Work Text:
*Slurp*
“Did you hear that?” Gale asks, his brows knitting together as he glances over his shoulder. The strange sound has been trailing him for a while now, yet its source remains a mystery.
“Hear what? I didn’t catch anything,” you dismiss with a shrug. Stranger things have happened on this journey—you are traveling with a walking bomb, a sassy vampire, a sexy bear, and a squid-head living inside a trinket. If you stopped to examine every suspicious sound, you’d never get anything done, let alone defeat the Absolute.
“Oh, hey! A chest.”
After an exhausting day of scouring this godforsaken, stinky, disgusting sewage of the Undercity, this is the first item that seems somewhat valuable. Naturally, you are thrilled by the discovery.
“A trap, more like,” Gale remarks dryly. “You can’t seriously think that trip wire, those iron bars, and that obnoxiously polished lock are just for decorations, can you?”
He’s not wrong. The chest sits inside a heavy iron cage bolted to the stone floor, a thin wire stretched between the cage door and the chest. One wrong move and the wire will snap—but whatever it triggers is impossible to know.
“But we’ve found nothing useful all day!” You protest. “Lae’Zel will be livid if we return empty-handed again.”
“Ahem, pet,” Astarion chimes in, “I have to point out that we’re down to our last few thief’s tools. Are we really wasting them on this?”
“Check this out,” Halsin says, crouching beside the cage as he examines a narrow hole in the stone. “The opening leads underneath. You can crawl through and bypass the lock.”
You glance at the hole, then at your companions—the way they hold their arms while staring at you leaves little doubt about who’s being volunteered for this unpleasant task.
“Don’t worry,” Gales says with an apologetic smile. “I’ll cast Reduce—it will make things easier.”
And so he does. The spell takes effect, shrinking you to the size of a gremlin, and you squeeze through the hole, grumbling as you crawl forward. Just as you are about to reach the chest, something shifts—
“A—choo!”
The sneeze echoes behind you—It’s from Gale. His concentration breaks, sending you stumbling on your own feet as your body abruptly returns to its full size, limbs tangling as you’re thrown off balance.
“I thought Mystra would shield you from common colds, Gale,” Astarion quips.
“First of all, Mystra is the Goddess of Magic, not medicine,” Gale retorts. “And secondly, it’s not a cold—it’s seasonal allergies…”
“Stop bickering, you two—”
Something doesn’t feel right.
“Is it just me,” you mutter, wiping sweat from your brow, “or does it suddenly become hot in here?” Your head spins, your cheeks burning, your pulse quickening. Wasn’t the Undercity supposed to be cooler? Why does it feel like someone has lit a furnace under your skin?
“Ur… Love…” You hear a tad of uneasiness in Astarion’s voice. He points to the chest, now wide open, from which a puff of shimmering dust just escaped and formed a golden cloud that swirls lazily in the air.
Tiny, yellow particles land on your lashes, your nose, your lips. Instinctively, you swipe them off, the residue sticking to your fingers. You taste it on the tip of your tongue—
Oh no. Oh shit.
Whoever set this trap, the evil genius must have thought it a brilliant joke to fill an entire chest with goddamn sex pollen—enough to drown a dragon, wire it to the trip line, and make it an irresistible bait to lure in unsuspecting adventures like you.
“Get me out of here, Gale!” You yell, panic rising as the heat accumulates in your body, turning your skin red and steaming like a lobster fresh out of the pot. Sweat streams down your face and chest, soaking through your shirt.
“Okay, okay, let me—” Gale fumbles with his spell book, flipping pages hastily. Then he freezes, giving you an apologetic look.
“WHAT?”
“I… uh… I run out of spell slots.” He scratches his head with a sheepish smile.
Goddamn wizards. It’s moments like this when you regret not letting Gale blow himself up when Mystra told him to.
Your hands claw at your neck as an unbearable itchiness travels across your body—from your neck to your arms, then everywhere. Your nails leave on your skin a trail of angry red marks, and your legs wiggle as you try to overcome a deeper, more insistent itch at one of your more sensitive spots that has quickly become impossible to ignore.
You catch Astarion smirking—it probably won’t help but you’d really like to throw a handful of that pollen right in his smug face.
“Okay, I got something!” Gale exclaims, producing a different book from seemingly nowhere. “Pollinis Eroticus, or commonly referred to as sex pollen, is gathered from a rare kind of flower found only in the Underdark…”
“TO THE POINT, GALE !”
“Yes, yes—in short, the only remedy you need is to douse yourself in five gallons of firewire for at least ten seconds. Do you have five gallons of firewire?”
Oh, thank the gods. Who’s the thoughtful genius now for carrying a 20-kilogram firewire barrel everywhere?
You grab the barrel and rip it open, not bothering with a pry bar at all—an unknowing observer may mistake you for a barbarian. Lifting it over your head, you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the sharp, cooling sting of alcohol showering over your burning skin—
Nope.
Instead of firewire, something wet and hot splats against your face. Slowly lowering the barrel, your hands reach for this thing on your face—something alive. You open your eyes, and you lock gazes with the drooling face of a kobold.
A very drunk, very confused kobold, that you are now holding above your head.
So that’s where the *slurp* came from.
Fuck. Why is it so fucking hot in here? And… why does this kobold look, kind of …hot?
Your sweat-soaked shirt clings to you like a soggy cabbage leaf, touching your skin—and your nipples. You peel it off in a frenzy—normally you’d act more prudently, but these very times require very measures. The itch is no longer just under your skin. It’s burrowing underneath you, crawling its way to somewhere deep, deep inside your body.
Outside the iron bars, Astarion has doubled over in laughter, collapsing against the wall.
“STOP FUCKING LAUGHING AND DO SOMETHING !” You are practically shouting at him.
“Alright, alright, darling,” he said, blinking away tears of amusement from his eyes, his hands still trembling as he pulls out the last three of his thief’s tools. “Let’s get you out of there before you… auto-combust.”
Calm down. Calm down. No big deal. I will be out in no time.
As Astarion works on the lock, sweat pours from your head like a malfunctioning fountain. Unfortunately, it’s not the only place leaking—a shameful wetness begins to seep between your legs. At this rate, your pants will soon join the drenched mess that was your shirt. You pray frantically to every god you’ve ever heard of—
CRITICAL FAILURE.
The thief’s tool breaks with a sharp snap that sounds like the gods mocking you in the face.
“Just… try again—” You grit out the words through clenched teeth. You’re on the verge of tears, but you will it back—there’s enough liquid leaking out of you already.
“I am!” Astarion seems to have finally realised the gravity of your situation. “You’re distracting.” He glances at you, then at Gale, “GALE, STOP PACING. You’re not helping.”
Gale paces back-and-forth like a broken wind-up toy. His eyes dart everywhere but in your direction. Normally, you’d feel some sense of embarrassment, but right now you’re too deep in horny hell to care.
Also, where the hell is Halsin?
Your eyes lower to the kobold still writhing in your grip. Its drunken stupor seems to have worn off, replaced by sheer terror and shock. Perhaps marinating in a barrel of firewire has blessed—or cursed—it with an immunity to sex pollen, because it looks anything but aroused.
Its tongue though. So lithe, so velvety.
You shut your eyes tight. Auntie Ethel, Thisobald Thorm—You are invoking the memory of every unpleasant encounter to fight against the intrusive thought of locking lips—and tongues—with the kobold. Malus Thorm, Mind flayers—No, stop! Don’t think about the squid-head. Oh, the tentacles…
Meanwhile, the poor creature squirms with all its strength, desperate to escape. Is that… is that disgust in its beady, cunning eyes?
*Snap*
FAILURE, again. You hear it as clearly as you hear another straw snapping in the fragile structure that holds your sanity.
Astarion curses under his breath, starting to lose his cool when the second thief’s tool breaks as well.
Should have brought ShadowHeart. At least she could have cast guidance or something.
“One last chance,” Astarion takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers before pulling out his final tool.
Please, please, please, please, please.
“We should’ve packed more lock-picks…” Gale mutters, halting mid-sentence as he catches a glimpse of you, his eyes widening and his face blanching in horror. “Oh, for Mystra’s sake, PUT THAT DAMN THING DOWN !”
You blink at him, confused, before realising you’re holding the kobold’s head against your chest. Somehow, in your delirium, you started using its face to wipe away the sweat streaming down your torso. But the way its mouth presses against your skin—it feels so…really good. Even in a distance, you can hear Gale’s mental image of you shattering into a million pieces, but that’s not the priority right now.
Fuck, what is taking Astarion so long?
You feel a humiliating wave of moisture pooling below, threatening to drip down from your thighs. You twist your legs into an ‘X’, praying it’s enough to stop the wetness from leaving a visible stain on your pants.
Is that a look of pity in the eyes of that kobold? Is this creature even intelligent enough to comprehend the tragedy of this moment?
Well, this one may be. To be fair, you are not sure what it’s more sorry for: itself, or you, or the cold, unfeeling universe responsible for putting together this series of unlucky coincidences. You might very well be the first person in the entire Faerûn to witness a very depressed kobold going through an existential crisis.
“Alright, darling, I almost got this—” Astarion seems confident. Thank gods. “Just a moment more—Halsin! No!”
You look up just in time to see Halsin—who’s been unusually quiet until now—shifting into his animal form.
Fuck me. Should really have brought ShadowHeart instead of Halsin today—or, ‘Bear-sin’.
Halsin’s transformation isn’t the smoothest, or the most graceful; in the process, he knocks over Astarion, sending the latter to trip and snap the final thief’s tool inside the lock.
CRITICAL FAILURE.
Your eyes widen instinctively from Halsin’s newly revealed bear anatomy—his massive erection standing proudly like a fucking Mage Tower. Somewhere in the recesses of your brain, an informative voice whispers: A bear’s sense of smell is over 1,000 times better than a human’s. The sex pollen must have sneaked its way into Halsin’s nostrils, its effect promptly amplified by his ‘inhuman perception’.
Gale stands absolutely still with a frozen expression on his face, doing everything in his power to avoid landing his gaze on either you or Halsin as if a single glimpse could taint his eyes like never before.
“I’m sorry,” Halsin rumbles, “I don’t mean it. It’s out of my control.” If not for his ‘Mage Tower' that casts a shadow over your face, you’d swear you hear an unusual shyness in his voice.
Astarion, meanwhile, has lost it. He’s rolling on the ground, laughing so hard that he’s gasping for breath—not that he needs it.
“Did you catch Tasha’s Hideous Laughter, or are you just an arse?” You growl at him. Gods. You’d pay a thousand gold to see this smug bastard suffering the same conditions as you.
“EVERYONE, CALM THE HELL DOWN !” Gale decides to be an adult and stops the absurdity, his hands firmly planted over his eyes. “Stop acting like children and THINK! There must be some way to get her out of there.”
Whatever's happening here is decidedly not ‘being children’, though.
“Okay, I got an idea!” Gale announces, his face flushing pink. You’re not sure if it’s from the excitement of inspiration, or… something else.
“Do you have arrows of transposition?” He asks.
You fumble through your bag frantically. “Yes, I got one!”
“Perfect. Now aim at the floor. Remember, do not fire at any one of us, or…”
Okay, okay, okay… The rest of Gale’s instructions dissolve into a mush in your pollen-fogged brain. How hard could it possibly be to hit the floor with an arrow, right? Even though you have the dexterity of a beached sea lion?
Breathe in, breathe out.
You draw a shaky breath, legs still twisted in an awkward position to prevent further leakage—not exactly the ideal stance for firing an arrow, but you will manage. Your hands struggle to pull the bowstring while clutching the bow at a bizarre angle as if you are tucking something under your armpit—why and what are you tucking under your armpit again?
You know one of those moments when you are so occupied in your head, that you just mindlessly clutch something totally irrelevant in your hands?
The kobold is that something.
You freeze. It doesn’t.
And it’s not you who releases the arrow, it’s the kobold.
And it’s not the ground that the arrow hits, it’s Astarion.
You blink in disbelief. Instead of teleporting yourself out of this mortifying cloud of pollen, you find Astarion teleported directly into your arms.
They say kissing a frog could turn it into a prince. Apparently, daydreaming about kissing a kobold will give you a very attractive vampire—one who’s still mid-laugh when the teleportation happens and inhales a mouthful of sex pollen on arrival.
Ha! Who’s not laughing now, dumbass?
Realising what he has just breathed in, Astarion immediately clamps his mouth shut—too late. A rare shade of pink blossoms on his pallid cheeks, quickly spreading to his neck and his pointy ears.
You point at Astarion and laugh hysterically, the sound spilling out of you in an uncontrollable fashion—not the most rational thing to do, given the situation.
Or, it’s exactly what you have intended, because the next thing you know, you’re flat on your back, Astarion’s body pinning you tightly against the ground, his fangs bared just inches from your face.
“Don’t—you—laugh—” The words crawl out through his gritted teeth. His usual impeccable appearance is in complete shambles: damp strands of hair clinging messily to his forehead, his crimson eyes burning with a wild glint, and his vein bulging at his temple. He’s struggling against the overwhelming urge to suck at your neck, your bared nipples, and your cunt.
But do you really want him to fight against it?
Your two brain cells may argue so, but your slick entrance sure is voting for the opposite direction. And you decide to listen to your cunt.
“Would you punish me if I do?” You bite your lips, cupping your breasts together and teasingly press them near his face. At the same time, you wiggle free of your pants with a slow and deliberate motion.
He swallows, hard—not the only thing hard. The fabric of his pants strains against the sharp rise of a very obvious pyramid.
“As much as I’d enjoy ravishing you away from prying eyes,” Astarion growls, a dangerous edge in his voice, “I don’t mind putting on a show for our dear companions.”
You slide a hand beneath the waistband of his pants, fingers rubbing mischievously against his hardened length, a wicked smile dancing on your lips. “I don’t mind either.”
“Tsk… Naughty, naughty girl,” Astarion purrs, his fangs gleaming as he leans closer, pressing his hip into your hand, letting you feel his bulge.
“BUT I DO !” Gale cries from outside, “Gods, it’s just some pollens! Stop acting like hormonal teenagers! WAIT—NO! HALSIN! Get your paws off the kobold!”
You briefly glance up, only to see Gale in actual tears. You are willing to bet the Netherese crown that he’s mentally searching on the Weave: “Can I still practice magic if I gouge my eyes out?”
Poor Gale. Not that you have any time to notice what Halsin’s doing, but judging by Gale’s tormented voice, it’s nothing decent.
“Oh, Shut up, Gale. If you think it’s easy, feel free to fight it yourself.” Astarion, on the other hand, is neither empathetic nor patient with the wizard. Before Gale can respond, Astarion scoops up a fistful of the pollen and flicks it into Gale’s face.
Oh, poor, poor Gale.
Well, apologies are for later; cock is for now. No room for prudes in this horny jail.
You don’t wait a second longer before freeing Astarion’s erection from his trousers and give it a tentative stroke, earning yourself a depraved, guttural moan. His arms are trembling, and his hip is rolling instinctively into your hand. Beads of sweat roll down from his tousled curls, tracing his jaw, before dripping from his chin. You tilt your head, holding out your sordid tongue to catch them like a thirsty leaf drinking in morning dew.
“Fuck it,” he curses under his breath, the last straw of his restraint snapping in two. His fangs sink into your neck, sending a sharp sting that soon dissolves into something sinfully pleasant. At the same time, his hips thrust harder into your hand, his movements raw and relentless.
Congrats. You’ve now got two more holes leaking fluid from your body. At this point, the owner of this place should charge you for water damage. Perhaps you could make amends by putting one of those holes to good use—plugging it with something solid, something veiny, something that’s already in your hand?
You guide his shaft to your greedy, flooding opening, sliding its head in your entrance—that’s enough invitation for Astarion to slam his cock all the way in. His generous width grazes relentlessly against the spot deep inside you, drawing out shameless moans from your throat. In the corner of your eyes, you see Gale desperately reaching a hand into his robe.
Astarion follows your glance, his lips curling into a wicked smirk— “Watch and learn, Gale.”
“Fuck you, Astarion.” Gale grits his teeth, flipping a middle finger with his free hand. His face is so red it looks like he’s about to explode—if Elminster hasn’t talked him into the kamikaze mission, this might just have.
“And you—” Astarion turns his attention back to you. “You will keep your eyes on me, pet.” He slides a hand over your chin, tilting your head slightly to lock your gaze with his, relishing the obscene look on your face as he fucks you senseless with his ruthless thrusts.
“Please, Astarion. Please, please…” You beg, your voice getting louder and more depraved, any concept of embarrassment long erased from your dictionary. Thoughts and reason have all vaporised, leaving only the all-consuming sensation of him—his length filling you fully, stretching you in ways that leave you trembling. You’re so, so close.
With a final, desperate moan that sounds almost like a wail, pleasure crashes over you like thunder. Your body clenches, walls spasming violently around him, pulsing with such intensity it feels as though you are trying to squeeze every last drop he has. For a moment, the fog lifts from your mind, your senses returning to you. You glance around the room, breath still uneven. In the dim corner, you spot Gale—his face against the wall, his shoulders upheaving as his hands move frantically beneath his trousers.
You try to push yourself up and see how Halsin’s holding up, but before you can get onto your elbows, Astarion pins you back to the floor with an effortless shove.
“Oh darling,” he smirked, “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Well, In that case… Halsin can wait.
“What happened? Why do you look so pale, Gale?” Wyll asks with genuine concern when you finally make it back to the camp.
“Nothing,” Gale replies, forcing a brittle smile. You have all decided to keep your mouths absolutely shut about today’s events.
“Oh shit, has your cold gotten worse?”
“I said it’s an allergy!” Gale snaps, his pitch unusually high. It’s so out of character for him that it makes Wyll blink in surprise. But then again, none of you are quite yourselves after today.
“Okay, okay. Chill out, dude.” Wyll says with a shrug and a raise of brows. Oh, sweet, oblivious Wyll. Sometimes ignorance truly is a blessing.
“Anyway, it’s been a long day,” he continues. “Shadowheart and I are about to crack open a barrel of fire wine. Wanna join?”
“A barrel of what—?” Gale freezes, his eyes widening, face paler than ever.
“Fire wine, from the monastery.”
*Slurp*
“I G N I S !”