Chapter Text
This was all Shadowheart's fault.
She was working on brewing more healing potions, which they admittedly needed. The fight with the Minotaurs had been more difficult than any of them had expected, leaving Gale worse for wear and Lae'zel nursing her right leg. But Shadowheart had sent Rosto out to stumble through the Underdark for more rogue’s morsel, and now he was more uncomfortable than he'd been in his life. Granted, he couldn't remember much of his life, at least, nothing from before he'd woken up in that gods forsaken mind flayer pod, but the point stood.
Rosto liked to consider himself an easy going guy. He kept a level head, wasn't bothered by much, could adapt to just about any situation. He'd been deep in some crevices, grabbing for the mushrooms he couldn't see and could barely feel. His footing had slipped, and he'd plummeted several feet. His fall had been broken by some large, spongy mushrooms. They'd exploded into a cloud of pink spores when he'd made contact, and the spores clung to his skin like burrs.
Now he was walking back to camp, and his skin itched. No, itched was too mild a word. His skin was crawling, like minuscule bugs had burrowed underneath and set up a network of roadways. He couldn't walk more than a step without scratching himself, and it was creating a small trail of bright pink spores behind him.
He made it to Shadowheart's tent and threw the bag of mushrooms unceremoniously at her feet. She jumped slightly and looked up at him. "What are you—" she stopped when she saw what he looked like. "Why are you pink?" she asked.
Rosto was brushing off his head, causing a cascade of spores to rain down. "Spores," he said, his voice deadpan. "I fell in some mushrooms. This place is full of gods cursed mushrooms." Shadowheart gave him a funny look, but he ignored it. He knew he sounded far more irritated than usual, but he was also far too irritated to care. He made his way to the camp supplies, dumping several jugs of water into a spare bucket before pulling his shirt over his head.
Plunging a rag into the water, Rosto started to give himself a whore's bath. He'd much rather find a stream or lake to take a dip in, but the Underdark didn't have a plethora of fresh water sources. He'd washed his face, arms, and part of his chest, but his skin didn't seem to feel any better when it was clean. He felt a finger run along the back of his neck and down his spine, and he almost jumped a foot in the air.
When he whipped around, he found Astarion staring at the dusting of pink on his index finger. "What in the sweet hells did you get yourself into, darling?" he said in his slow drawl. "You're a mess." Astarion sniffed at the spores, causing himself to sneeze.
"Mushroom spores," Rosto grumbled. "I hate this place." He was starting to get hot, which made absolutely no sense. The Underdark was underground, for fuck's sake. The temperature was significantly cooler than the grove had been.
Astarion gave him another funny look before grabbing a second rag and applying it to Rosto's back. "You don't hate anything," he said calmly. "Even when you should. It's one of your more annoying traits. Makes the rest of us sound soft when we do complain." Astarion dipped the rag just underneath Rosto's waistband and caused a jolt of pleasure to shoot straight to Rosto's dick. It was so intense Rosto gasped and bent over double.
To Rosto's dismay, the need didn't dissipate when Astarion pulled his hand back. His cock was rock hard in an instant, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand up straight. He barely had enough awareness to be embarrassed. The only upside was he didn't care what his skin felt like anymore. He had much bigger things to worry about.
Rosto put his hands on his knees, trying to regain control over himself. Astarion leaned down to meet him on his level. "What in the hells has gotten into you?" he asked. Astarion's face was swimming in front of him, a blur of red eyes and sharp teeth.
Shuffling behind Rosto clued him in to the rest of the camp coming over. He heard Halsin's deep voice say, "Rosto? What are you feeling?" Thankfully Halsin didn't touch him. He wasn't sure what would happen if the druid did touch him, but his instinct said it wouldn't be good. Not if his reaction to Astarion's touch had been any indication.
"What am I feeling?" he managed to get out through gritted teeth. Horny? That wasn't even a strong enough word for what he was feeling. Feral. He was feeling feral. He tried his best to focus on Halsin's question and went back through the last thirty minutes. "My skin was crawling, and then I was hot, and now—" he had to swallow the spit that had pooled in his mouth to keep going. "Just no one touch me."
Sweet hells, first he'd butchered that tiefling from the grove, and now he felt like he was going to ravage the next person who touched him. They were going to string him up like the monster he was. Hells, they could bury him with the minotaurs. They were all beasts.
"Shadowheart said you fell in some mushrooms," Halsin continued in what Rosto figured was supposed to be a soothing voice. "Can you tell me about them?"
Rosto was losing control. Now that no one was touching him, he realized he was on fire. "They were big and covered me with these gods cursed pink spores, Halsin. I don't know anything else. I'm not the fucking druid." He sunk to his knees, putting his face in his hands. He couldn't focus on anything but the growing ball of need buried deep in his belly.
Gods, he was going to die like this.