Work Text:
“Has anyone seen Cicero?” Astarion interrupts the group, watching as they all briefly turn their heads towards him and shake their heads.
It really wasn’t like Cicero to not bother joining the rest of them around the campfire, hiding himself away from the chatter instead of gracing everyone with his joviality. So, Astarion decides to locate the clerics whereabouts.
“I haven’t seen him since we got back from the Gauntlet.” Karlach responds, who was, appropriately, scoffing down a rather juicy piece of mutton. Before adding with her mouth full, flecks of food accidentally spilling out. “It took us fucking ages to find that one purple ball thingy, dunno why that Orthon had one though.”
“I believe they were umbral gems.” Gale pipes up, with a simmering enthusiasm for whatever educational drivel he was about to embark on. “Quite the security measurement I must say, in fact I can recall a time-”
“I had noticed that Cicero seemed… a little off than usual.” Shadowheart cuts off Gales pending monologue with a slight frown, tilting her face to look at Astarion.
“Off… off how?” Astarion queries, trying his utmost to appear collected and unbothered by the prospect of Cicero being unlike his usually self.
“I don’t know… he was unusually curt and short, as if he was eager to get away from us all.” Shadowheart shrugs.
“He made an off-hand comment to me that he was feeling a little under the weather actually.” Halsin comments from where he sits cross-legged whittling. “And he also seemed paler than usual.”
Astarion merely nods and takes his leave, a brisk pace taking hold of him, a certain urgency to locate his partner to check upon him. Though his explorations are short lived after a quick glance around camp with no signs of any of his usual flurried mess left in his wake. So, he beelines instead towards his tent, straining his ears to listen to what he was up to, met only with his breathing in response. Albeit, heavier breathing than usual…
Astarion clears his throat purposely. “Darling? Are you alive?”
“Astarion!” He yells back in response, a tinge of a panic laced into Ciceros unusually husky tone. But before Astarion can really dwell upon it, the half-elf stutters out a rather meagre diversion tactic. “Erm…. Yes, quite alive thanks! You can just… stay out there.”
Yet unfortunately for Cicero, his vampiric partner was as stubborn as he was incredibly nosey.
“I haven’t seen you all evening. Why don’t you come join us all for some food?”
“No I erm… I’m not very hungry thanks.”
And now that was very unlike him. Not with an appetitive that far exceeded almost everyone in camp, even giving Karlach a run for her money.
“Dear, whatever you’re doing can’t be that interesting. Now come on and-”
Abruptly though, he cuts himself off when he catches a scent of something. Something that is quite hard to ignore, piquing Astarion’s curiosity far more than it should.
Arousal.
And by the Gods is it potent.
Granted his own olfactory senses were stronger than most mortals, considering he can catch the slightest whiff of someone’s excitement as easy as he can detect the increased blood flow in their body. Yet the degree of this was more than a brief scent, it was positively overwhelming. Dripping in the air, creeping through the small crevice between the flap of the fabric tent to linger in his nose, to coat the back of his tongue and throat like viscous tar he didn’t want to wash away.
But what confuses him more than anything was whose it was he couldn’t stop inhaling the sweetness of. It was Cicero’s. And somehow he can’t stop himself from crossing beyond the premises, feet moving with a mind of their own in search of the source of that delicious sensation. His brain screams out in defiance for the invasion of privacy he’s about to embark and yet his body lurches out of his own control to seek more.
But upon actually entering inside the cramped tent, it’s something else entirely.
He catches himself salivating like a rabid beast. The scent intoxicating, engulfing and overpowering every part of his senses, begging him to enter and dine upon the man. Inviting him to consume and feast without delay. It tempts like crimson nectar that his voracious diet all but craves daily to sustain. The endorphins in the air are all but prodding at every sensitive nerve in his body with startling electricity. Honestly, he can’t quite remember ever feeling so aroused before in his lifetime. It’s so incredibly stimulating alone, so thick in the air that he cannot only taste it but can feel himself consuming it like an airborne virus. Addictive and inviting like a well-aged wine that caresses every tastebud with the intimacy of long-lived lovers that hold eachother dear in their final moments.
But the smell exuded from him that lingered in the stagnant air of this tent made complete sense when paired with the image before him.
Cicero was lay upon his back on his bedroll, his earlier shirt from todays ventures discarded carelessly to the side. One arm outstretched above, fingers entangled in his own hair. Perspiration coats his body in a delicate sheen, forehead glistening with beadlets that his eccrine sweat glands refuse to relent their production of. His bared chest shines, exposed skin glossy like slickened rocks aside the ocean spray. The soft blonde hairs that spread far across his torso are all but darkened and wet from his sweat, droplets adorning and clinging to the fibres like morning dew. Chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that make it appear that he’s midst recovery from a solo-ventured, ambitious foot-race across Faerûn. Yet unable to catch a single breath as it taunts him with each attempt.
Truly, It’s all a marvel to behold, the way his long, tied back hair sticks even messier than usual to his forehead, sprawled across the pillow with unruly abandon. An unmistakable flush settles across his features, pinks and reds drowning out the light dusted freckles across his nose before getting engulfed by his beard hairs. The heat of his cheeks spreading far beyond the border of his face to the aforementioned chest, claiming each part of his skin to the flush of desire.
And perhaps more distracting than anything else was the prominent bulge in his trousers. Straining in what appeared to be a ferocious attempt to break free from the manacles of his trousers. A discreet wet patch of his own pre-arousal widening against the tan fabric, leaking desperately.
It’s quite a sight. The visual stimuli coupled with the scent exuding from every pore of the half-elf is all but forcing his own genitals to respond appropriately in the same way. Primal urges to mate and breed, to crawl headfirst towards the exulbrulant pleasure in its rawest form. Astarion’s own loins are all but sobbing and crying inside the restraints of his underwear to breed and to be bred all simultaneously. It almost disgusts Astarion how much it turns him on to see him in such a debauched state.
Yet there was something about the scenario in which Astarion had accidentally stumbled upon that made it feel… quite wrong. This wasn’t a typical private session between Cicero and his own hand to indulge in whatever lecherous activities he so desired. He looked almost pained in his expression, lip quivering and brow furrowing not in delight but borderline fear at what exactly was puppeteering his bodily autonomy. The exact same feeling to which anything remotely related to the act of sex itself was a
Astarion stops his scrutiny of the state of the poor lad when he realises just how long he’s been stood ogling him. All the while Cicero tries his utmost to hide his humiliated expression at his own bodily responses. Clutching at the covers to hopelessly try to hide the condition of his lower regions of his body, yet still tented obviously beneath the fabric.
It’s nothing dissimilar to how Astarion acted whenever Cazador entered the mansions chambers to retrieve his prize, a naive consort seduced by spawn himself. When he averted his masters gaze, ashamed and repulsed at his own actions with only a thin, stained silken sheet to maintain what little modesty he still owned. Grasping it in attempt to seek comfort as Cazador ridiculed him-
And now his bubbling arousal really disgusts him.
“Gods… what on earth has happened to you?” Astarion breaks the silence, unsure himself whether to continue moving towards him or to try and flee the mind-blowing temptations that his body is radiating.
It’s truly a vile feeling to be so at the mercy of carnality in its most primal form, even more when Cicero looks so unsettled… so scared.
“I…. I don’t know.” Cicero’s voice trembles with such uncertainty, losing all traces of his characteristic carefree tonal register. “It’s like a fever I think? I can’t stop sweating my absolute balls off.”
So Astarion approaches cautiously, as if Cicero himself were a wounded but startled deer eager to escape the trap he found himself in. Though it wasn’t as if that analogy were too dissimilar to how he appeared currently. For the half-elf was akin to a feral beast in a vehement heat as he struggles against invisible bonds of his own creation. Fingers twitches and gripping at anything in nearby viscinity with whitening knuckles to force his hand away from his pulsating arousal still trapped between caged fabric. He slowly crouches beside him, noting every single subtle facial movement from Cicero as he does so.
“Cicero darling… look at me.” The elf carefully gets to his knees beside him, trying his utmost to keep a collected demeanour in the face of Cicero’s frenzied state. Hesitant whether to reach out and soothe his burning skin with his naturally cool skin, a feature of his undead nature that’s suddenly become desirable. Without much further thought, his body reacts first, his fingers bridging the gap between them to press against his forehead, uncaring of the thin layer of sweat that coats his fingers as he touches him. A surprised gasp escaping his own lips as soon as he does.
“Gods… you’re burning like the hells.”
It’s no exaggeration, his skin roars like a furnace fit for forging weaponry, as if he himself had emerged from the lava back in the grymforge. Cicero merely responds with a sound of pleasure at the joyous coolness of his touch against flaming skin.
“I don’t understand this is unlike any kind of fever I’ve seen before… it’s almost like-”
“Like I’m really fucking horny?” Cicero manages between belated breaths, growling it out like he’s disgusted at the mere notion of it all. “Trust me. I’m quite aware of how hard my fucking cock is right now.”
The situation is really not humourous in the slightest, and yet Astarion can’t help but tease the boy, feigning indignation with a click of his tongue and shake of his head.
“My my… what vile language. To think… this is level of eloquence I’m forced to deal with in my partner.”
“Ahh fuck you.” Cicero grumbles out, his usual playfulness emerging for a moment between the heavy pants. A side glance paired with an open mouthed smile. Astarion can’t help but glance down again at the tent in his trousers when an idea comes to his mind. One that might try and calm the simmering fever-like sensations that have completely rendered the boy immobile. So, Astarion clears his throat, trying to think of the best way to bring up the topic.
“I don’t quite know how else to ask you this dear, but have you tried onanism?”
“Ona-what?” Cicero asks dumbfounded.
Astarion’s rolls his eyes and resists the urge to shake his head in exasperation at the entire ludicrously of everything unfolding before him. “Wanking, my dear Cicero. Have you tried to have a wank?”
“Well this is a fucking embarrassing conversation to be having with my newly established partner.” Cicero mumbles, somehow managing to flush an even deeper red. “But yeah I tried earlier and it didn’t do shit.”
“It didn’t work?” Astarion frowns.
Cicero shakes his head. “Made it worse if anything. Almost like my body was punishing me from trying to deal with it myself, stupid as that sounds.”
“So you didn’t-”
“I wish I did.” Cicero wheezes a laugh. “But no.”
“When did this start darling?” Astarion asks, his hand resting upon Cicero’s chest, stroking it softly as he moans in response.
“I think… when we were leaving the gauntlet? It came on suddenly after we went exploring around. It wasn’t as bad as this but it just felt like I was slightly more turned on than usual for no reason. It hit the worst as we got back.”
Astarion frowns as he wracks his brain trying to discern the cause of this perpetual state of unenjoyable arousal. But nothing was out of the ordinary… he hadn’t inhaled anything or touched that could have poisoned him seeing as the rest of them were alright. Nor could he have ingested anything strange-
And then it dawned on him.
That fucking spider.
How humorous Cicero thought it would be to gorge himself on a putrid, dead spider in the orthons abode. Ever the comedian trying to do stupid things just to entertain the rest of them, now biting him on the arse. This entire fiasco would be hilarious were it not idiotically stupid.
“You absolute fool.” Astarion sighs, punching the bridge of his nose in utter disbelief at the events unfolding before him.
“Oh thanks.” Cicero snorts. “Why am I?”
“Well this must be the result of that blasted spider you thought it would be funny to lick.”
“What?” Cicero frowns.
“The spider.” Astarion repeats. “It must have been laced with some kind of… aphrodisiac. A succubus spittle perhaps, I can’t say.”
A strangled wheeze of a laugh escapes the half-elf’s throat, desperately trying to act with his usual aloofness even in this fevered delirium of his own (accidental) concoction.
“It tasted like shit too. Did a fucking great job there didn’t I? Remind me never to try and entertain you all again.”
Astarion chuckles at his joke, which quickly turns to a frown when the sound of a pained whine turned moan escapes his lips. Immediately growing more concerned with each passing groan that leaves his throat that he obviously can’t hold back.
“Fuck… Astarion it’s getting worse… I don’t know what to do.” Cicero almost whimpers out, gritting his teeth together and exhaling like a feral animal.
And honestly as much as Astarion loathes to admit this to himself, he doesn’t quite know what to do either. Being the victim of ingesting succubi fluids wasn’t quite his typical haunt. Though, it doesn’t take a genius to piece together what the best course of action is in such a bizarre situation. His body apparently screaming for something other than his own hand.
There’s only one last thing Astarion can think of as a solution. One that wasn’t really ideal. He clears his throat and lowers his voice to a hushed one, slowly pulling down the covers to yet again reveal his trousers.
“Then allow me… to help you.”
“What… what do you mean by that?” Cicero mutters, squinting his eyes in a confused manner and Astarion doesn’t know if it’s his usual airheadedness or the incredulous arousal that’s affecting his comprehensive skills. Nevertheless, Astarion’s responds by stroking his hand up to lightly stroke his inner thigh.
“Let me give you release.” He whispers, leaning in even further to his body. After all, navigating one’s body and finding a partners pleasure points was his expertise for the past 200 years.
And for the first time in… well ever really, he’s met with resistance, a frenzied shake of Ciceros head with a simple command.
“No.”
A whimper escapes his throat as his cock throbs painfully in his trousers based upon the way his hand unconsciously begins reaching towards it before stopping again. Body fighting against him as he shakes his head and pleads out.
“No… no please no…”
Astarion takes a deep breath. “Cicero you need-“
“I don’t need you nearby me. You’re making this worse.” He snarls out through gritted teeth, shooting him a glare that all but dissolves the very minute those eyes meet his own. Almost as if the lust overpowering his body cries out in opposition despite his very wishes, begging for the vampires presence.
Cicero counteracts by throwing the back of his hand against his Greek nose in a hectic yet fruitless attempt to block out Astarion’s apparent odour that is causing him some trouble.
“Oh Gods…Your scent is driving me insane Star…”
“Darling I’m not leaving you in a state like this.” Astarion implores fervently. “Cicero you’re all but bursting at the seams. This isn’t right.”
“Really? I hadn’t fucking noticed!”
Astarion takes a deep breath, trying his best not to bite back and hold his tongue, no matter how much Cicero was beginning to get on his nerves.
Cicero shakes his head and whispers out a confession, voice shaking like he was on the verge of tears.
“I just… I don’t want to have sex. Not now, not like this. I want for that to be special… when you’re also ready for it. Not like some animal in heat.”
Astarion doesn’t quite know what to say, nor does he know why his stomach twists at his words. Truthfully, he still isn’t ready to commit in that way and Cicero in his desperate state, that all but requires that side of him, still doesn’t ask it of him. It means a lot, truly, but he finds himself uncaring of his own needs for a moment and too focused upon helping Cicero find some peace.
“I… appreciate it. More than I can really express to you. But quite frankly I’m worried how much worse you’ll get if we don’t… do something.”
Astarion watches as Cicero flops his head back against his pillow and finally gives into his bodily needs. He studies the expression across the half-elves face, one of apprehension and perhaps guilt. The desperation becoming too much to handle with tears that well up as he’s forced to submit to his desires lest this all gets infinitely worse.
“I… Please just… use your hand.”
Astarion nods, stroking his face before replying back with a smile. “Of course.”
The vampire steels himself before bringing his hand to slowly trail down Cicero’s bare chest and stomach, something his fingers have explored time and time again during copious make-out sessions. Hooking into the waistband of his trousers and slowly pulling them down his legs until they are neatly placed to the side. His hidden arousal even more prominent with only one small layer covering. Every movement is slow and gentle.
As soon as that last clothing is pulled away, his eyes widen at the arousal pulsating before him, springing free and pointing up towards him. Thick and swollen, pearlescent beads of pre-cum that continues leaking like an endless supply from his alarmingly red head. He’s never seen him so vulnerable in his nakedness quite like this before, having only seen glances of his cock when bathing in a nearby lake. Never hard and weeping like this. It’s a mouth-watering sight, his cock is one of the most beautiful he’s ever witnessed in all his centuries of pleasing such appendages with his mouth, hand and body. Well-endowed in thickness and not too large in length, the perfect size. It twitches under his watchful gaze, throbbing wildly with a heart-beat of its own that he really can’t stop staring at.
Astarion feels his own body responding to the pheromones that plague the air… the desire that courses through his frozen veins that all but begs for him to free himself from his own trousers bonds and sit atop him. To take that gorgeous arousal inside-
No. Not now. Not yet. Those Godsdamned hormones infiltrating and manipulating his mind into wanting such things he’s not ready for. Instead, he smiles up at Cicero, who tries to settle his own breathing, eyeing up his own erection with a coquettish glance.
“Well… what a beautiful sight this is indeed.” Astarion whispers out, attempting to settle his nerves with a smile of his own. But all of his own bravado is merely a mask to try and ease the half-elf to a less heightened, alert state of self-consciousness and humiliation.
“You’re such a big boy, aren’t you darling?”
Astarion notices as Cicero blushes an even darker shade of red, remaining uncharacteristically speechless in his sudden bareness before the vampires eyes. Averting his gaze from both his newly exposed erection and away from his lovers eyes.
“I…” He remains speechless in the face of Astarion’s teasing, his lower lip passing between his teeth nervously, chewing upon it.
“Look at me pet.” Astarion says softly, a hand coming to settle under Cicero’s chin, brushing against his beard as he makes eye contact with him once again. “No need to be ashamed remember. Nor is there any need to worry… you’re in quite capable, talented hands.”
“Wow modest too what a- ahh~”
A moan escapes Cicero’s hand when Astarion’s begins touching him gently, catching the pre-cum with the top of his thumb and uses it to help aid the friction of his hand.
“There we go… does my hand feel good dearest? I can feel you throbbing…” Astarion takes a second to compose himself, steadying his voice when a lecherous moan is pulled from Ciceros throat. His ears picking up on the subtle sound of his heart racing from his touch, the delectable crimson nectar rushing with purpose to his already hardened loins. His own body reacting slightly at the sights and sounds before him. Cicero replies with something, but he doesn’t quite hear it, singularity focused upon finding that spot, that specific part that intoxicated him quicker than all the alcohol he frequently indulges on a borderline concerning level.
Astarions hand continues at a steady pace, stroking up and down with expertise that requires no effort whatsoever. As it continues that familiar motion, it falls into a routine. The show of intimacy. Up and down… squeezing slightly and gauging the reaction from the gasp… ah, yes he enjoys that. Now to rinse and repeat, to use the fingers to tease the sensitive head, slide the palm across the ridge, play with the fore-skin… easy, instinctive, effortless-
“Star… Astarion…”
But then Cicero whines out his name and it pulls him back to the moment somehow unlike every other time before. There’s a moment of whiplash as he’s thrust mentally back into the drivers seat. Familiarising himself with what is happening as he feels Cicero’s warm hand stop his movements and pull his hand away from where it is wrapped around his arousal. It’s a gentle touch. It’s confusing.
Astarion looks into Cicero’s eyes for guidance, perhaps even expecting some form of hostility at his dissociation, but is met in return with adoration and care.
“Are you okay? Are you with me?”
Astarion takes a deep breath and nods, his own voice uncharacteristically subdued, cracking under the weight of fear and judgement.
“I… I’m sorry I… I didn’t mean to-”
Cicero interrupts tenderly. “I’m not mad, Melith nín. But I could tell you I lost you for a moment. I just…. I wanted to bring you back to me, to make sure that you’re okay.” Cicero tries his best to sound as collected as one possibly can under the effects of a debilitating aphrodisiac. It perplexes Astarion that even in his most vulnerable state he cared for how the vampire was feeling. That even in this painfully aroused state he still worried for Astarion’s wellbeing and his boundaries.
How could a man like him possibly exist?
Astarion replies back determinedly, eager to show back the same amount of care that Cicero held for him.
“No darling I’m fine. Thank you. Let me continue, I can manage this just fine.”
“Are you sure?” Cicero asks again.
The vampire nods. “I promise. I’m here with you, I’m here to help you.”
The half-elf nods and with that he continues again, but this time it’s different. He realises how aware of everything, how beautiful the sounds coming from Cicero’s throat sound, how much his thighs tense and relax in a constant feedback loop and how hot he feels to the touch. Then it hits him, that he can’t quite remember the last time that he can recall every vivid detail of his partners reaction to his touch in such a setting. Having usually retreated back into that compartmentalised section of his mind during such acts, a last-ditch attempt at comfort to protect his fractured soul.
And he loves it. He loves the way in which Cicero looks up at him with pleading eyes, with a flushed face and eyebrows that twitch into an expression of pure nirvana with each passing second. He loves the soft call of his name that all but threatens Astarion’s heart to beat once again paired with the ghost-like sensation of what little memory he can recall of blushing cheeks. By this point the routine would be well underway, he would usually be spouting off such rehearsed lines of seduction that he knew, without a doubt, worked a treat to drag the other closer to the finish line of climax. Whispering them with a perfectly tested husk in his throat to drive them mad with carnal craving. Yet instead he finds himself at a loss, all such phrases having eradicated themselves from his vocabulary, replaced instead with gentle words that are as genuine as they are soft.
Astarion pays attention how Cicero responds to each individual touch of his touch, to each glide of his fingers, palm and wrist movement against his length. Smiling to himself when Cicero shivers from each action of his hand.
“Yes… ahh fuck… Astarion….”
“There we are… does that help?” Astarion asks gently, his other hand cupping his cheek, tracing the tip of his thumb against the deep scar decorating his cheek to his nose.
“I hate this…” Cicero whines, a moan spilling from his lips as he casts his head back against the damp pillow.
“Charming.” Astarion chuckles. “And here I thought I was doing quite a good job.”
“No… no not your touch that feels~ mmm~ amazing. I hate how embarrassing this-”
“Ah shh shh shh.” Astarion coos, his free hand settling in the man’s damp locks, running through the tangled hair in attempts to soothe him better. “None of that. Just focus on me, my voice, my touch.”
“I always focus on your voice…” Cicero confesses with closed eyes, a moan following in tow before lowering it to a quiet hum. “Gods it does things to me I didn’t think was possible.”
Astarion smirks, fingertips stroking teasingly across each individual vein along his shaft. “My voice? Is that so… how very interesting… seems we may have to put that to the test one day.”
“Oh fuck off.” Cicero jokes admist his lust, his tell-tale snark returning playfully as another moan is dragged from his throat, when deft fingers wrap around the base and begin slowly pumping along the shaft again.
“Gods above… it feels good. So… so good Star…” Cicero sobs out, lost in the abyss of pleasure that continues its pursuit to completely engulf the cleric.
“That makes me very pleased to hear.”
Quite honestly, he too finds himself wishing that this was all under different circumstances. Because Cicero was right, he didn’t feel comfortable doing this for himself yet. He wanted to, he desperately wished to “make love” in the ways that Cicero all but gushed over like the romantic he was. But there would be a time and place for that when it was right.
Yet still, the very best he can do for his lover is to provide him some semblance of relief. And do his utmost to ignore the pheromones that are assaulting his salivary glands and nostrils in the process.
Cicero’s mouth falls agape and makes no effort now to conceal the moans that plague his throat. Unable to even try and steady those sounds of pure exhilaration and exhalation, chanting Astarion’s name with the remnants of a devoted prayer that Ilmater himself would envy. And yet Astarion can feel Cicero trying his best to stifle that upcoming release that is more than evident from the exacerbated breaths of air and the twitching muscles. His limbs tense, recoiling like a snake as if ready to pounce, teeth gritted in almost pained expression as he unwillingly leaks more and more onto his palm. The seam fit to burst, the slackened tether holding back the tsunami of wanton thirst.
And yet still he refuses to let himself come.
“Cicero I can feel you need to release.”
“I…”
“Darling it’s going to help you, stop fighting it.” Astarion grins and leans in further. “Do you need some encouragement?”
Cicero doesn’t reply, but the way his arousal betrays him, twitching in response against Astarion’s hand all but answers his query. The rogue follows up. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“You don’t understand…” Cicero starts. “Fuck- I will paint your entire fucking hand with it.”
Astarion cant help but let free a small laugh at the hyperbole.
“I’d certainly like to see you try.” Astarion counters and watches his hand pick up the pace as he whispers. “Cum for me. You can cum as much as you need.”
Cicero reaches out, his voice babbling incoherently, eyebrows knitted together in a frown of pleasure as he grasps at Astarion’s curls with a little more gusto than perhaps he had meant. Normally such treatment with the vampires perfectly groomed locks would result in a disapproved tut. But instead he finds himself rather enjoying the rough grabbing, a grand juxtaposition to Cicero’s much usual gentle giant nature. A dynamic perhaps he would be more intrigued to explore at a later time.
“Star…”
Cicero begins stumbling over his words as the edge of bliss falls beneath his feet, crying Astarion’s shortened little pet name with a fervour that no one has ever quite replicated before.
“Kiss me… please.” Cicero pleads with a desperate tone, one that completely doesn’t match the strong grip against his shirt.
Astarion smiles and leans in closer, whispering against his lips. “Of course.”
It’s an albeit sloppier kiss than their usual shared ones, Cicero all but losing his composure the minute their lips meet together. Aching for Astarion’s taste, eager to consume his very essence through the rhythmic waltz of their tongues. And it would be a blatant lie for Astarion to deny how easily he too gets swept up in it all, intoxicated on the nectar of his lips, high from the scent of his sweat, complete from the sensation of his touch.
Cicero pulls away rather hastily as his orgasm hits him, thrashing about in his bedroll as rapture bestows itself upon him. His expression one of blissful release. The beautiful sounds of his climax choking in his throat as Astarion feels and watches his hot seed release all over his hands.
…And it just doesn’t seem to end. Spurt after spurt following in its wake and the vampire is quite certain he’s never seen so much release all at once before, a never-ending supply of his semen that’s long been begging to be released since he consumed that tainted flesh. It supposedly wasn’t a hyperbole after all when Cicero warned him about painting the entirety of his hand. Droplets he couldn’t quite catch dropping down the length to pool between his legs and settle upon his stomach hairs, staining his tanned skin a glossy white. A layer of his thick, sticky seed coating the span of his palm and fingers, incredibly hotter in temperature than what it should be under normal circumstances.
“Goodness look at you… eager little thing.” Astarion bites his lip slightly at the messy sight he’s made and hums out another laugh. “Seems you really weren’t joking after all.”
But as Cicero basks in the afterglow, his words all but fallen upon deaf ears in foreign euphoric lands, it’s more than evident that his hardness is very much still present. His cock standing just as erect as before, refusing to relent even after the intense orgasm that’s rendered the man fatigued and borderline intelligible. With yet another groan, uncaring of his own mess, Cicero takes another heavy breath and looks down at himself, the over-stimulation no doubt as prevalent as ever. Cock all but throbbing with the same level of intensity even after his long-awaited release.
“Shit… Ah~ S-star… it’s not easing up.” Cicero stutters out in quite the alarmed tone of voice, wavering from fear. Meanwhile Astarion keeps a stoic expression, casually cleaning his hand off with a nearby cloth as he looks down at him and smiles.
“That’s quite alright. Why don’t we try something a little different?” Astarion suggests as Cicero nods in agreement, gesturing with his hand. “Onto your front for me… yes that’s it, just like that.”
Cicero obeys, crawling onto his front, all the while Astarion begins moving and positioning some pillows and blankets just below Cicero’s crotch. Then he removes his own shirt, placing it just in front of Cicero head, wordlessly ordering for the half-elf to hold it between his fingers. Much to a bewildered looking Cicero, completely at a loss at whatever this was that they were doing.
“Now… why don’t you inhale my scent through my shirt and grind up against your pillow like a good boy for me.”
Cicero snaps his head around, sweat dripping from his face and down his neck. Quite the sight indeed, even with that expression of unadulterated shock.
“You must be joking?” Cicero responds, completely and utterly baffled by Astarion’s suggestion.
“Yes darling because now of all times is when I’ve decided to become quite the comedian.” Astarion’s rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “You need to trust me, perhaps this will work better if we trick your body into believing you’re… well… having sex. If we stimulate your mind somehow with the actions of penetration without actually carrying it out.”
Cicero stares at Astarion with a wide open mouth, still at a loss for words. “Oh you’re taking the absolute piss right now aren’t you?”
“Go on…” Astarion leans forward and whispers up against his ear, one hand stroking along each well defined muscle tensing across his back. “Pretend it’s me… pretend that lovely pillow up against you is me underneath you… begging for more… for your delicious cock.”
Astarion takes a sharp inhale breath through his teeth, trying to stifle the arousal in his own stomach. He continues to whisper in Cicero’s ear, the playful flicker of his tongue against the pointed tip.
“Pretend it’s me that you’re fucking… that you’re deep inside me…”
Cicero moans at Astarion’s teasing, then smiles and lets free an incredulous laugh.
“Fucked up bit of foreplay this-”
“Shut up darling and do as I say for once.”
Cicero nods and leans forward, awkwardly positioning himself over a pillow that Astarion all but bundled up against his still aching arousal. Slowly he begins finding his rhythm, hips moving back and forth, pressing hard up against the perfectly placed pillow. His own pre-ejaculate staining and aiding his movements.
All the while Astarion watches unable to tear his eyes away from the rather attractive sight, noting the way that Cicero inhales deeply against his shirt, clutching it like a widow clinging to their old lovers shirt. So clearly aroused by his natural smell. Quite honestly the vampire can’t help but watch his hips and rear, rolling against the pillow that the one part of his mind all but wishes he could replace with himself.
“That’s it… good boy.”
Cicero all but whines at the praise that Astarion has come to learn he adores so greatly, the very same words and phrases that have a chokehold upon the vampire himself, not that he’d ever admit to it. Realistically, with the insane tempo of his gyrating hips and the fuzzy mindset that Cicero all but found himself in for the past few hours begging for release, Astarion knows he’s not going to last much longer.
“Star… fuck… fuck!”
“That’s it my boy… just like that.”
And true to his calculations, Cicero’s second release of the night hits and takes his coherency hostage for a few more seconds of pure bliss. With another prolonged keen and a whine that’s all but been dislodged from his throat in the process, forehead furrowing and falling against the pillow. The blanket bundled beneath him all but painted white, though is somewhat less of an excess than Astarion’s own hand was less than 10 minutes ago. Astarion can feel his own arousal beneath tight leather begging to join him in the afterglow, but his mind wins the battle against such lust, instead bringing his hand to settle in Cicero’s damp hair. Petting him lovingly, pacifying as best he can while the half-elf rides the last remnants of utter rapture.
There are a few moments more before Cicero groggily raises his head with great effort, rolling over onto his back and meeting Astarion’s eye with his characteristic smirk returning. Astarion merely smiles back with the same level of reverence as the half-elf.
“There we are. Are we feeling quite back to our normal, somewhat idiotic self again?” He asks with a playful smile, before adding another quip to his teasing repertoire. “Balls finally empty?”
Cicero nods lethargically, his body boneless and completely spent. The multiple climaxes catching up on his fragile body that is no longer imbued and controlled with pure carnal and primal lust. Eyelids struggling to keep aloft in the absolute fatigue and torpid state he now resided in.
“Good. Now let’s get you cleaned up.” Astarion says as he grabs the same cloth from before, guiding it between his legs. Cicero swipes his hand away in a rather meagre attempt, all usual strength having disappeared, his voice slurring somewhat as he partially returns back to the mortal realm once again, back in control of his body.
“I can do it…” Cicero replies back with a clear husk in his throat, the ramifications of his earlier moans and groans.
“Yes I’m sure you can darling.” Astarion chides playfully before continuing his hand, despite Cicero’s protests. “But as it stands, you’re in no position to look after yourself right now, seeing as your legs have quite literally given way after your orgasm.”
Astarion’s hand glides across the skin, cleaning him up with a continued gentle touch as before, stopping only at the sound of Cicero’s quiet voice.
“Star?”
“Yes Cicero?”
Cicero gulps and looks away, almost ashamed as he whispers.
“I’m sorry… I’m so… so-“
Astarion stops him with a wordless raise of his hand, his face serious and words stern. “None of that my dear.”
“No you don’t understand.” Cicero huffs out.
“Cicero I won’t ask-”
“No just fucking hear me out okay?” Cicero all but exasperates, taking another deep breath when Astarion closes his mouth and meets his eyes. “This wasn’t how I wanted us to… to do anything remotely like that. I fucked up. This was all supposed to be special… to be saved for when both you and I felt ready to explore this kind of thing. I’ve let you down. I’m sorry.”
And yet as Cicero sits there with glassy eyes that are too ashamed to meet his own gaze, Astarion can’t help but fall deeply head over heels for him all over again. Like the love-sick fool that he apparently had become the very second the cleric smiled and offered a kind word with no hidden agenda behind. The long-forgotten, once believed to be dead, hopeless romantic emerging that once resided in his young teenage elf self.
Ah… that was what it felt to be breathless…
So Astarion instead just shakes his head and smiles.
“Cicero pet, as much as I love being right I’m very much not enthusiastic in this case. I wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t wanted to help you. Quite honestly I found myself far more worried about you than me, strangely enough.”
Cicero perks his head at those words, taking a few moments to just read Astarion’s expression. When he’s met with nothing but pure truth, an almost light laugh escapes his lips, shaking his head with a beaming expression he can’t quite conceal.
“You’re such a fucking sap sometimes. I think I’m finally rubbing off on you.”
Astarion rolls his eyes playfully, the corner of his lips twinging upwards into a subtle smirk that ruins his faux-indignation. “In all the wrong ways dear. Believe me, I’m just as disgusted hearing the words leave my own lips.”
“Well I appreciate it all the same.” Cicero laughs, retorting back with a playful jab of his own. “Besides, I suppose we will fit the stereotype someday.”
Astarion tilts his head, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. “How so?”
Cicero nods. “A vampire staked by a cleric. Though of course instead of a wooden stick that you’ll get impaled by, it’ll be my cock.”
Astarion lets out a rather ungracious snort of laughter and shakes his head. “Quite… consider my expectations very high for when we come to that, dear Cicero. I await in anticipation to see how true to your words you are as a lay.”
Cicero hums content. “Star?”
“Yes darling?”
Cicero reaches out to take Astarion’s hand in his own. The action, paired with the most natural gentle smile the half-elf all but gifts him every single day, has Astarion’s heart threaten to beat once again.
“Would you lie with me tonight?”
Astarion smiles, with that same infectious level of fondness that spreads through every fibre of his undead body, warming it up so addictively.
“Well darling, when you ask me with a smile like that…” Astarion leans down, his nose brushing up against Ciceros as he looks deep into the amber hue of his iris.
“How could I say no?”