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Astaroth isn't quite sure how they ended up like this, however, it wasn't like he was complaining either.
For the longest time, he's set his eyes on the Atlantean with the sole purpose to devote his life to him. At first, it was intricate suspicion due to the fact Lord Belial had insisted on them speaking for a 'proper union' and to 'avoid future conflict'. Astaroth thought it would only further induce conflict, he wasn't blind whenever it came to Atlas after all.
He could feel the Atlantean's eyes linger a moment too long, certainly not to admire, but rather to judge. Atlas' snarky remarks regarding the Scynthivian, speaking of the latter's ethnicity as if it were a curse, his words spat venom. Astaroth knew just how much Atlas hated him. No, despised him. It was a different kind of resentment. One Astaroth was, for the first time in his life, uncertain on how to approach.
'A different kind of resentment,' he thought, his eyes shut as he leaned into the warmth offered by the lap Astaroth laid on. Slim fingers thread their way through his hair, allowing a sigh of contentment to leave his lips.
The man whom held Astaroth in his embrace, however, didn't seem too enthusiastic about his comfort. Or did he? The knight doesn't bother to look.
His hands retreat from the Scynthivian's hair, an almost bemused look on his face as his left hand rested at his side, his right on Astaroth's nape.
"You're a fool, Asmodeus." The man scolds, as if confident Astaroth had awoken from his previous slumber. "Do you not fear what I could do, when you are at my mercy like this?"
The question makes Astaroth whine in retaliation, his head lifting to meet those soft blue eyes. He can't help but scan the blonde's face, drowning in what felt like beauty incarnate.
"Never said you could stop petting me." He murmurs in his disordered and scruffy stupor, as if his hair wasn't already tousled enough from Atlas' ministrations. Astaroth wasn't sure if he was seeing things, but he was sure a fond smile had tugged at the Atlantean's lips.
Shaking his head with a following huff, the blonde gently pushes the Scynthivian's head back into his lap. And upon Astaroth's request—or demand, rather. His hands find their way to the dragon's scalp once more.
"You're such a headache." says Atlas.
"Your headache." hums Astaroth.
The blonde doesn't respond, however, he only teasingly tugs at Astaroth's hair. Making him whine yet again. Still, the light caresses after does lull him back to sleep.
If this was a dream, may Masquerade bless him with eternal slumber. Astaroth was right where he yearned to be, and had no plans of leaving any time soon.