WIP Wednesday
Thanks for the tag, @bludazey !!
This is a very rough draft for a oneshot I wrote a couple months ago. I was thinking about what Astarionâs pov mightâve looked like and this just came out of me.
(Makes a bit more sense after reading the first part, but probably not necessary.)
They all play by the campfire. Someone tells a joke and the others laugh. Some push and shove, petty fights devolving into chasing around the fire.
Astarion is no stranger to fools. Heâd spent the better part of the last two hundred years luring them. And by the gods, they all act like fools, but none of them wouldâve taken his bait.
All of them are stronger than they seem. Smarter.
And yet, they look to one before the rest. Their fearless leader.
Who is so very different from them. So different, itâs painful. How did she become leader? She pretends to be good and kind and the others eat up her whole charade. She plays as one of them, and once sheâs done enough to cement her status, she falls back.
Different from the others indeed, but so painfully familiar.
But her performance is pitiful. She blunders through half of her interactions. Even now, she sits and simply watches the fire instead of maintaining her status. How does she do it?
How can she put so little effort in and still reap the rewards?
Itâs unfair.
Itâs unfair that she is who he must target. Because she has the others wrapped around her little finger and if he could attach himself to her, the others would be forced to keep him.
Itâs unfair that his target has become his opponent. That she understands that this is a game and yet sheâs so horrendous at it. She treats him as if any of this is real. She acknowledges the game, and yet she still plays it on the same terms.
Itâs insulting. She thinks she can beat him without even trying.
Itâs infuriating that he doesnât even know what she wants from him. Why does she bother? He has nothing more to give than his daggers in battle. Heâs used to using his body as a bargaining chip, but heâd rather not go there yet. He can hardly stand speaking to her, much less sleeping with her. Theyâre both fake, but at least when he flaunts it around, itâs funny, another lure.
Sheâs given so much: her sword, her âkindâ words, her blood. All he can do now is wait for her to collect her favors and hope he can endure them. He must, after everything heâs done.
Whatâs the worst she could ask of him?
She stands now, moving and jumping and calming the wizard. Then she scurries away in Astarionâs direction.
So he fixes himself, unassuming, yet enticingly up to no good, ready for the next round of the game.
She stands before him, silent. Astarion takes the lead and throws out a witty line.
But she doesnât respond as she should. Instead, she stumbles through the dance. How can someone be so arrogant? Does she not see him as someone worthy of tricking? Why bother with him at all, if thatâs the case.
Though, itâs not exactly stumbling. She seems more like sheâs in a daze, eyes staring far beyond him.
How peculiar.
So he invites her to sit, to properly begin the game. Yet she still wonât participate, only sitting and staring. Honestly, why is she even here if she isnât going to play?
He prompts her once more, and then there she goes, acknowledging the game to his face. âIâm not in the mood for games tonight.â Itâs mockery. It canât be anything else. How can she say such things and pretend they hold no weight?
He keeps his annoyance firmly beneath his mask, and prompts more conversation. As long as sheâs talking, sheâs giving him information. If she talks long enough, maybe there will be something of use.
Finally, she gives him something to work with, saying, âBecause I need to be alone.â
But what is he supposed to do with that? Is that supposed to be some kind of poorly-formed innuendo? What does she want from him? Heâs known both wolves and sheep in his long unlife, but she doesnât fit perfectly into either category.
She is watchful, like him. She knows exactly what to say and do to keep the others content. She has the senses to sniff out other predators in her midst. Yet she acts so pathetic, brazenly displaying all her vulnerabilities to the world. Especially when there is nothing for her to gain from it. Itâs like sheâs asking to be devoured. It wouldâve been so easy to deliver her to Cazador.
But sheep donât ask to be slaughtered.
So it all must be an act.
And the act is flawless, which is what pisses him off the most. He canât get a solid grip on what exactly her true intentions may be. He senses nothing malicious, but nothing quite altruistic either. Like she has no intentions at all.
Infuriating, but he still plays his part. âAnd yet youâve come to me,â he muses, an indirect attack.
Her elaboration reveals nothing. Why is this the narrative sheâs chosen? Playing the poor, broken soul. How can she acknowledge his nature and still pretend she wants, what? His pity? Itâs a hilariously ridiculous ploy. He must not be seeing the whole picture because what could she possibly gain from his pity?
They have a quick back and forth. Presence seems to return to her as she bickers with him. Itâs an easy role for him to fall into, the sarcastic, comedic companion.
But then she says something baffling, as she always does. âI donât mind that youâre looking for weaknesses. Something to use against me, should the need arise. Itâs alright.â
On his last nerve, he decides to play her game, to dance around in the truth. âAnd isnât that fascinating?â
She has the gall to play stupid. âWhat is?â
Heâs had enough of this. He pushes in with a direct attack, answering, âThat you would put yourself at a disadvantage for seemingly no good reason.â
She shrinks away, in what he can only assume is offense. But then she speaks, insisting on her ridiculous story. âOh. It wonât matter in the end. Iâll likely give you whatever youâre angling for regardless of what cards you play. The flirting and scheming really is a waste of your time. Itâs all rather unnecessary.â
The words scream defense, like his blow landed how he intended, but all he can read is that incessant hopeless act. Heâs going to rip out his hair at this rate. How can she be like this?
âAnd youâd just give me whatever I want for nothing in return?â He practically screams.
Then she drops her face into her hands, crying. Her tears seem so eerily real⌠He can almost believe that sheâs being genuine. But who could say the things she says and not be lying? Who could reveal themselves like that so foolishly? She just goes on and on about how weak and pathetic she is. But one line settles uncomfortably in him like a putrid rat.
âPlease,â she sobs, begging, pleading, âplease use me kindly.â
She says the words like sheâs staring into the open maw of the wolf. A lamb waiting to be sacrificed on the altar. So utterly complacent in her own slaughter.
Like sheâs already dead.
The realization is like ice sliding down his back. She hasnât been playing at all. Sheâs been humoring him. Standing in the rain as the storm rolls in, ready to be swept away.
Sheâs so ready to be swallowed whole, yet now she begs the wolf for mercy, putting her fate in his jagged claws.
Itâs the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter. She said it herself, she really is the perfect target.
Heâs never had a choice before. He still doesnât, not truly. He needs this group to survive. Despite all her willingness to give up, he needs her strength and status. And why should he be kind anyway? Itâs not like he ever got a break because he asked nicely.
And to think he thought they were similar in any way. The idea gnaws at his stomach, like a beast clawing its way out of him. No. They are not the same.
He canât bear to think about it, so he acts.
He reaches for her, unsure exactly how to give her what she wants. Comfort was never something he had experience with.
She follows his hands, crawling into his lap, burying herself into him. One hand trails up to play with her hair in a way he knew most conquests enjoyed afterwards. His other hand holds her close to him.
Her tears seem to calm at the movements, so he figured he was doing something right.
This is⌠bearable. The proximity is uncomfortable, but merely holding her is far from the worst thing he could be doing. Though his muscles tense, his insides threaten to tear apart, his chest tightens.
He will use her however he needs in return for this⌠intimacy. Yes. This is something he can do.
âAlright,â he finally answers. âI accept your terms.â
The way she trembles and cries in his arms reminds him of so many memories he dare not entertain.
He will do this. He will do this because he must. Once heâs done, once heâs free, heâll leave her alone.
I might clean it up and post it. Probably wonât get around to it though đ
Tags! @jellymellydraws @riskpig @vixstarria @inkymoonbunny
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