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sillypelagicredcrab · 25 days

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sex pollen fic

Pairing: Rowan Desai & Círdan (characters in the dnd party i’m in lol)

Warnings: sex… pollen…. sex pollen… overuse of hyphens and generally inaccurate depiction of gay butt sex… dubcon? (because pollen)

A/N: this is not going to be an enriching or satisfying read to anyone who does not know these characters i’m so sorry. but still read it please :D

——————

Rowan was gone.

Círdan had awoken from his trance, looked to his right, and seen sheets thrown back on a vacant bed. Laying on the bedside table was a precariously balanced pile of leather outer armor that his unwilling roommate had shed earlier in the night, but the man himself was nowhere to be found, the slight cave in his mattress and his left-behind leathers being the only indication that he was ever even there.

Círdan stared blankly at the empty mattress for a few beats before wheels and cogs finally began to turn in his brain. He was gone. Why was he gone?

The room was completely silent.

There was an empty spot, Círdan noticed, on the table beside the pile of armor and he was positive that Rowan’s dagger had been placed there when they had first retired to the room. The paladin had entered, faced the wall, stripped himself of his protective gear, and then placed his blade on the table, and the only reason that Círdan is certain this happened is because he’d been watching the other man’s movements intently as he de-armored himself, eyes fixated on the ripples of muscle visible when he stretched his arms. When Rowan had turned slightly to the side, Círdan quickly averted his gaze, eartips burning hot with shame.

The absence of the weapon was slightly worrying — what were the chances that Rowan had gotten into genuine trouble and had to leave armed and ready to fight? But then again, he would probably take his weapon with him on a simple midnight stroll just to have it within arm’s reach. He was fine. Probably.

Círdan chose not to worry or care too much. He was not in the mood to stress himself to the point of aneurysm only for Rowan to return nonchalantly in the morning from a nice night walk around town. Plus truthfully, he doubted Rowan would give a shit if the roles in this situation were switched. If anything, a sudden disappearance on Círdan’s part would probably just fuel Rowan’s obvious, likely prejudice-based suspicions about the Drow. It was hard to miss all of the sidelong glances and glares that Rowan loved to cast Círdan’s way, the message obvious: I don’t trust you. Every other member of the ragtag group Círdan found himself working alongside had been accepting of him despite his dark lineage, but Rowan — lone wolf, self righteous, pain in the ass Rowan — was the only one to show malice of any kind. So why should he have to give half a shit where the brute had skittered off to?

The most fucked up, anger inducing aspect of it all, however, was that Rowan was a fucking looker. He was the phrase ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ personified, but with additional adjectives added on like ‘isolated’ and ‘probably kind of racist.’ If Círdan lacked self respect, there would be nothing stopping him from diving head first into fantasies about the paladin, but the case was simple: Rowan disliked Círdan and Círdan disliked him back. The occasional glances that he stole were only natural.

A sigh sounded throughout the small bedroom as he hauled himself to the edge of the bed and touched his feet to the carpeted floor. It was soft underfoot as he walked to the wide window on the far wall, running his index along the deep ridges and etched designs on the dark stained windowsill and staring out into the shadows beyond. Unlit lamps stood tall, brittle grass brushed in the wind, the streets empty — quite the stark contrast to how lively Phandalin was in the light hours. Streets bustling with life, vendors dotting the paved roads with their carts stock full of various foodstuffs and trinkets for sale. A lovely town, truly, with just the tiniest smidge of gang activity. Pros and cons. Círdan could picture himself eventually settling in a place like this, where everyone knows everyone and everyone likes everyone, for the most part. It worked for some distant, vague future he could possibly see himself in. But for now he was fine nomadic, married to a life of travel and adventure and service to Rhemus, because that’s what he had grown familiar with. It was his own little loose routine and it defined him. He half feared that settling down would make him lose his spark. That concept scared him; he resigned to not thinking about it most days, staying wholly in the present.

With one hand propping up his head, Círdan continued to stare, slipping out of reality. He stayed that way for a while, in a sort of half-trance state, before he picked up on a subtle noise — an almost imperceptible shh shh shh coming from a direction he couldn’t quite place. He blinked once, twice, before shaking his head to regain clarity. He honed in on the sound, focused hard to try and hear it again.

Shh shh. Chh.

He craned his neck back to stare at the door, nearly positive that that was where the sound was coming from. Heartbeat quickening, he stared, noticing the subtle shift of the doorknob, as if someone was struggling to enter. Círdan ghosted his hand over the dagger still attached to the belt draped across his waist.

With a creak, the door slid open painfully slowly. Instead of a criminal, it was Rowan who staggered in, and he looked like a mess. Certainly the most disheveled Círdan has ever seen him during their short tenure as colleagues — and that was saying a lot, as they’d gone through strenuous battle together.

His hair was slick with sweat at his forehead, stuck in thin strands against his skin. He was leaning against the doorframe, fists clenched, gaze downcast.

Círdan just stared, unsure of what to do or say. Clearly something was wrong with the man, but he couldn’t tell what. There were no visible wounds or tears in his garments, but his eyes were half lidded like he was on the verge of collapse.

“Rowan?”

His gaze snapped up to meet Círdan’s quickly. He looked almost startled to hear the other man speak. He didn’t respond, just stood there, hunched slightly with a heaving chest.

“Rowan?” Círdan repeated.

“You need— to leave,” Rowan finally punched out.

His voice was so strained and gravelly and genuinely urgent that Círdan felt goosebumps prickle the back of his spine.

The taller man entered the room with a stumble and headed to his bedside table. He fumbled with his waistband for a second before pulling out his dagger and placing it down. He didn’t turn around after that, stayed facing the wall behind the table, shoulders taut and full of visible tension.

“What? Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“It doesn’t matter, you— you need to go.”

Círdan was getting nervous. “Why? Is someone coming?“

“No— fuck,” Rowan cursed. His body trembled with every breath, and it was so incredibly unnatural to see a man who was normally so stoic looking like he was on the precipice of complete chaos. “Someone…. I was out…” His words were half-slurred as he tripped over them and Círdan felt urgency and dread beat harshly in his chest like a snare drum. He took a half-step back, uncertain.

“I went out…outside. Fresh air,” Rowan struggled to say, “and there was a— a Red Brand. Looking to do some kind of tradeoff, I think…” It sounded like it was taking genuine effort for him to get words out, let alone string them together coherently. He swallowed thickly, wetting his lips and turning his head slightly to the side so half of his face was revealed to Círdan. “He had these vials, was acting real sketchy. I got up, he got nervous. Emptied a— a whole vial in my face.”

“So… what?” Círdan asked, fidgeting with his sleeve nervously. “What was in the vial?”

Rowan didn’t answer, just turned his head back to stare blankly at the wall. He was relatively still, the only indicator of his inner turmoil being his hands gripping the edges of the table hard, knuckles white from the force of it.

“Rowan?“ Círdan prompted again. Silence was bad. Maybe it was poison. Maybe he was about to keel over and fucking die on the dusty inn floor.

“You need to leave,” Rowan repeated darkly.

“Stop fucking saying that. Tell me what was in the vial.”

“This is so– fucking stupid.” Rowan turned fully then. He looked frantic in the way a caged animal would be. “Why is it so important for you to know every little detail? Why can’t you just listen to me?” Beads of sweat slid down his neck, collecting on his already damp undershirt.

Círdan would have been pissed at his tone if the circumstances were different, but the pure desperation in the other man’s voice amplified his worry tenfold.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he said.

“You don’t want to help,” Rowan huffed, voice lifting at the end of his short sentence, almost like he was holding back a dry laugh.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t understand. You don’t… shit—“ Rowan’s voice cracked at the curse and he wrenched his gaze away, staring at the floor. He almost looked embarrassed with just how flushed and sweaty he was and his newfound aversion to eye contact. Rowan brought a hand quickly down to the waistband of his pants to fidget with it, and it was then when Círdan noticed.

There was a bulge in Rowan’s pants.

He stared.

Rowan breathed heavily, looked back up, immediately seeming to notice the line of sight Círdan had adopted.He turned slightly sideways in what was likely an attempt to cover his erection and regain his decency.

An incredibly awkward silence smothered the two before Rowan cleared his throat. “Aphrodisiac,” he said, curt with the delivery of the word and visibly uncomfortable.

Círdan would have laughed — he almost did, at the absurdity of it. He had no idea how to even begin to process this information, so he just took another step back and offered a quiet “oh.”

“I think it was crushed myllum root. It… has a smell to it, and— shit… you need to go.”

Embarrassment crept its way up the Drow’s spine like a vine snaking up an abandoned building. All this time, Rowan had been practically begging him to leave so he could fucking relieve himself, and Círdan had stayed, continued pestering the guy as liquid sex was pumping throughout his body.

“What, uh— what are you going to do?” Círdan stammered, and he hit himself mentally for asking. For not just making a beeline to the door and getting himself out of the situation. He didn’t know why he felt so compelled to stay and work through this situation like it was anything that concerned him.

“Fuck, Círdan,” Rowan said, “you need to go.”

Círdan’s heart stuttered at that, the way his name sounded being pushed out of Rowan’s mouth in a plea. He took note of the raw desperation, and wondered what was going through the paladin’s head. What he’d do if Círdan stayed.

Slow steps took the Drow closer to Rowan’s shuddering form. He put up a hand to halt his approach.

“No,” he pushed out, but the previous conviction in his tone was gone. He stared down at Círdan, the only thing between the two being the taller man’s raised arm.

Círdan stopped, stayed still for a few beats as he contemplated how to phrase his thoughts. “I can help you,” he said, “if you want.”

Rowan didn’t answer. Or move. Círdan wasn’t sure if he was even breathing.

“Rowan.”

Still, silence.

As seconds ticked by, the tension in the room shifted from that of the sexual kind to the devastatingly awkward kind, and it was so stifling that Círdan had to take a step back. Rowan kept staring at him with blown pupils, brows stitched together in what could have been pain, or lust, or embarrassment – or a very uncomfortable mix of the three.

Cirdan opened his mouth to say something, but any and all words had fled his mind. He felt embarrassed now, standing there aimlessly as he desperately searched for words to repair the state of the situation. Obviously he’d crossed some boundary; he had not been thinking straight, and had made things worse for all parties involved. Now that the heat of the moment had subsided, and Cirdan had the time to actually think about his actions, he realized that maybe what he’d done was totally, out-of-this-world fucked up. Rowan – his half-acquaintance, half-enemy �� had stumbled into the room with brain and body addled by aphrodisiac, and the only way Cirdan had thought to help was to essentially force himself on the drugged man. Fuck.

“Look–” he started, “I think… I’m sorry if I– if I overstepped, in any way. I– Shit, I thought – Well, I don’t know what I thought–”

“Fuck. Shut up.”

Cirdan immediately stopped his rambling, mind going blank at the unexpected interruption.

Rowan, with his chest still heaving, took a step forward, and something had changed. Cirdan could tell through key subtleties that something was different: Rowan held himself up straighter, had unclenched his fists, and his eyes – they looked almost fucking predatory with how they stared unwaveringly at Cirdan’s frozen form.

“Just – go to the bed.”

“Rowan?” Círdan croaked with a suddenly dry mouth. “No, no, it’s okay, you really don’t have to—“

“Fucking shut up. Bed.”

Never in Círdan’s life had his heartbeat been so erratic. Never had his blood rushed so loudly in his ears. Also — never had he been this embarrassingly stiff in his pants. He half-thought that all of this was some fabrication created by his mind and that he’d blink awake to soon realize that none of this was real.

When Círdan made no effort to move, still in visible shock, Rowan stormed toward him. Within mere moments, Círdan was being shoved back and downwards onto Rowan’s mattress, with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. The taller man towered over the Drow in silence for a moment, perhaps contemplating, perhaps preparing himself, but before long he was back in motion, and it was almost too much. He shoved his knee between Círdan’s thighs so it rested snug against his crotch and brought a large hand down to firmly grasp his face, so tight it burned. Círdan could feel the heat radiating off of Rowan’s body, and was aware of his own temperature rising due to raw lust alone. His cock throbbed within the confines of his pants and the unrelenting pressure of Rowan’s knee was not helping at all. They’d just begun doing whatever this was and he already felt like he was on the verge of orgasm.

“F-Fuck, Rowan—,”

“Shh.”

Rowan’s grip on Círdan’s face got impossibly tighter. His hand trembled slightly.

“P-Pretty,” he muttered as he stared down.

Círdan’s heart stuttered in his chest. He tried to not think about how intimate this all felt. He knew it wasn’t Rowan’s intention to spew such strangely soft words at him, that this was all the work of the pollen. Some place deep within him ached and he did not want to go down the road of pondering why, did not want to open that can of worms. He opted for clutching Rowan’s shirt and pulling him down, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to have this onslaught of negative thoughts fucked out of existence.

Instead of succumbing to Círdan’s will, Rowan held his ground. He did not allow himself to be pulled downwards; he darted up to snag Círdan’s wandering hand and pin it down to the bed above his head.

“N-Not yet,” he said, sounding feverish. He adjusted himself so his knee was no longer pressed against Círdan’s dick, replacing it with his hand, palming him rough through his pants.

“F—fuck,” Círdan whimpered. Through his pleasure bled confusion; he’d assumed that sex with someone under the heavy influence of an aphrodisiac would be quick and to-the-point, the goal being reaching orgasm as fast as possible. But Rowan was taking painfully long to get to the point, relishing in foreplay instead of just fucking him like Círdan thought they had both desperately wanted. Círdan didn’t want to cum before the two had the chance to actually fuck, and it was starting to feel like he might.

Rowan’s touching did not cease. He kept on rubbing and teasing Círdan through his pants and grunting in response to every moan and mewl. He dropped the hand he had pinned and went to pull Círdan’s pants down, revealing his bulge in his underwear. The imprint of his dick against the fabric was clear as day, with a spot of wetness where his tip strained against it. Rowan ran his thumb along the tip over and over, watching as the spot got darker and wider by the second. Círdan bucked his hips up slightly with every run of Rowan’s finger.

“Rowan— fuck, Rowan, please—“

“Ple—please what?” Rowan’s voice cracked as he spoke, and when Círdan looked down, he saw that Rowan had taken to rubbing himself through his own pants. The sight alone almost made Círdan finish.

“Fuck— just… just fuck me already.”

Rowan groaned at that, but he didn’t listen. He made no move to flip Círdan over. What he did do, however, was momentarily stop his movements to hook his finger under the seam of Círdan’s underwear, and so frustratingly slowly, tug downwards until his dick was free of any restraints. Círdan felt his face go warm and he was acutely aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest and stomach as he took quick, embarrassed breaths. Cum was leaking out of his tip and down his cock in thin wet lines as he twitched from sensitivity and lack of stimulation. It no longer mattered to him whether he was fucked or just touched — all he knew was that he desperately needed to cum.

“Please…” he whined.

Rowan was panting like an animal. He threw Círdan’s underwear somewhere off to the side and brought a large hand up to his length, brushing his thumb along the wetness. Círdan shuddered.

“Fuck,” Rowan muttered. He brought his hand forward slightly more and closed it around Círdan’s shaft, giving a few experimental pumps. The sound Círdan let out was guttural. His eyes screwed shut, his head fell back against the bed, his entire body clenched up so insanely tight he felt like he could snap in half from the tension. Rowan breathed heavy, going faster with his movements. “Yeah? You— you like that?” he asked, voice laced with lust. Círdan didn’t answer. He barely even processed the question with how clouded his brain was — he just bucked his hips upwards continuously, chasing the orgasm he felt steadily approaching. His lower half felt like it was burning and he was close, he was so, so, so close, he felt the muscles in his lower body contract in preparation, but then—

All at once, it stopped. The sensations ceased, the pleasure ceased. Círdan felt his heart stutter in devastation at the loss of touch. His dick was painfully hard and leaking a steady stream of precum. When he opened his eyes to figure out why Rowan had stopped, he saw that the other man had propped himself up on his knees further back on the bed. Frustration ran harsh through Círdan’s body. “Why’d you—“

“Flip over,” Rowan interrupted bluntly. A wave of arousal crested and crashed in Círdan’s stomach at the command, followed by an even larger wave of indignation. He didn’t want to comply, his mind was too fogged, too focused on immediate release. His mouth opened again to form a retort, but before any sound left his throat, Rowan was back to making demands. “Flip over,” he repeated darkly, bringing his hand down to tightly grip Círdan’s thigh so hard it hurt. Círdan sucked in a quick gasp of air at the pain.

“Or do you want me to do it for you?” Rowan continued after another stretch of silence. He left no time for a response: as soon as the demand left his mouth he was moving, wedging a strong arm under the small of Círdan’s back and hauling him upwards so he was in a half-sitting position. After that it was quick as lightning, the singular, effortless, rather aggressive motion it took for Rowan to flip Círdan over so his face and chest were flush to the mattress and his ass was pointed up. Rowan’s hand pressed down hard on the top of Círdan’s back.

“Fuck— ow—“ Círdan exclaimed, voice muffled.

Rowan did not relent in his force. He kept one hand holding Círdan down, and used the other to start undoing his own belt buckle.

Círdan was breathing in heavy pants born of mingled pain and pleasure. He shifted his legs slightly to try to get into a more comfortable position, but it was hard when Rowan was holding him down so intensely. He heard the clinking and shuffling stop behind him and felt his heart race with anticipation.

“Fuck,” Rowan breathed, voice thick with a desperate kind of lust Círdan had never encountered before. “T-Tell me you want it.”

Círdan felt his dick twitch at the words; he was so worked up he could cry. “I-I want it, Rowan. Please, please.”

“Fuck—“ Rowan sputtered. He edged slightly forward so the fronts of his thighs brushed against Círdan’s ass. It took a few more moments of adjustment and fiddling with his fly, but soon, Rowan’s dick was pressing hard against Círdan’s skin.

“R-Ready?” Rowan asked. He lined the head of his dick up with Círdan’s hole.

“Yes, yes, just fuck me already—“

Rowan pushed his hips forward. He went halfway in, paused for a moment, perhaps to adjust to the newfound tightness, and then seconds later was all the way in, balls pressed tight up against Círdan’s ass.

Círdan felt drunk with pleasure and pain and every other feeling the elven body was capable of experiencing. Rowan’s dick was huge, and it hurt, and it felt amazing, and Círdan was already so close to finishing that he had to coil the muscles in his lower abdomen to dissuade the ever-approaching wave of orgasm.

“F—Fuck — Rowan…” Círdan cried out. He was trying to thrust his own hips forward to give his dick some much needed friction, but Rowan’s force made it impossible. He could not do anything more than lay there and take it.

“Shh—shit, baby,” Rowan pushed through clenched teeth, “fuck— take it, take it…”

Círdan felt his eyes water from pure stimulation. Never in a million years would he have guessed that this is how the night was going to go, with him being fucked deep on an inn mattress by a man he so desperately wanted to dislike. His eyes were screwed shut on account of the fact that they would probably be crossed had he opened them, and he was pushing back onto Rowan’s dick to the best of his ability, wanting him deeper and harder.

“Fuck—ing s-slut,” Rowan slurred. “Wanted— wanted this since I first — shit — first saw you.”

The admission made Círdan’s stomach churn with arousal and something else, something dangerous.

“Prett—y thing, fucking annoying little…” His voice trailed off into more pants and grunts. He was close, Círdan could tell. His thrusts were getting sloppier, his sounds more frantic.

“Fuck— Círdan…”

Círdan knew the sound of his name on the paladin’s lips would not soon leave his mind. He felt like crying for ten million separate reasons, the most significant one being his too-potent pleasure, his desperate desire for release. He was on the edge.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna—“

The feeling of Rowan’s warm cum spilling inside of him was all it took for Círdan to come undone. His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave: he let out a loud groan and bucked his hips wildly onto the bedsheet, relishing in the feeling of his own seed painting the bed below him. Rowan was still fucking him, messily now, with unsteady thrusts and a loosened grip.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Rowan repeated as he neared the end of his climax. He began to slow his movements gradually until he came to a complete stop.

Círdan’s orgasm used up any energy that had been left in him. He laid still on the bed like a ragdoll, ass pointed upwards and full of Rowan’s cum.

After a beat, Rowan slid himself out. He got off of Círdan and collapsed on the mattress beside him, apparently just as spent and exhausted. They laid there in silence in their own mess of sweat and semen, eyes closed, not acknowledging one another at all as they regained their senses.

Now that Círdan’s throbbing arousal was ebbing, he had time to really think about what had just happened and the potential repercussions of it. This could have very well ruined everything. There was a good chance that now that the pollen had left Rowan’s system, he would realize this whole thing was a big, irreversible mistake. His heart rate quickened at the thought, and he was suddenly consumed by the overwhelming urge to be made privy to everything that was going on in Rowan’s mind. He looked over to the paladin, noticing he was staring blankly at the ceiling.

“So…” Círdan spoke out into the silence. He shifted himself so he was no longer on his stomach but facing Rowan with his head propped up on his arm.

Rowan did not reply.

“So,” Círdan repeated, “do you, uh— Well, that was—“

“We— don’t have to talk about it.”

Círdan felt a pang of embarrassment. This had definitely ruined everything. He began to formulate the first draft of a departure plan in his head, because surely he’d need to find an entirely new circle of people, adopt a new way of life far, far away so he would not have to think about any of this ever again. “Right, yeah,” he said. He blinked away stinging tears and cursed himself for even having tears to blink away in the first place. “Sorry if this fucked things up.”

Rowan turned his head to the side and looked at Círdan. Círdan looked back and noticed a slight frown on his face. They just stared at each other for a second.

Rowan cleared his throat. “It was good,” he said. “It— You helped. Thank you.” His tone was the gentlest Círdan had ever heard it. A flight of butterflies erupted in his stomach, and he was at a loss for words for what felt like the tenth time that night.

Círdan let out a short breath of relief. “I’m glad I could help.”

Rowan gave back the slightest smirk, but it was gone within a fraction of a second.

He turned back to face the ceiling.

“Probably gonna interfere with work, though,” he said, voice back to being all monotone and disinterested like usual.

“Yeah, maybe,” Círdan replied with a smile, and for the first time in a while, he felt content.

#can’t believe this is over a year old

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