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Something was disastrously wrong with Astarion. Catastrophically wrong, even. Incredibly and irrevocably unnerving. An unsettling, foreign sensation stirring in the pit of his stomach every time he looks in the direction of the campfire.
Because right now, Astarion craves intimacy.
To anyone else such a thing could be considered normal, nothing to bat an eye at, commonplace even. But the notion of intimacy and the singular need to experience it first-hand himself, is something Astarion has never actually experienced before now. Such a phenomenon is something he simply didn’t understand for so long. Once thought to be immune to its wiles, the collective ruse of mortals that he was certain was all exaggerated. Intimacy was nothing more than a sham, something that only the weakest of poor souls fell for in their pursuit of happiness. Hand-holding, hugs, nuzzling into necks, all of it seemed trivial, something he was scorned at when being an unwilling reciprocant to such public affairs.
That was what he once thought, anyway. Until Cicero came along and, without any real meaning to, had Astarion all but weak at the knees with every kind act shown his way without any expectations in return. Each earnest smile, each gentle embrace he shared with him, his incessant need to check up on his mental state at any given opportunity.
And now he was just as much of a love-sick fool as the rest of them.
It flares up, those feelings, knowing that the person responsible for this horrific yearning is just a few metres away from him. Cicero is asleep, his slumbering form sprawled out by the dwindling embers in the centre of camp. Limbs rather ungraciously spread out, mouth agape and a light snore filling the air around him. His sun-kissed complexion reflecting the orange hues of the fire across his chest and stomach, having forgone wearing any shirt, as was typically usual, for reasons of so-called comfort. Not that Astarion was complaining, there were numerous occasions where he had caught himself staring at the man’s naked torso as he struts about camp. Losing himself in a spiralling fantasy of that dreaded intimacy he didn’t know he wanted, even long before he had devised his initial seduction plan. Though he would fervently deny such claims and truths if ever pointed out.
A light snore garnered his attention once more towards Cicero as he tried, and failed, to focus on the book in his hands, sat infront of the flaps to his tent. Trying desperately to distract himself from even the mere presence of that man. Deciding that his efforts were useless, the written words all but blending into nothingness as his eyes glossed over them, he settles back and watches the half-elf in his sleep. Apparently more entertained by that than his novel.
He shouldn’t find it so endearing, really, Cicero looked like an absolute slob not unlike the intoxicated fools passed out on the streets after a hefty night of tavern hopping. His hair all but debased from his incessant moving and squirming in his seemingly restless sleep. He thrashes about with as much energy as he has in consciousness, apparently trying to punch and tussle with the air like it was a personal vendetta. Eventually he settles with a deep groan, and Astarion can’t held but admire the now softness across his facial features. The slight part in his lips, the rise and fall of his chest, the twitching corner of his lip into a tiny smile. He can’t help but crave the feeling of touching those lips with his own. His skin itching as if it can only be soothed by Cicero’s own heavily scarred yet oddly smooth skin. To sap away the warmth of his body with his own bare touch. He looks ever so adorable.
Before he really had chance to collect himself from this ridiculous internal pining, his body subconsciously began moving over to him. Creeping up quietly, not unlike the time he first tried sneakily feeding upon him, though his intents now were a lot less voracious and more pathetically romantically inclined. He crawls on top, legs and hands either side of his body not yet touching, and a hesitant hand reaches out to lightly caress his left cheek. Fingers brush up against the tattoo marking from his eye before stroking his light beard, scratching nicely between his fingertips.
He doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing and yet he can’t stop himself. His lips don’t know whether to call out his name to wake him up or to just admire him up close instead.
Before he can make that decision, Cicero begins to stir slightly as if he knows someone is beside him. Eyes opening slowly before widening almost immediately at the sudden proximity of Astarion’s body to his own. Breath catching on itself with a gasp he attempts, and fails tremendously, to stifle at the shock. After a few moments of his glassy eyes blinking wildly in efforts to rid himself up from the last remnants of sleep, he begins to acknowledge him verbally.
“Astar-”
Astarion responded with a curt shushing noise, his finger pressing up against Cicero’s lips to silence him before his naturally loud voice woke the rest of their sleeping companions.
“Quiet darling. We don’t want to wake everyone up.” Astarion whispers, removing his finger from his silken lips to rest his palm against the rough fabric of his bedroll. The texture scratching against his hand just beside where the half-elf’s head lay. Looking down at the cleric, whose own gaze trailed down shamelessly to fully take in the sight of Astarion crawled on top of him. His cheeky little smile spreading across his face as he relishes their proximity. Lowering his voice to match the same tone as Astarion’s.
“Interesting. Why exactly would we be waking anyone up I wonder?” Cicero hummed, lifting himself up on his elbows. Bridging part way of the gap between their faces as Astarion stays exactly where he was, looking down with a smirk.
“Because you’re incredibly loud all the time and I don’t think you realise it.”
“Hm, fair enough.” Cicero quietly laughs, casting his gaze around briefly to check he wasn’t disturbing the other companions resting nearby after receiving a piercing look from Astarion that absolutely read “proved my point”. Sucking the air between his teeth and shrugging before silently mouthing out “oops sorry.”
Cicero’s hand rests upon Astarion’s back and Astarion is quickly becoming more and more comfortable with his penchant for physical touch whether platonically or something more. A man whose love language absolutely consisted of cuddles and gentle shoulder squeezes in moments of deep emotional outbursts. That smiled as often as he breathed. It only makes him want to reciprocate more. Something wildly out of character for him.
Cicero raises an eyebrow at him playfully. “We’re you staring at me while I slept?”
“Perhaps I was.” Astarion purrs, lowering his eyelids to look down at him through his eyelashes. “Would that be a problem?”
Cicero shook his head. “Not at all. I bet I looked like a right sleeping beauty didn’t I?” He grins unashamedly.
“It was… an interesting sight my dear, to say the least.” Astarion continues to tease. “Perhaps a little more… dishevelled than glamorous. Not quite a sight I think the Bards will sing about that’s for sure.”
“Oh interesting okay.” Cicero nods, and hums a laugh. “As much as I enjoy our chats Astarion, what is so important that it couldn’t wait until I was awake to speak to me about?”
“I…” Astarion pauses, his usual bravado all but vanished in a mere second, confidence evaporating like mist into the air around him. All he had to do was to ask to kiss him, and yet it wasn’t as simple as that. His body almost refused to cooperate, perhaps a result of centuries of repression as he now fell prey this very intimacy. “I… wanted something.” He just about manages to say.
“What do you want Melith nín?” Cicero asks, voice still husky in that morning glow that sounded so incredibly delicious on his vocal cords. Absolutely not helping his situation as he swallowed to try and moisten the throat that was drying up faster than he could sneak up on someone in battle.
Gods what the fuck has gotten over him? Now he’s just sat here like a fucking child that has lost the ability to simply speak his desires. His usual vocal prowess all but abandoning him in this moment as Cicero continues to stare at him with a confused expression at Astarion’s unusual lack of confidence. This certainly has never happened before.
In the face of his growing silence, Cicero decides to prompt him more, trying to guess what it was he wanted.
“Are you hungry? Do you need feeding? You know you can just ask.”
He opens his mouth again to speak but with his throat tightened and jaw tensed he just shakes his head with a furrowed brow. For once, he doesn’t want feeding.
“Love use your words I can’t read your mind.” He says, before tilting his head and a laugh slips free. Apparently very amused by his own joke that had came to mind. An unfortunately common occurrence. “Or I suppose I can, with our little tadpoley friend. But I wont do that without your permission.”
“I… I wanted a…” A frustrated exhale leaves his throat. “Godsdamn it I just… I wanted a kiss.” His voice trailed off, almost whispering out the last word as if it was the most embarrassing thing he could ever admit.
Cicero expression softens from one of slight concern to one of pleasant surprise. Caught off-guard by the rather unusual request from him.
“You did?”
Astarion grits his teeth and huffs while looking away. His vulnerability very much on display.
“Don’t make a thing out of it.” Astarion pouts, purposely avoiding eye contact.
“Star.” Cicero speaks softly, taking his hand gently into his own, thumb lightly caressesing the top of his hand.
Shit. He can feel his chest begin to tighten and claw and everything feels deafeningly loud and stifling and now he regrets everything and wants to just forget this feeling once again-
“You know what let’s just forget it, this was a ridi-“
“Star.” Cicero repeated slightly more firmly than before to purposely interrupt his panicked rambling. Astarion looks back down at him taking a shaky breath he doesn’t require.
“If you want a kiss, I’ll give you one.” Cicero brings their joint hands, fingers laced together like woven threads of fabric, to his lips to plant a light kiss against the knuckles. The other hand slowly making its destination to the back of his head, lifting himself up so that he can meet bridge the distance between their mouths.
“Wait.” Astarion’s breath hitched and pulls back sharply. Cicero halts his movements almost instantly, and Astarion can see the momentary flicker of fear that crosses his expression that he’s overstepped some mark. It makes that ache in Astarion’s stomach fester upon seeing it and he still doesn’t know why that is. He brings his knuckles to brush lightly against his face again, smiling at him to ease that worry on his face.
He swallows. “Darling… I want to be the one to kiss you, If that’s okay?”
He’s not really sure what he’s saying or what he’s doing. The words all but spilling from his mouth before he has chance to stop them. Forming on his tongue, mouth shaping each syllable before he can even recongnise its presence. Cicero smiles, the fingers in his hair now caressing the back of his neck, tangling them in his curls, admiring them with his hands alone. Dropping his head back down against the bedroll. “Of course that’s okay.”
Astarion nods and takes the lead, slowly lowering his face down so that his lips were mere centimetres away from Ciceros. Almost touching as he rests his body wait on his arms, hand sneaking it’s way into Cicero’s tangled hair. He’s aware of the warm breath tickling his lips and he can feel himself growing obsessed with it.
And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to race through this build-up, he wants to revel in the anticipation, the excitement of what he’s about to do. The tips of their noses touching together and he looks deep into Cicero’s eyes, admiring the lilac colouration of his right and the cloudy film coating his left blind eye. Somehow it looks beautiful, suits him so spectacularly in a way that no other could pull off. He knows Cicero hates it, the traumatic memories of how this scar was inflicted all but upsetting to the half-elf, the only wound across his scarred body he despised. Astarion leans down to brush his lips against the corner of his eye, whispering a very slight “beautiful” as he did so. Cicero stays quiet, watching, his cheeks warming ever so slightly as Astarion pulled back to his previous position. Then, slowly, he finally bridges the gap between their mouths and kisses him.
They’ve kissed before, quite a few times in fact, but it’s never felt this soft. It’s cautious, gentle, dare he say almost chaste in every slight movement. He’s apprehensive and uncertain of himself. Kissing Cicero like he doesn’t know how to anymore, like he’s inexperienced but enthusiastic all the same. It’s nothing like the ones perfectly curated to elicit the most sensitive of sensations, performed with effortless ease that came from nightly routines of this very same game. It’s downright intoxicating, and Cicero follows Astarion’s lead with the playful obedience he always shares with him.
That uncomfortable tightening in his muscles begins to subside with each second they spend lavishing the others lips. Astarion parts his lips and deepens their kiss more, their tongues reaching out to touch the others, heads naturally following the direction. Complete harmony.
But despite the passion of their tongues gliding together, it doesn’t feel inherently sexually. It doesn’t feel like all the other times that he uses the action of a kiss to win over his prey. It’s still loving, it’s fuelled by love and not lust, it doesn’t need to be anything more than just a shared moment of passionate kissing.
Ciceros hands find their way to settle upon Astarion’s waist, holding them delicately on the natural curvature of his hips that he knows suit him so well. His body a breath-taking spectacle that he doesn’t want to be explored by anyone else but Cicero anymore. Astarion’s leg without any conscious thought, hooks itself with Cicero’s, his body seeking out the touch, begging to be an entangled mess of limbs.
There is a warmth down in his stomach, a tell-tale bodily response of arousal, but it’s welcomed, it’s nice. It isn’t something he needs to seek out, it just reminds him of the sensation of what it is to feel treated, adored, to be wanted for him as he was alone.
Suddenly, he feels his body moving as Cicero effortlessly carts his body weight with his modest strength level that far exceeds Astarion’s own. Enveloped in arms larger than his own, muscular from years of physical labour aboard ships since a young lad, with a physique that doesn’t appear as strong as it really is. He’s carefully manoeuvred so that he’s lay down and Cicero is now on top, lips still locked in their kiss.
It feels safe. He feels safe. Like nothing could penetrate Inside this makeshift nest of comfort and stability that his embrace alone provides for him. Cicero moved his lips away briefly to kiss along the laugh lines that only deepen as he struggles to prevent a genuine smile from spreading across his lips. His laugh, a borderline giggle, slipping free before pulling down Cicero head to meet his mouth again.
To be below someone again, trapped between the ground and someone’s body above his own, it should feel uncomfortable. It should bring about the feelings of disgust, the memories of coaxed sex as his body was used for another’s pleasure, but it doesn’t. It feels right, it feels good. There were no lavish bedspreads adorned with gaudy embroidery and silk pressed up against his back, beneath him there was only the hard, uncomfortable earth. He welcomed the dirt, he embraced the filth, a delicate curl snagged against a small rock and yanks his head back slightly, a small gasp of pain forcing its way through his gritted teeth. Cicero in return brings his hand to cup beneath Astarion’s head, cushioning it from catching on anything painful again. It’s a gentle move, so laced with love that Astarion doesn’t quite know how to respond to except smile in their kiss and tighten his grip in his hair.
Cicero swallows another soft moan that Astarion doesn’t care to stop humming from his own throat and into Ciceros mouth. It’s too pleasurable, the ecstasy from his kiss alone is beyond anything his body has ever forcibly pulled out of him through so-called orgasms. He’s content with just the joy of this kiss alone, the comfort in his embrace, the nuzzling of their faces together, the tightening of his thighs around Cicero’s waist. Each nerve receptor is set alight with each brush against his exposed skin.
He feels alive again.
But then a loud, exasperated tut echoes in his ears which distracts him. Apparently it seems the sounds of their kissing were not quite as subtle as they would have hoped. Breaking apart and craning their necks towards a much disgruntled Gale, an eyemask perched on his forehead and a face of pure thunder.
“Morning Gale!” Cicero exclaims giddily, flashing him a toothy grin as he moves up to kneel beside Astarion, who merely stays where he was lay down, playing idly with the lace on his shirt. “Always a pleasure to see my best friend!”
Gale raises an eyebrow, looking up briefly at the very much still night sky that wasn’t yet morning.
“Quite. I Truly am happy that the two of you have found eachother.”
“Aw Gale that’s-” Cicero begins before he gets cut off by Gale raising a hand and continuing.
“That being said, I would appreciate it more if the pair of you could perhaps move this to either one of your tents instead for this type of nightly activity. As not to disturb our rest you see.”
Astarion laughs, about to make a snarky comment in return but Cicero beats him to it with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry for disturbing your rest. Blame Astarion.”
Astarion scoffs. “Oh you must be joking-”
“Trust me Cicero, I take up that opportunity at every given chance I get.” Gale laughs.
They exchange a few more words as Astarion stands up to his feet. Pouting and tapping his foot impatiently, awaiting the attention of Cicero that Gale had apparently stolen, at his own expense unbelievably.
Cicero turns around to him once he’s bid goodnight for the second time this evening, making his way up to Astarion with a special kind of smile on his face that Astarion knows is reserved for him alone.
It’s a mildly terrifying if not incredible feeling.
“So… what now?” Cicero asks, the back of his hand coming to stroke the skin of Astarion’s cheek lightly.
“Shall we move this to my tent darling? Or would you care to return to your most blissful rest instead?”
“I feel like I won’t be able to sleep now, so thanks for that.” Cicero chuckles and looks down at Astarion, now at full height, with a coy smile. “Besides I… well I think I’d rather prefer to sleep beside you. If that’s okay with you?”
Astarion smirks. “Well… I suppose I can appease you in that request of yours.”
Cicero takes Astarion’s hand cautiously awaiting for his response, and Astarion merely smiles back awkwardly and leads the way to his tent. Excited to continue where they had left off. To sleep beside him and share his warmth.