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The last remaining remnants of elvish rest
are blinked from his eyes as he awakens in his bedroll. Strangely, there’s a rather profuse sense of calm that spreads across his entire body almost immediately after opening his eyes. Electric energy sparking his skin and coursing throughout his veins from an unknown source, yet still he can’t help but exhale happily at the near elation piloting his waking mind. He chalks it down to nothing more than a very satisfying, well-deserved night of recuperation following yet another day of endless travelling and needless battles.
He shuffles in his bedroll, stretching out his limbs above his head with a low groan in tow. The suns rays peeking through the entrance of his tent before getting greedily absorbed by his bared ivory skin that all but begs for its embrace. Still unfamiliar with the concept of experiencing the basking glow of the sun first-hand again that mortals take for granted.
But he furrows his brow as he shifts around under the covers, wincing slightly when something feels off than usual. Aware of a strangely uncomfortably warm feeling below the sheets and-
Then it hits him why he’s awoken from his trance with such sudden, simmering ecstasy coursing through his veins that has him giddy. An almost intoxicated like sensation that feels positively delightful and reminiscent of a feeling his body recognises and knows far too intimately than he could ever imagine. His smile quickly dissipates upon the realisation. His blood runs colder than what believed was possible from the functionally futile plasma in his body.
Oh Gods… Oh Gods no.
Astarion throws back the covers with panicked haste and is absolutely mortified at the sight before his very eyes. An unintentional action of his own doing in his resting state.
He came in his trance. He had accidentally ejaculated in the middle of the night during his rest.
An overwhelming, indescribable amount of shame hits him so sudden that he’s left reeling. Eyes watering and palm clasped over his hand as he continues to eye up the patch of wetness that’s growing colder between his legs with each passing moment. Clinging to his skin with the remnants of a lover that refuses to untangle themselves from his grip when Cazador appears for his collection. The texture a repulsive, sticky singular layer coating the entirety of his groin inside his embroided underwear. He dares not even lift the waistband to assess the level of damage, the patch alone is telling enough.
A part of him wishes to hide away the evidence from his eyes in desperate attempt to try and pretend that this hasn’t happened. The other part of him wants to Immediately whisk the undergarments away and race towards the nearby lake to scrub away the stain and wash his own body ferociously until he’s finally clean. But he does neither, all he can do instead is remain frozen, staring at the results with a grimace of utter contempt at himself.
It’s a feeling all too familiar to his most embarrassing memories during his slavery. Those same feelings of disgust that once plagued his mind as he was forced to soil himself during prolonged torture sessions as part of Cazadors sick humiliation tactics and schemes. Cruelly ridiculed and unable to do anything but bare the brunt of his sharp words and degrading names. It made the times spent lay on his stomach, hips propped up and face pushed against whatever surface below in wait of service, almost preferable. Longing for the sting of his crop against his back, peeling flesh from flayed skin.
This was different however, This was entirely unexpected territory. The urge to cry from utter humiliation is consuming him and currently is single handedly responsible for the state he found himself in. He feels like a child again, a hormonally charged teenage elf that’s all but discovered the concept self-pleasure and the consequences that follow in tow in mornings. Scrambling to hide the evidence from nighttime wet dreams of attractive men and women fantasised over to satiate his wandering lustful mind.
A time where desire, libido and sexual gratification were all an exciting prospect and greatly sought after once he came of age. Not that he remembers it well anymore… it’s all tainted.
But how could this have happened? It’s been two almost centuries and he’s never experienced a horrifying scenario such as this before during his immortal life. A grown man, a sexually active grown man cumming untouched in his own underwear.
Granted he’s also never gone this period of time without lightening the load so to speak but surely he’s not that pent up that his body would respond is such an extreme manner. Right?
On reflection the meal he sustained himself on last night couldn’t have helped. Going to bed fully engorged on blood to the point of gluttony incarnate must have contributed, all the excess blood running around his system that temporarily renders his bodily functions mortal. The blood consumed quite literally becoming his own and leading to… less than favourable circumstances. One such example being those occasional times in which he found himself in some state of semi-arousal after feeding. Perhaps due to the still unfamiliar excitement and sensation of satiation after centuries of being stuck in a near-famished state. But then again, that never happened when feeding from beasts, and only seemed to be a recurring side effect after he fed from-
Astarion brings both hands to cover his face as the realisation hits. When the face of the man responsible for this hell pops into his head, his gut twisting at the memory of his dreams, the sole person that caused such unintentional arousal to stir in his loins.
Cicero. He orgasmed to the thought of Cicero.
It all comes flooding back to him, every single fantasy that was the primary cause for this disgusting, juvenile mess of his own unconscious volition. It’s starts off in perfect clarity, replaying back the memory from when the two of them had met in the forest clearing with the intents to engage in depraved carnality. The very same in which all efforts were prematurely halted in the face of the clerics emotional outburst and the confession of his inability to commit sexually with anyone despite how much he wanted to.
Ordinarily, Astarion would have written him off there and then, put an end to whatever this game of theirs was that they were playing to pick a new target instead. Yet, before his mind could come to terms with what this spanner in the works now meant for his plan, he found his body moving of its own accord. Before grabbing his own discarded shirt to place over his shivering naked form, the shirt just about fitting his larger frame. The memory plays clear as day, how he was met with a coy, grateful smile paired with still wet eyes and tear stained cheeks. Wearing his vulnerability with an almost strange semblance of dignity. As if the heavy burden of his secret, his internal shame and weight of his sexuality finally being unearthed after so long of being hidden, had brought some peace to the boy.
All of it finally made sense. The clear signs shown that Cicero felt some attraction that Astarion had long detected and picked up on from the very start. The way he flinched away from indulging in other forms of affection in fear of it developing into more that he couldn’t perform. The easily flustered state this 6”2, strong man with a beard and muscles to enhance his masculinity, could be reduced to with a simple pointed compliment or playful smirk imbued with lust. Why he was so adept in empty flirts with no level of following through of his dirty jokes yet still stared after him like a touch-starved, embarrassed teenager with a lacking charisma he certainly didn’t have.
By all rights it should’ve come as a relief. That Astarion’s foolproof methods of seduction were still that, completely unshakable in the face of pretty mortals soon to become morsels by his hand. But that same feeling in his chest that he assumed was his pride crying out in vain at being rejected often experienced in his presence didn’t subside even then. It only tightened more in the split second he heard him cry and confess that he wanted Astarion in all the ways he couldn’t. The insinuation that there was even more to the relationship dynamic he craves that scared but enticed Astarion all the same. The unknown territory of closeness without sex being a factor, of intimacy and its relative forms.
He made a point to ignore that revelation, focusing instead on consoling him in the way he knew best. And Cicero ended up instigating another thing he was more comfortable with, one that ended up with them making out instead all night. Both still in various forms of undress with entangled limbs that all but refused to let up their grip for almost the entire night. Lips and tongues dancing together with a desperate level of intimacy that he hadn’t experienced in some time, uncertain of when he had truly felt it in recent. More than that, it felt comforting, to not be expected to perform in such a way and yet still wanted to be held delicately.
That was what his dream entailed and more. He’s reminded of his delicious taste when their lips met, his rough callused hands against his skin that felt more divine than they ought to have. The gentle touch that was the antithesis to the rough, heavy-handed ones that often claimed his body time and time again.
Yet what unfolded next was everything but a memory rooted in reality. His mind morphed into that of a fantastical scenario that had never transpired into fruition.
There the two of them embrace in the nearby lakes stilled water, rippling only from their shared movements as Astarion snakes his arms around the taller ones neck. Having, apparently, been bathing together before their magnetising need to kiss the other took precedence instead. Cicero lifts Astarion’s leg to wrap around his waist, and Astarion enjoys being held in his strong arms, entire body weight carted around as if he weighed nothing at all. It’s all rather exhilarating to be honest.
The scenario changes abruptly, now lay on his back amongst the shore, the half-elves lips littering his neck with small kisses before moving down, lavishing every inch of wet skin. Astarion watches on propped up elbows as Cicero pays attention to every erogenous and sensitive parts of his body he never knew existed. Savouring the sounds embarrassing sounds that slipped free from his throat at each devious flick of his tongue. Pleasant sparks left behind in its wake.
He stops just short before venturing down below his navel, raising his head to meet his eyes. Cicero wordlessly awaits his command for what follows next, but it’s not like the times he ordered about his conquests until they were pliant and begging for release. Holding the reins throughout sex as the only form of control that he still had autonomy over.
Yet in this instance, with Cicero ready to carry out whatever Astarion wants done to him, he finds himself at a loss. He wants to be pleasured, to be allowed to be the subject of desire rather than the servant carrying it out, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it. But it seems that Cicero senses the turmoil and assures him that he will please him to the best of his ability, that he wants to go out of his way to do so to a degree that no one ever had before. And with that he moves back down and takes him whole inside that warm, beautiful mouth of his. It’s a rare occurrence for someone to go down on him, and quite honestly even in this dream he doesn’t know how to react, what to say or what to hold onto. He just lies back and takes what he’s given and it’s mind-blowing, even more so when Cicero looks up and he feels him smirk against him, hum contented in his throat. Everything throbs below the belt, tingling so pleasant against his tongue.
He’s loving this and yet he wants to feel more of him. He wants for Cicero to crawl back atop and claim his body, grace him with his cock and roll his hips into him until he’s left a incoherent mess of pleasure weeping and craving more. He wants to drown in his affections. He wants to kiss him over and over, again and again until he becomes the very vessel responsible for breathing.
Then it’s almost as if the figment of his imagination, the Cicero replicant of his dream heeds his internal hankering and relents the tongues onslaught upon his genitals. Moving back up into the position between Astarion’s open legs, lips whispering words of utter delight and praise that Astarion in his heightened adrenaline can’t even recall, a gentle caress against his cheek, lining himself up perfectly at his entrance before finally breaching inside and-
And that’s when he woke up. With wet sheets and cum-stained underwear.
And what’s worse, the mere thought of those whimsical images only make his toes curl again and hand desperate to inch its way beneath the waistband of his soiled underwear to paint another sticky masterpiece against the fabric canvas. It makes him angry. Shame festers in his mind at the thought of depicting that man in such scenarios he had quite literally confessed to not participate in. But his vile mind conjured up the images regardless. Sexualising him in a manner that he frankly didn’t deserve.
He was no better than every single person that used him in that very same vein. Vile, disgusting, defective-
“Astarion?”
The voice from his dreams, the object of his apparent desires rings clear in his ears as he realises that Cicero is speaking to him from behind the flap of his tent. Alarm bells begin signalling internally at the rather cruel timing of his appearance. And Astarion knows from experience that he hasn’t got long to react before Cicero starts getting incredibly annoying like a child pestering for attention.
“Come in darling.” Astarion calls out, scrambling to cover himself back up underneath the covers.
Cicero pushes back to the entrance and enters, hunched over and crouching slightly before lifting his head to look at the vampire. Sheepishly he smiles in that same aggravatingly adorable way that Astarion loathes to witness.
“Hi.” He says simply.
“Hello my dear.” Astarion replies with the same fond tone.
Nothing more is said for a few beats, just the two men observing each other with fond countenance. Astarion’s quite certain he could describe this moment as awkward if it wasn’t so… strangely endearing. The way Cicero continued to smile at him, eyes roaming like he was determined to commit to memory the sight of a shirtless Astarion to memory.
“Did you come into my tent just to stare darling? Or was there something you wanted?”
“Oh yeah!” Cicero clears his throat, the subtle red hue of a blush settling across his cheeks. “Sorry for disturbing you. I didn’t realise you were the type to sleep in.” He adds with a teasing tone.
“I think you mean trance, love.”
Cicero rolls his eyes playfully. “Yes thank you for describing how elves rest, I certainly never knew that as a half-elf that grew up with a strict elven grandfather who insisted upon living by strict elvish customs.”
Astarion lets out a hummed laugh and tries his utmost to keep a collected expression, his usual flirty demeanour whenever in the presence of this man. But it proved an exceedingly more difficult task when face to face with the one response for the drying semen between his thighs.
“Anyway.” Cicero added. “I was wondering if you fancied some breakfast?”
Astarion raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips upturning into a smirk.
“Are you offering to feed me this morning? Even after feeding me last night? How generous of you…”
“Well…” He scratches the back of his head and looks at him with a smirk that somehow appears both coy and smug at the same time. “I just thought in my infinite wisdom that it would be smart for you to be on your best form before heading out today. Of course.”
Ahh… so he really did enjoy getting fed on after all. How quaint.
“And well…” Cicero lowers his voice to an almost whisper, darting his eyes around the tent as if checking for any invading listeners to their conversation that certainly weren’t there.
“We could also… kiss again and shit. Like the other night, if you wanted…” He mutters awkwardly, with the grace of a flustered teenage schoolboy.
And truly, Astarion did wish to do that again. He did. Yet despite how much he wanted to jump at the offer, to seat himself in his usual position atop Cicero’s lap and begin suckling away at his neck like a newborn babe, he couldn’t. Not in the state he woke up in, the embarrassing mess below that absolutely no one could see he made of himself. Especially not Cicero.
So, with a pang of hunger in his stomach and a sharp inhale, he shakes his head.
“I will have to… decline your offer for now Cicero.” His smile strained as he meets his eyes again, teasing with a tone of feigned mirth. “I have important things that need my attention this morning, and unfortunately, you are not one of them darling.”
A very uncomfortable tightness rises in his chest when Cicero’s smile falters for a split moment, disappointment awash across his features. But the boy recovers fairly quickly, almost immediately plastering another one of his smiles across his lips, yet he can’t quite hide the pitched up tone and waver of his voice.
“Oh… no worries at all! Forget I said anything!” He laughs and begins to play it all off with the laddish act instead, pretending as if what he just asked never happened. Smirking as he turns away and makes his way straight to the tent entrance. “Anyway, get the fuck up before I reconsider my decision not to stake you.”
Before Astarion could respond with one of his signature witty retorts, Cicero left without another word. Once alone again, Astarion drops his head into his hands and groans.
“Gods damn it.”