[architaciturn]

「 architaciturn 」 ; private multi-muse roleplay blog. selective / mutuals only. triggers are not tagged. 21+ only. read rules before interacting.

Blog being archived

[bleecake1]

I’m down bad for the bad man

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hi king keep your feet warm today

takes my socks off slowly

no

[juramentum]

HOW DARE ASTARION LOOK AT HIM with such eyes? As if he had not turned him away, treated Enver as nothing more than another mere man, refusing his presence in such a way that one would think the archduke-to-be had been scorned by his lover. And yet before him, Astarion stands with pale horror in his ruby eyes, wracked by some haunting pain that Gortash cannot begin to fathom.

What could the spawn possibly be thinking? What happened? Had he miscalculated something along the way?

"I am denying it—" he hisses, grabbing Astarion's shoulders, the gold of his gauntlet gleaming beneath the moonlight, "—whatever nonsense you're accusing me of, are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

His lips part. The words are formed on his tongue. Frustration spoils the lines on his face. Before he could ask the reason why, the answer comes, as freezing and deadly as an avalanche the second Raphael's name is spoken aloud. Each and every tendon in Gortash's body tenses, jaws clenching, veins popping on his neck.

Anger ravages his expression, darkening his eyes. In a wretched, self-fulfilling prophecy, Enver is blind to all else in a matter of seconds. Reason seems to leave his body just like that as his grip on Astarion tightens near cruelly. He pushes him against the balustrade, keeps him there, bruises him with his hands.

"You consorted with a devil behind my back?" The accusation is venomous, snarled with such acidic scorn and bitterness, as if he should've known better all along than to put a single speck of hope in a vampire spawn. "And of all, you believed his words more than mine. You're still considering it, aren't you? His offer. Raphael's offer. After all, what's one betrayal in exchange for freedom for you?"

Gortash leans closer. His words are ruthless, hostile. None of the poor vampling's fears are even so much acknowledged, let alone soothed. He sneers, bares his teeth, gives Astarion yet another shove.

"I wouldn't be surprised if this is an act, too. All to get me close so you could drive a poisoned dagger into my heart, and run to that execrable cambion. Tell me, what could I possibly be lying about?"

[architaciturn]

I am denying it—

In the blink of an eye, Gortash steps forward and grabs his lithe shoulders. One hand instantly snaps to the tyrant’s forearm while the other instinctively entangles into the back of dark locks. “I am listening to what you are not saying.” Astarion spits venomously, though his eyes shine with heartache and lack any true semblance of malice. His mind races as he tries to piece together what's happening. Gortash and Raphael echo in the back of his mind.

The vampling can sense the second Gortash breaks. Wrath makes adrenaline rush through his bloodstream and the veins along his neck pulse with the spike in blood pressure. Who in the Hells was this Raphael devil? They know each other. That much the spawn is sure of.  

Gilded hands tighten and tighten and tighten. Astarion’s white brows furrow, “You’re hurting me—” he whines and tugs against the wicked hold. Gortash only grips him tighter, seeming to spiral into his fit of rage.

Why do men with an appetite for brutality flock to me?

“Ah— yes. Captive, consorting, it’s all the same. Isn’t it, my Lord?” Astarion’s head rocks back on his shoulders and he laughs bitterly in the face of Gortash’s fiery anger. His hold no longer resembling that of a lover, but that of Cazador. A cruelty Astarion’s all too familiar with. Capillaries break and bleed into watercolor bruises beneath the tyrant’s touch. A singular bloody tear slides down the assassin’s pale cheek, tainting its path off his jaw and into crevices of gold.

His fingers curl, gripping Gortash’s hair at the roots while biting into the embellishment lining his forearm. “Gods. Listen to me.” He pleads, attempting to keep his voice even in the face of Gortash’s fury.   

Perhaps there is something about me… that inspires and incites violence.

Anger bleeds into every expression, every fine line of his lover’s face. Impossibly dark eyes threaten to swallow him whole, and Enver’s grip remains punishing. Astarion no longer recognizes him. “If he is lying, why are you hurting me?” He’s pushed against the balustrade, and it digs cruelly into his back, bruising while reminding him of their precarious position on the balcony. Astarion thinks for a moment… One grab, one twist, one shove.

He could kill them both.   

“Hells, I don’t deal with devils! And you are my—”

love.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this is an act, too.

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Astarion stares as if he’s been smacked. Gaze wide, ruby eyes glassy. Blood streaks his beautiful face, highlighting every tear that’s left those wounded eyes. Gortash leans in even closer, callous, harsh, and sneers. He’s shoved again into the railing and Astarion whimpers.

His gaze now unfocused and far off, dissociating from the flash of violence and in his experience— the promise of more to come. Astarion’s tone comes flat, “Who is he to you?” He doesn’t answer Gortash, just as the tyrant doesn’t truly answer him.  

[architaciturn]

[architaciturn]

pookie? that's what we're going with? ( for fox from danaaa <3 @koseigu )

@koseigu // Memes for Fox Mulder

Undercover Residence

18:06

Las Vegas, NV

“What’s wrong with pookie?” With both hands on the kitchen island, Mulder leans back and appraises his partner with an easy smile. There’s a playful twinkle in his eye as he teases dryly. “You don’t like it? I didn’t take you for a classic baby or honey.” He pushes off the counter and idly grabs Scully’s hand and inspects the engagement and wedding ring combo adorning her fingers. “Sweetums? Sugar booger? Boobear?”

He lifts her hand and gently spins her in the kitchen, as if they’re dancing. A light twirl, in eyeshot of an open window. When she’s facing him again, he peers down at her with a bit of a curl inward, that same easygoing smile. Still holding that hand hostage. Gaze alight with amusement, “how long do you think it’ll be before my garden gnome catches us an HOA charge, pumpkin?”

[architaciturn]

Astarion x Lord Enver Gortash - @juramentum

[architaciturn]

@bonegrieve

Gilded claws rake through the grooves and ridges of Attor’s scales until they dip into the column of his back. Each touch is as calculated as the man himself. Enver traces teasingly, almost tauntingly. Knowingly. “Does your father dearest know you are here?” A perfect rub there, a quick scratch here, a longing and possessive press. Gortash already knows the answer.

[architaciturn]

Miss writing and feeling like I’ve half a braincell

im in the bad place tho so perhaps something small? like this n’ we’ll see what happens

[juramentum]

coming in pants﹕  sender  causes  receiver  to  come  in  their  clothes . (Reos/Gale @architaciturn )

IT WAS A MISTAKE BELIEVING civilisation would put a damper to Reos's handsy tendencies. The drunkards are loud—dancing to a badly strummed lute and subpar music (it's more akin to noise, at this point—though he supposes art is art, no matter how unpolished) and gambling their wealth away on the next table over. Waterdeep's taverns have always been preferable to the ones at Baldur's Gate. Gale can hardly call his opinion biased when it's simply true.

But that's not the thought which currently occupies his mind. Reos has clearly decided to take advantage of their environment—full of people that could hardly pay attention to their own shoes, and separated from their companions.

The scent of sweat and booze are only overshadowed by Reos's musk where he's sat close, drinking ale undisturbed while his hidden hand's busy working at Gale's cock through his trousers beneath the table. The wizard, hardly tipsy and not even a third into his drink, certainly looks the part with how red he's been becoming, eyes shut, biting at the inside of his cheek.

It wasn't a sudden progression. Reos knows precisely how to rile Gale's desires, stoke the flames, press his buttons—with inching fingers that began from the knee. A thick, hot hand rubbing and squeezing his thigh, massaging the dip of his hip. The heat crawled closer, teased at his half-formed bulge until Gale's grip on his mug tightened and his cock was rock solid. (The shift in Gale's expression must have been what urged Astarion to drag Wyll away by the elbow, unbeknownst to him—if not Reos's pointed look at the spawn.)

His heart's racing a mile a minute. Someone could be looking, Mystra forbid someone watches him. They might come to know the shameful act he's indulging in, perhaps even who he is. A humiliation to the renown that is Gale of Waterdeep. For once, he's glad he isn't in his hometown with how he's giving into the quick, skillful palm stroking his shaft, making him leak a wet spot into his briefs. Gale flushes further under those piercing, emerald eyes that are watching him over the rim of a tankard.

At least, he will never meet these folks ever again, he thinks.

As if sensing Gale's mind wandering, Reos becomes merciless. It nearly makes Gale forget where he is, and holds onto a sliver of composure just enough to swallow the moan into a quiet whimper. Though he doesn't topple, it's a near thing.

Gale's breathing quickens. He bends over his mug, loose hair hiding most of his face, glancing at the rustle of the obscured indecent movements. Pulses of painful arousal ache alongside the build of pleasure as his leg twitches, small noises that only Reos has privy to escaping Gale's bitten lips. He's curling in, knees drawn together, burying his mouth into his palm when the orgasm coils and tightens—

A great shiver shoots up his spine. Gale spills, hot cum painting the inside of his trouser. His hips buck when Reos squeezes his cock, lips parting silently. He's panting, sweat dotting his temples, and Reos doesn't stop stroking.

"Wait—" Gale's voice cracks, scrambling to hold the offending forearm. Reos stops, as Gale knows he would. Glazed, honey eyes lift with a flutter of downturned lashes to lock their gazes together. The answering, ravenous look staring back at him causes his guts to clench and flip and his ears to warm, his nerves to come alive. Gale can only swallow audibly and tilt his head to allow for space when Reos leans, mouth hovering by his ear, commanding him to follow—dripping with the promise of a thorough fucking just around the (quite literal) corner.

[iplaytillifallasleep-deactivate]

[meanbossart]

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we all make decisions we regret. / Gale to Reos

Memes for Reos // @juramentum

His jaw ticks with the repeated clench of his teeth. Reos can feel the weight of the invitation from Lord Gortash in his pocket. He can feel the influence of his Father pressing on his broad shoulders— the burden of Orin’s threats against their party. He sits in front of the fire and stares, elven greens wide with his growing indignation and mounting instability.

The jagged pieces of his broken life begin to cut into his new life, his new friends… but how much are they willing to bleed for him?

He thinks of his butler. Isobel’s death— another dark tally on a swelling list of souls collected for Bhaal. Even now, he can feel the slayer’s form itching beneath his skin. Hungry for the slaughter.

Gale sits at his side, a quiet and reassuring company as the bhaalspawn pieces together the decisions he’s made coupled with clues of the life he doesn’t remember. His only seemingly, blindingly loyal companion. The wizard acting as a tether, keeping him from spiraling fully into the dark. Yet, he knows tomorrow’s meeting with Bane’s Chosen will only drag more questions to the surface.

Gortash.

A name familiar. Scented invite familiar. Reos knows this Lord Gortash somehow, someway. The familiarity isn’t like anything he’s felt before in the void of his memory. It’s like a beckoning in the dark, a dream he can’t quite remember.

we all make decisions we regret.

It stirs Reos from his thoughts.

“I don’t feel any regret—” He says quietly, truthfully, without looking at the wizard. “Not for Isobel, not Halsin, not Lae’zel.” Reos shifts onto his knees in the dirt and turns to the mage, gently pushing him to his back in front of the fire. The rest of their party long retired for the evening. He straddles Gale’s thighs and curls over his body, leaning in to whisper against his lips. “I don’t regret this either.”

A wide palm settles over the orb in Gale’s chest. He thinks of Mystra’s ask, of the decisions Gale has expressed regret over. Just as quietly, “You no longer belong to her.” He presses his lips against the hair of Gale’s jaw. Lips trailing, wandering to mouth over inky outlines along his neck, leading to the orb beneath his palm. “Let go of this regret—“ His tone fond, touch affectionate as his other hand unties Gale’s robe. “It no longer serves you, my wizard.”

[kryenna]

brain has been in a durgetash mode for a while,, anyways here's an old sketch with my custom babygirl

[arczism]

Too caught up to find the wits to bail

[architaciturn]

❛ if you want me to go, then you have to tell me to leave. ❜ / Gortash for Astarion

Memes for Astarion // @juramentum

“if you want me to go, then you have to tell me to leave.”

Looking at him now is difficult— his chest still tightens, stomach still cartwheels. Astarion longs to close the distance between them. He thumbs at the ruby ring on his left hand. A physical reminder of what once was— and how easily discarded he was. Silence stretches and the tyrant stands in the doorway, awaiting an answer. While he doesn’t want him to go, he’s not sure he can stomach him staying.

He’s quiet for a moment as he looks him over, a head to toe appraisal. Gortash looks exhausted, a man teetering on an emotion Astarion can’t quite read. The beard ages Enver a little, makes him seem more rugged. Astarion recalls their former game. He doesn’t address him as Enver when he finally speaks, falling into their former roleplay. “Come in, Riff Raff. Tch— don’t let my merry little troupe see you. I can’t be caught stooping to your level, you know.”

The tyrant slips inside and the door closes behind him. Astarion saunters closer, speaking low, gaze narrowed and detached. “And what are you seeking this evening, Raff? Money? Treasure? Conversation?” His tone teasing, but lacking any semblance of the affection he once addressed Enver with.

When he’s close enough, Astarion traces a cool fingertip down Gortash’s chest, between his pecs and through the laces of his shirt. He entangles and twists, just as he used to. “Company?” His party rests quietly in rooms littered throughout the hall. He tips his face up, smile sly, sharp. Astarion’s ruby eyes seem a bit duller, dark circles beneath make him seem more gaunt. The pale elf leans in and whispers, “This could be the last you see of me, darling. Tav is unpredictable. Choose your desires wisely.”

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'we were a mistake.' / Gortash for Astarion

Memes for Astarion // @juramentum

We were a mistake.

Four words sharper than any blade, pierce his heart and twist his stomach. Astarion’s wide, ruby gaze skates the bedroom walls to avoid Enver’s stare, fearing those simmering coals may match the cruelty and ire spoken. He laughs, hollow and bitter. It’s filled with the pain that paints his beautiful face as he slowly starts removing the jewels adorning his fingers. “The prettiest mistake you’ve ever made, darling.” Every word spoken without musical tone, dry and flat. As each ring is removed, it’s placed within the small jewelry box on his vanity.

He wears his grief, his bleeding heartache, as plainly as the gold filigree decorating his chest and shoulders. “How fortunate for you—” Astarion removes every ring and bracelet but the one ruby ring Enver personally designed for him. “That you’re a professional at cleaning up mistakes then, hm?” Narrowed eyes settle on Gortash, crimson gaze sharp and piercing. It’s the same detached stare that every patriar receives, minus the single red streak staining his face. A bloody tear, lost at the end of his pulsing jaw. The spawn clenches his teeth, biting back the pain that threatens to take him out at the knees. He can think of nothing that trumps the ache he feels— he’d rather be beneath Cazador’s demented hands than standing here foolishly wounded by the tyrant.

Enver Gortash made his little black heart beat again, but he’d stopped it just as skillfully, suffocated in that wicked golden grasp. His fingertips touch the top of the vanity and his gaze settles on the blade atop the fine marble. There’s a wretched moment where he thinks of carving out Enver’s beating heart— it belongs to him, perhaps he’ll take it. Keep anyone else from ever touching it again. Hollow the archduke out, it’s only fair. An eye for an eye; black heart for black heart. He debates it bitterly.

“I’ll be gone by morning.” Astarion says quietly and waits for Gortash to leave so he can change.