BLOOD STREAKED HIS CHEEK WHILE ADRENALINE STILL COURSED THROUGH HIS VEINS.
Remnants of a battle they had NEARLY lost.
❝Oh, is that so~?❞ Sylverian turned to face Astrophel fully, head tilting ever so slightly, as if in consideration. Mocking. And yet, the glint of cold fury in his eyes betrayed he was holding his temper by a thread.
❝Forgive me, I must be terribly dim-witted to have mistaken your scorn, your constant jabs, and your complete lack of regard for anything I say as something other than heartfelt affection!❞ Each word was spoken sharper than the last.
Lord Selemchant had never been a man of violence, but he would not tolerate Astrophel’s insolence today. Not after what had happened. Not when constant bloodshed frayed his nerves. And if shutting Astrophel up meant cutting out that wicked tongue ——— Not that he truly would, of course… but oh, it was a tempting thought.
25) our muses are enemies/rivals but a fight leads to sex.
MORE SMUTTY PROMPTS BUT WITH SOME PLOT FOR EXTRA SPICE 🔥
If pressed later, Atreion could not even identify what had started the argument. It was as inevitable as the fucking tides at this point: Astrophel would say something snide and cruel and Atreion would fire back with equally cutting words. They would bicker to a standstill, one of them would flounce off, rinse and repeat. It rarely escalated beyond that - that, after all, would mean admitting that the other had got under their skin - but rare wasn't never.
This time, when Atreion stalked into the trees to cool off, Astrophel followed. Sneering quickly became shouting, the two of them almost nose to nose, hurling insults until they were both panting, fists clenched and eyes wild. Then, Astrophel moved - or maybe Atreion did, they didn't know - and then Atreion's back was against a tree, his hand at their throat and a cruel tongue forcing its way past their lips.
The sane thing to do would be to stop it. To shove him, slap him, and serve him right. Atreion did none of that. Instead, they leaned into it, kissing him with equal ferocity. None of it was gentle, clawing at and under his shirt to score pale skin and biting his lip until they tasted metal, and Atreion didn't fucking care. They just needed to feel something, anything other than this endless fucking frustration.
The hand at Atreion's throat tightened, and Atreion snarled and wrenched it free, pulling it to their hair instead. Obliging, Astrophel gripped near the base of their skull and yanked, and the pain shot through Atreion right to their cock. Their head forced back, they moaned to the moonlit canopy above.
"Is that the best you've got?" They taunted through gritted teeth, hissing as Astrophel attacked their neck with wicked teeth and tongue. They wrenched at the front of his shirt and heard something rip. "I'm not made of glass, Your Lordship, now fucking get on with it or I'll find someone who'll--"
With a bark of laughter that wasn't entirely sane, Atreion found themself yanked around and shoved back against the tree, cheek scraping against the bark. Immediately, he was on them again, the long line of his body pressed against their back, and Atreion could feel how hard he was. It felt like a good one, too, long and thick enough to give them a challenge, and Gods it had been so long since they'd been properly fucked. It galled them to admit it, but Astrophel had been right: they'd been starving for attention and affection. And if they weren't going to get the latter here, they could at least have this.
"Come on, come on..." They groaned, pushing their ass back into that hardness. Reaching blindly for that ridiculous white hair, they twisted to pant against his lips, the kiss turned rough and sloppy. "For once, do more than just talk, for fucks sake."
His movement is unexpected, obviously, Duri had long since stopped expecting her comrades to turn on her. Certainly when she revealed her identity to them - Bhaalspawn. The Chosen- there had been some anxiety about what her friends would think of her. They set her fears to rest by acting as if it didn’t matter and nothing needed to change.
It mattered to Duri though. She cared that her memories had been eviscerated. Her Urges haunted her and the weight of expectation and guilt became less bearable each day. It only occurred to her now, when Astrophel backed her against the wall, that perhaps her self-pity was more obvious than intended.
The tiefling blinked up into Astrophel’s furious face, staying silent through the entire reprimand. Her instincts told her to eliminate the threat. It would be easy to reach for her knife and bury it into the man’s sternum before dragging down. That was the last thing Duri wanted though.
“Have you been holding that in awhile?” Duri asked, a weak attempt at levity to diffuse the charged moment.
"As opposed to whom?" Atreion met his faux concern with a snort, barely bothering to glance up from the notebook they were scribbling in. "Do you even know what 'he' refers to in this instance, or are you just asking smug questions?"
"Either way, take a step back, would you?" They flicked a ring-laden hand at him like he were an errant fly. "You're in my light."
Touches his cheek with the knuckle of a curled index finger. "My my... how very ugly you are today."
❝Keep your hands to yourself, Astrophel!!❞ Sylverian snapped, firmly swatting his hand away and shooting him a glare.
❝As if this day could not grow any worse — must you add to my misery?! ... And by the gods above, do something about that bird’s nest on your head. You are starting to look like a feral cat.❞
My muse watches your muse from across the room, their gaze lingering even when caught. (oh you already KNOW what the fuck is UP!!!)
In the dim light, Sylverian shone like a flickering golden flame. He giggled merrily, clearly intoxicated ( and unaware of the danger he was in ), holding onto @unascended ’s arm, nuzzling his neck.
❝By the gods, this place is in desperate need of some color! I shall have a talk with our artisans...❞ he purred, his lips ghosting over Astarion’s pale skin. A fleeting thought made him wonder why he felt so cold, but he quickly dismissed it, resolved to infuse warmth into him.
❝...Perhaps some floral tapestry…❞ he babbled on, his words trailing off as his eyes locked onto another figure in the room — a man who looked much like Astarion, and yet... somehow more familiar?
With a playful tilt of his head, he asked, ❝Lord Ancunin~?❞
A snort of a chuckle came from the tiefling. Who did he think he was bossing him around? though he could be paying him. That would make his tolerable.
"If you want that then you need to pay me first, your lordship." there was no real respect there. It was contempt more than anything. Something he was expected to say even if he didn't mean it. Though he would do a lot for some gold and a pretty elf but that was besides the point.
He knew Astrophel. Newly appointed Lord of House Ancunin. Well, "knew" might have been a generous term. They had crossed paths at some elite gathering ; Sylverian had merely seen him in passing. The half-fey had been too preoccupied with basking in admiration and indulging in gossip about fashion to exchange pleasantries.
Perhaps he had even extended an invitation to Astrophel (or his parents?) to one of his grand, infamous parties. He couldn’t say for certain. But could he be expected to recall every name and face among the throngs of highborn attendees? Hardly.
Regardless, he was pleased Astrophel was here. Surely, he would sympathize with Sylverian’s suffering! He had joined him by the fire and just launched into a lament (without so much as a word of greeting!), declaring their situation utterly unacceptable. He would perish if he had to spend another night sleeping on the ground like a common vagabond! Then, with a wistful sigh, he bemoaned the absence of his beloved Calimshan spiced wine — the finest he had imported — and that the wine at camp was an insult to the very word.
❝Well, this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on,❞ he eventually conceded with another heavy sigh. He let his head tip back, golden hair cascading behind him, his gaze resting on the stars.
What a nightmare ———
Being called Little Lord had Sylverian lifting his gaze back to Astrophel, his brows arching high with a flicker of indignation in his aquamarine eyes.
❝... We may be in the middle of the wilds, Astrophel, but I expect to be spoken to with the respect I am owed,❞ he said, politely but firm, chin tilting ever so slightly higher.
Ugh. No, he had not been plucked straight from the heart of the city. Nor from his palace grounds by the Tethir road.
❝Naturally, my poor mother must be beside herself with worry,❞ he added, turning his gaze back to the fire. Then, with a scoff, ❝These... these vile creatures stole me away while I was traveling.❞
