a faction, and your leader has a unique ability.”
Geralt explained the basics of the game to Astarion, who nodded along and feigned rapt attention. He lost the first round handily, with Geralt’s point score more than double his. He fared better on the second, bringing the margin down to only twelve points. But then the third he lost spectacularly again.
Astarion waved the barkeep down to bring them more drinks. As she obliged, he turned back to face Geralt.
“I need a better deck,” he demanded.
Geralt leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. “Northern Realms is a solid choice for beginners,” he said.
“Well, it’s falling short,” Astarion said with a pout. “Come now, give me a sporting chance.”
An amused look twinkled across Geralt’s face. Three rounds of cards and a strong drink had really done wonders for the brick wall of a man he’d been earlier. Astarion almost enjoyed playing cards with him.
“Very well,” Geralt chuckled. “I have another deck you could use.” He rifled through his belongings and slid new cards across the table.
Astarion took them in hand. They were all red. He flipped through - yes, these were more powerful, though volatile. He preferred this. A grin spread across his face, though it fell briefly when he saw the last card in the deck: the vampire lord.
“It’s called the monster deck,” Geralt said. He was already halfway through the next beer. “Seem more to your liking?”
Astarion regained his composure in a split second, and began to shuffle the cards.
“Oh yes,” he drawled. “I can work with this.”
This time he managed to trigger a chain reaction of creature cards, overwhelming Geralt with sheer numbers.
“Hm,” Geralt said.
“I’ll take that as ‘well played and good game,’” Astarion said. He stacked his cards and shuffled them with a flourish. “Well, best to quit while I’m ahead, wouldn’t you say? Or perhaps I could offer you another round somewhere a little more private.”
“Mm.” Geralt examined his now-empty tankard. Astarion wasn’t quite sure he’d understood the implications of the offer.
Astarion placed his hand gently on Geralt’s. His skin was tough, the fingers scarred in several places. He probably wasn’t a gentle lover, but his physique… Astarion couldn’t deny he wanted to pry the man free from his leather armor. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pretend too much, this time.
Geralt eyed him curiously.
“A round of cards?”
Gods, was he dense? These warrior types often were.
“Of whatever you want,” Astarion purred. He leaned forward so the loose fabric of his shirt dipped low. “Most people don’t choose cards.”
“Most people don’t… oh.” Geralt’s eyebrows raised. He looked at Astarion with an indecipherable expression.
“Do you want to get a room?” Astarion pressed on, more obvious.
Maybe the man was solely into women, or maybe he was moving too damn slow from the alcohol. It really hadn’t been that much, had it? He thought the large man would have a better tolerance. Astarion glanced around the room with half a mind to call this a loss, find some other target, when Geralt gathered his own cards into a neat stack.
“I’ll take you to mine,” he said.
Geralt bought them more drinks on the way upstairs, though when they reached his room, Astarion wondered why. The man had an apothecary’s worth of potions spread across the bedside table. Twin swords leaned against the wall, but the room was otherwise uninteresting: a rickety bed, an armchair with faded cushions, and a small wardrobe.
“Anything in there you want to try tonight?” Astarion said, his voice light. In truth, he hated being drugged. Half the time it ended with him unconscious in an alley. That led to a pathetic journey home - usually via the sewers - and a vicious beating for returning empty handed. No, best to keep the victim drunk, and to show enough doting interest that they wouldn’t think to drug him at all.
To his surprise, Geralt laughed. “Not unless you want to fight a griffin.”
He pulled off his leather armor, revealing a black v-neck shirt. Further down his chest rested a wolf pendant on a silver chain.
“Ah, you could use the stamina for other endeavors,” Astarion teased. “But a griffin, hells, that sounds like a heroic feat. Tell me, have you fought many ferocious beasts?”
Geralt collapsed heavy into the chair, his beer tankard loose in one hand. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the edge as he gestured to his swords. “Yes. Monsters beyond what you can imagine.”
“Impressive.” Astarion moved to stand near Geralt, taking a slow sip of his wine. “Although you’d be surprised. I can imagine quite a lot.” He placed his hand on the armrest, then onto Geralt’s forearm. When Geralt didn’t protest, Astarion slid himself onto his lap, so smoothly that neither of their drinks even rippled. He straddled the man’s lap so they sat chest to chest. Geralt smelled of pine straw and smoke.
“Hm.” Geralt’s yellow eyes, hazed over with a pleasant drunkenness, looked up into Astarion’s.
“Tell me about the griffin,” Astarion whispered. “Your hunt.”
“Griffin’s dead.”
“Oh, so you’re hunting new prey? Or are you taking a well-earned break?” Astarion finished his wine and placed the empty glass on the table with all the potions. He touched Geralt’s shoulders with both hands, working his way down the arms in a slow massage. The muscles beneath were solid as rock.
Geralt grunted, pleased. His eyes drifted half-closed. “I’m always hunting.”
“I bet you are.” Astarion shifted down onto Geralt’s lap until their hips were flush. He rocked gently forward, testing. A small smile teased the corner of Geralt’s lips. Good. “What are you hunting now?” He breathed.
Geralt didn’t respond for a moment. He looked nearly close to falling asleep, but then murmured, “Plenty of monsters in the city. They’re not all hidden in caves or terrorizing country villages.”
“Ha!” Astarion fussed with Geralt’s pale white hair, tucking a loose strand back behind his ear. His own hair was that pale, people said. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Geralt chuckled softly. “Have you lived in Baldur’s Gate long, Astarion?”
“Quite.” Astarion was pleasantly surprised that Geralt still remembered his name. Most tended to forget it.
“Whereabouts?”
Ah, perfect.
“Not far from here. Still in the lower city, a few streets away. You know…” Astarion trailed a finger down the silver chain around Geralt’s neck. “The furnishings there are nicer, the bed much softer. I live with a wealthy patron, in that audacious mansion north of Bloomridge Park.” Sometimes he portrayed Cazador as his patron or wealthy relative; sometimes he pretended he owned the Szarr palace.
“Is that so?” Geralt said lazily. He put his tankard down.
“We could steal away,” Astarion said. “Be back here by morning, of course. You have monsters need hunting.” He leaned in close to kiss the other man’s neck, but Geralt threaded his hand through Astarion’s hair and gently pulled him back.
He chuckled. “I do.”
Geralt’s other arm circled around Astarion’s flank. He sat forward in the chair, which brought their bodies even closer together, but tilted Astarion back so that he felt off balance and had to grip the larger man’s arms for support. A sudden clarity gleamed in Geralt’s eyes.
“Does this usually work?”
Though he didn’t need to breathe, Astarion’s breath caught. He swallowed his developing unease.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, recovering smoothly. “You act shy and ignorant of sex, lead me to your room, now you act affronted by my advances?” He laughed, sultry and indignant. “Darling, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Let yourself enjoy the night. I do think we’d have more… fun in the palace, but of course I defer to you.”
“Hm.” Geralt’s grip on his hair and waist held firm. “Interesting.”
“What’s got your interest, darling? I promise, I can give it to you. All night - anything you want.” He couldn’t lean forward to try and kiss Geralt again, but Astarion could intertwine his own hand over the one in his hair. He turned his head to the side and kissed Geralt’s arm, lingering and slow, while he ground his hips deeper into the man’s lap, moaning softly.
Emotionless, Geralt stared at him. When he spoke, his voice came out in a half-growl. “I’ve just never had a vampire proposition me so aggressively for sex.”
Shit.
Shit shit shit-
Astarion’s vague sense of unease blossomed into terror. He scrambled, tried to push himself away from the monster hunter, tried to flee, but Geralt’s grip was iron. He didn’t appear to exert any effort at all holding Astarion in place, even as the vampire’s struggles grew more and more frantic.
“Whenever you’ve exhausted yourself,” Geralt said mildly. “Perhaps we can talk more.”
Years of surviving seedy bars, dark alleys, and dangerous men hadn’t taught Astarion to give up so quickly. Though physically outmatched, he had dexterity and theatrics on his side. He collapsed into Geralt’s arms with a pitiful sob, sagging into the man’s grip and trembling. When he felt the hold around him loosening, Astarion twisted suddenly and leapt from the chair, shoving his knee into Geralt’s groin as he stood. He’d used enough force to make most men scream, but Geralt barely winced. Damn freak - Astarion cursed, but he didn’t need that distraction to run, he was quick, this lumbering hunk of a man wouldn’t catch him if he disengaged now -
“Yrden!” Geralt spoke with the inflection and superiority of a spellcaster, though Astarion didn’t recognize the language or the spell.
What he recognized was the horrid, sickening feeling of being trapped, as a glyph appeared in the air before him and purple flames roared to life in a circle around his feet. Astarion staggered to a halt as the magic took hold, thickening the air and sinking into his skin like oil. He could move, if you could call it that, at such a crawling, slow speed it was basically nothing. It would be dawn before he reached the door.
In his periphery he could see Geralt rummaging through his supplies, near the table with all the potions, and he choked out a pained, wordless cry.
He can’t do worse to you than what Cazador’s already done.
The voice in his head could be such a bitch sometimes. And that wasn’t true - he could die. Probably would. This monster hunter had found his prey, and Astarion got the sense he didn’t leave prey alive for long.
Perhaps death is better than this miserable life anyway.
Astarion shivered, though in the time-slowed state it was more like the faintest whisper on his skin.
“You’re nimble,” Geralt said. His gruff voice was laced with something resembling approval.
When the magic field disappeared, Geralt was there to collect. He had Astarion on his knees, hands bound, with no more effort than it took to handle a newborn kitten. The man was damned strong.
“Axii.” Geralt made a gesture at Astarion with a crooked finger. He sat himself back in the armchair and observed. “What can I expect in your nest of vampires? How many are there?” He spoke calmly and slowly.
For several seconds, Astarion saw a green haze and felt relaxed, but then heat began to rise in his cheeks. Pressure built in his skull, behind his eyes - like he was trying to hold back tears, but ten times more intense. He squinted his eyes shut and groaned, doubling over.
“Fuck,” he gasped.
“Axii.”
Gods, he was trying again.
“How many vampires are in your coven?” He spoke even slower, like he was talking to a stubborn child.
Astarion saw red and knew his eyes would be glowing with Cazador’s compulsion; he recognized the sickening twist in his guts as it took hold. He retched.
Oddly, it seemed to negate whatever spell Geralt had cast on him. Astarion felt no desire to answer the question, but there was no counter from his master, either. Cazador wasn’t actively compelling him. However the vampire magic worked, it was clear that Cazador preferred be the only commanding voice in Astarion’s head.
“Hm.” No more questions came, and the pain withdrew.
From his pathetic spot on the floor, Astarion began to laugh bitterly. He looked up at Geralt, who leaned forward in his chair, frowning.
“Does this usually work?” Astarion asked.
“You’re immune.”
“Astutely observed, my pale, mysterious friend.”
Astarion leaned back, using the movements to hide his fiddling with the rope at his wrists. It would help if he could see the damn knots, but he’d have to make do. He forced his panic down repeatedly, until it was only a faint buzz in his chest.
“Few can resist the witcher signs.” Geralt mused. He sounded almost impressed again. “Yet you fell quite easily to Yrden, so perhaps not all of them.”
Astarion glared daggers at the man, this witcher; he had some vague recollection of an order of powerful monster hunters by that name. “These are excellent questions for someone other than me. Perhaps my dear master does not wish to share control. In fact, I would gamble my right arm that this is the case.”
Geralt leaned back in the armchair and stared at Astarion curiously.
When he stayed silent, Astarion pressed on, feigning nonchalance. “Well, darling, this evening has taken a fascinating turn, but it can’t last forever, can it? I don’t suppose I could bribe you to let me free? The aforementioned mansion contains treasures abundant.” He twisted his wrists against the bonds, straining. No use - he returned to picking at them with his fingers. “Of course, sex is still on the table. You could’ve just asked to tie me up.”
Astarion peered up at Geralt through his eyelashes. A bead of sweat slid from his hairline and dripped slowly down his temple. It itched, but he couldn’t wipe it away.
Gods damn it. The witcher’s silence was driving him mad. He stared quietly with those unnerving yellow eyes, as if he could see into Astarion’s heart itself.
“What do you want with me?” Astarion finally bit out. “If you’re going to kill me, then fucking do it. Ha! I welcome it.” He shuffled forward until he reached Geralt’s knees. He leaned in close and bared his neck. “You discovered my secret - the obvious fact that nearly everyone else in this damned city misses. Well done.”
Geralt leaned forward to touch the twin scars on Astarion’s neck. He was surprisingly gentle. As he moved, the wolf pendant hung forward from his neck, and Astarion stared into its silver eyes. He prepared his mind to float off into the void. Whatever Geralt may do - however he may hurt him before he killed him - he prepared.
“Get up.”
Astarion flinched before he could help it, but obeyed the command. For a moment he looked down at Geralt, still sprawled in the armchair, before the witcher stood too. He pushed past Astarion as if the vampire spawn wasn’t even there. Then he began drinking potions as if his life depended on it.
Astarion watched, perplexed, as bottles were uncorked, potions swigged down, and empty vials discarded in a quickly growing pile on the bed. Shadows darkened around Geralt’s eyes and purple-red, webbed lines spread across the pale skin of his face like a disease. Every so often, Geralt grunted, occasionally pained. Astarion maybe imagined it, but he thought the witcher looked… stronger. Certainly more intimidating.
When Geralt turned towards him again, Astarion took an involuntary step backwards.
“Easy,” he said.
“I’m not a fucking horse,” Astarion spat, which provoked a quick smile and a ‘Hm’ from the witcher.
Geralt closed the distance between them and took Astarion by the shoulders. “I suppose I can’t trust you to stay put. And even if I do believe you will, the compulsions of your master will win out. So, I’m sorry for this, Astarion.”
He forced Astarion back onto his knees, firmly but not unkindly, and checked the tightness of the knots. Then he began to gesture with his hands and the air crackled with energy.
“Wait-”
“Yrden.”
Astarion froze, frustrated and helpless, as purple flames sprung back around him. His skin crawled and his mind flew fully back into panic.
When his body was moving, even to seduce and fuck those he did not want to, his mind could still cut loose and drift. But when his body was trapped, locked into place like this, for some reason his mind could not escape it. He could not speak, but his despair came through in the stinging of his eyes, the vice-like tightness around his chest.
A flash of - was that sadness? - flashed across Geralt’s face, replaced by a seething determination. Gods, he looked terrifying: a god of death, incarnate. Astarion felt a burning sensation in his lower gut, like a smoldering fire.
“I’ll return,” the witcher said in a gruff voice.
Then he gathered his weapons, his potions, donned his armor, and left Astarion alone in the room.
When the witcher killed Cazador, Astarion knew instantly.
White heat engulfed his whole body, burning hottest on his neck where the bastard had first bit him all those years ago. Astarion felt like a demon was being exorcised from him - and perhaps that was the most apt description. Sweat gathered on his skin and he knew he would be trembling wickedly if Geralt’s spell did not still hold him in place.
He heard the footsteps outside the door moments before the magic dissipated. The witcher swung open the door just as Astarion collapsed onto the wood floor.
“Whoa there,” Geralt grunted.
His arms were dirty and bloodstained, his body wounded in several places, but Astarion had never been so pleased to see such a gory mess. Geralt helped him upright, then cut the bonds from his shaking hands.
“Is he really - gone?” Astarion said. “How - why?” His voice was strained, as if he’d been screaming the entire time Geralt was gone. Perhaps, in some time-slowed way, he had. His limbs shook and he sat himself on the edge of the bed to avoid falling. Tears stung his cheeks unbidden, and then a ferocious hatred filled his chest, released in a fierce exhale: “I wish I’d been there to drive the stake in his heart myself.”
Astarion dissolved into laughter and sobs. He buried his face in his hands and remained like that for an indeterminate period of time. Perhaps a minute - perhaps a year.
When he emerged, Geralt sat across from him in the armchair, cleaning one of his swords. The witcher’s wounds were nearly healed; only rips in his clothing and dried blood on his skin remained as evidence of the battle.
“I saw the truth of that place,” Geralt said eventually. “And of you and your kin. The other spawn are free to go, on the condition they do not prey on innocents. If they do, we will meet again on less pleasant terms.”
Astarion eyed him warily. “And me?”
Geralt looked up, surprised. “The same terms, of course.”
It was as if Astarion had been dropped from a cliff. His breath caught and his insides felt unnaturally light.
“I’m free… to go,” Astarion said numbly.
“Was I not clear?” Geralt spoke in a low rumble, almost to himself. He frowned at a particularly stubborn stain on his silver sword.
“Yes - yes of course,” Astarion said.
He stood from the bed and walked, half a stumble, half a sway, towards the door. His mind was awash in thrill and disbelief. What did he say - how did he act around this man who had killed his tormentor, released him from decades of enslavement, and now allowed him to walk free? Even knowing he was still a vampire. There were no words worthy. But as Astarion stood in the doorway, nearly gone, he turned back. He felt the pull of the witcher like a moon in orbit, a slow building tide. Geralt, in turn, stopped his efforts to look up at Astarion and hold him in that piercing yellow gaze.
Astarion swallowed. His voice felt his own again - clear and clever and free.
“If you’re looking to play another round of Gwent sometime… come find me.”
And he left the room, under no one’s control but his own.