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“Behold!” You can’t help but laugh proudly once your flesh returns itself into a form with articulate vocal cords, “for I am the Slayer!”
Your companions" collective silence unnerves you less than the sight of your bloodied visage, standing in a crater of gorey wreckage, unnerves them.
Perhaps they are simply in awe of you. The four-armed monstrosity you’ve evolved into was rather impressive. You tore into your enemies with such fervor that you still have a bit of brain stuck beneath your nails.
The family you’ve made for yourself out of blood and bone is, obviously, just contemplating their pride for your newly discovered identity.
“Are you not entertained!”
You don’t know where that line came from. Perhaps one of the many story books you’ve picked up from the dungeons. But you’re just now realizing how raw and scratchy the words come out after you’ve spent a whole battle tearing your throat with that demonic battle cry.
Each sound you make is grittier than the last. You see Shadowheart wincing in sympathy for your poor throat and you can not tell if Wyll is slowly reaching for his canteena or the dagger you’ve recently gifted him.
“You know what, it’s not my fucking problem,” Astarion is the first to say as he shoulder checks Lae’zel on his way towards camp.
You’re slightly disappointed in this. You’d think he’d want to stick around and discuss the putrid taste of goblin blood with you but then your heart sinks when the others wistfully look back at the retreating vampire.
It is like they too wish they could scamper off before congratulating you on this personal victory.
“K-ch,” Your attention is now turned to Lae’zel. Who spits some grime she’s been chewing and clears her throat in a show of hesitation that you didn’t believe her capable of, “Is this a victory, or a preview of what’s to come of us if you fail to keep this power in check?”
Her words cut but you know they come from a place of concern. You’ve learned early on that she does not mean to be cruel but you hoped for some graduations for the new record slaughter.
Well, it was a new record until one of the bodies beneath you gurgles out a sign of life that you had to stomp out with a quick kick to its oozing skull. It was only a small blessing that you’ve lost your mantle during the transformation because the splash of brain that splatter your bare skin would have been hell to clean out.
“If I wished to kill you I would not need claws to do it,” you snuffed, “it is my sword you only need to see coming.”
Your honest reassurance did not seem to satisfy your companions but you easily mistake their lack of argument as agreement. The urge has certainly favored its time training its champion to fight over learning to take social cues.
Again, you miss the way their eyes split from you as you slip over a pile of organs on bare feet and amble your way back to the pact. There is an unfortunate squelch as gore pops between your toes and you nearly catch an infection when your heel finds the edge of your discarded half-plate.
“Ok, come on. Let me help you.”
It is Wyll who’s the first to approach you. He offers a hand in finding the weapon and armor that got scattered mid transformation.
“Anybody see his pants?”
You don’t and at this point you’re not sure it hasn’t been torn to shreds and unfortunately the blood that coated you is starting to cool.
Was that Autumn in the air that you smell? The chill is starting to dig into your bones and you start to regret losing your underwear amongst the wreckage.
“I think it’d serve him right to walk back to camp like this,” Shadowheart teased. You are almost thankful to hear her sarcastic remarks, “It would be a good lesson about shifting into monstrosities without proper warning.”
She got a laugh out of Wyll who has given up on finding your undergarments and has instead dropped his robe into your hands with a vague warning about getting the stains out later.
The leather of the infernal robe soaked you in the warmth of Wyll’s body heat. The fabric clung to your shoulders from the thin layer of sweat inside and his scent covered the iron tang of blood on your tongue.
“Fits well enough, yeah?” He asks but the only answer your brain can offer is a satisfied purr.
“I will take that as a yes?” Wyll purses his lips and shakes his head to hide the blush on his cheeks.
He is kind enough not to mention how uncomfortable you make him when you pull the collar of his coat to your face and breathe deeply.
Shadowheart does not share the same qualms, “Oh good, now we have something to find you with if you go missing in the woods, Wyll.”
“Could prove useful, “ Lae’zel agreed, “if we could use him to track prey by scent.”
You’re not too sure if it works that way. There is a certain uniqueness to Wyll’s odor that could help you pick him from the crowd, unless he left a trail of blood, you doubt it could be followed.
The nervous laugh that slips from Wyll is followed by a pause and then a hand on your shoulder, “you can’t actually do that, can you?”
You’d shrug if it didn"t risk the possibility of Wyll pulling away but like all good things it would not last. Eventually he needs to wipe the spilled blood on his face and return his sword to its hilt.
There’s a sick envy in you for the blade having the honor of killing by his hand.
The others eventually lose interest in your awkward silence and walk what remains of your broken armor back through the bramble that leads to camp.
Their backs turned to you, including Wyll’s, left you the opportunity to explore the robe further with your tongue. You lap at the softer underside of the coats’ neck where the scent is strongest.
The bitter taste of treated leather enhanced the experience. The lotions he must use, to keep his armor supple, had trapped the sweet notes of ash and pine that made up Wyll’s natural odor.
Hellfire, you recall the source of this particular flavor. Beyond the scorch of common fire was the taste of blue flame that Wyll summoned at his fingertips. It was like Mizora’s magic embedded his very being with sulfur.
More .
Your stomach lurches. There is an undeniable desire to stuff your mouth with everything that made up the Blade of Frontiers. This little taste had sparked the same bloodthirst and fleshcravings that followed you into battle-now following you into camp.
Perhaps Lae’zel was not wrong to worry about your newfound power.
Nightfall comes quickly when you’re having fun. After several sparring sessions with Shadowheart you stalk the edges of the river and wait patiently for your prey.
Wyll’s robe is rolled up in a bundle beneath your arm as you slink away from the camp. You’ve cleaned most of the blood away earlier with a good spit-shine but held onto the article for longer than what was polite.
Despite being fully dressed in your camp clothes the cool breeze, from the valley, had sent a chill down your spine. The constant shiver that plagued you was easily remedied by the robe and therefore made sense why you should hold onto it.
Your body feels heavy; sated from a day filled with violence. The soft sound of water lapping against the banks has you seating yourself down on a soft patch of grass. It’s late and your eyes are just starting to slip shut when-
Crack
The sound of an approaching figure wakes you from your little cat nap.
Standing tall against a backdrop of stars is the Blade of Frontiers. He"s forgone his armor, half of it rests in your hands, and is sporting a deliciously tight shirt that stops just above his navel.
Thin leather and torn fabric clings to his lean stomach like the paper wrapping on a piece of candy. It would only take a single sharp claw to tear him free from his clothes. Just the thought of ripping the offending fabric off his body seems to melt your insides.
The heat that reaches your face brings a small feeling of guilt when you notice that Wyll’s bare arms are pricked with goosebumps. You have selfishly stripped him of his only protection against the elements for your own crude desires.
He could have stayed in his tent, reason tries to argue in your mind. He doesn’t have to brood alone on every riverbank in Faerun.
Although, it does make him look more and more like those heroes in the storybooks. The ones tormented by the responsibilities they’ve accepted because no one else would. Wyll would bleed himself dry for the innocent and defenseless.
Actually, it’s ridiculous that he’d strip himself like that and stand out in the open like this.
Which is ironic. You’re the reason he’s exposed like this.
Isn"t he afraid of monsters?
The answer to that question runs deeper than any well. Ever since Karlach, Wyll spends his nights wondering if he’s the real monster. How many innocent people has he killed while under Mizora’s orders? Is he a hero or a worg on a chain?
If he’s the attack hound, then what does that make you?
Something bigger, something wild and untamed. Wyll can be pulled back by his leash but you can only be put down.
Maybe, if you’re lucky, Wyll will be the one to do it.
You’re a monster, after all, it’s only his fondness for you that’s prevented you from getting skewered by his rapier. Any kindness he’s seen you show, the moments when you remember your humanity, was after you’ve gorged yourself on goblin flesh. He hasn’t seen you truly hungry, not yet.
Silently, you raise from your position in the grass and tiptoe on the edge of the moonlight. Darkness covers you like a blanket and Wyll hardly has a second to react before strike.
Arms wrap around his chest and pull him back against yours. He lets out an unmanly yelp and his skull collides with your nose but the pain is hardly enough to deter you.
Out of the corner of your eye you see his fingers light up with shocking grasp so you move quickly to push him into the sand. You narrowly dodge his touch by kicking out the back of his legs and pinning him between yours once he’s down.
“Unhand me! Fiend!” Wyll shouts in warning before his eye finds your wicked grin, “what-why, you?”
You take pleasure in settling all your weight on top of him. There’s a rapid pulse beneath your palms where you push against his chest and force him to take deep breaths.
The crackle of energy he summoned before sizzles out until you can prove this is more than a bit of roughhousing.
“Well, well, well,” you tease when Wyll fails to seat himself up. You beat him where strength is concerned and squeeze his hips between your thighs to deter him from trying to buck you off, “the monster-hunter is caught by the monster. Whatever will Wyll do?”
“Wyll won"t be laughing if this is some sort of joke,” he levels you with a stern glare that makes something within you quiver in excitement.
You get the sense that he does not like being the target of teasing but it’s too late for that now. One of your hands has already made its way to the base of his throat. Your fingers tease the skin stretched over his Adam"s apple and your thumb presses sharply against the dip in his clavicle.
“You’d forgive me if it was, wouldn’t you?” Your words strike true, hitting a gap in Wyll’s armor.
He has already forgiven you a hundred times over before you even met.
“For Avernus’ sake, what is this about? I am in no mood for late-night training if that is what you’re trying to accomplish.”
You cock your head in thought. Wyll sounded annoyed but the heat rising beneath your palm suggests that he may feel the same way as you. Now that you’ve noticed you can see the dark spots on his cheeks where his blood boils.
“Go find Lae’zel if you’re not yet exhausted.”
You want to bite into his face like an apple.
“Isn’t my face decorated with enough scars!”
Great, You said that out loud. Now he knows you want to eat him. “Woops”
“Woops?” Wyll whines. He is clearly distressed and his glorious scent is being overshadowed by the tell-tale smell of ozone that comes before shocking grasp.
“Lay a single cantrip on me and I will start removing hands, again,” you hissed but your warning went unheard.
Wyll strikes and you feel your body convulse with electricity. This attack shakes you for a second but it was long enough for Wyll to knock you back.
You trust that he won’t kill you but you can’t let him escape just yet. If he were to slip away, tell the others, and gather support then you are well on your way to being bound in your tent until the party reaches Baldurs Gate.
Desperation doesn’t suit you but panic hits and you black out.
Before you’re even aware of what you’ve done the pop of bones and sound of tearing muscle echoes across the canyon.
There’s a scream; wet with blood and bile. You don’t know where it came from but it’s music to your ears. In fact, it reinvigorates you but not everyone appreciates a good hunting call.
When you come back to yourself you have Wyll back within your arms, all four of them. He"s stunned with fear but otherwise intact. There are no injuries on him beyond a couple of bruises however, you feel like you’ve taken a razor to your own skin.
You didn’t complete the transformation.
The flesh that made you is deformed; pulled taut across new bones and barbs that protrude from the inside. A tail, covered in spikes, sweeps the ground behind you and there is a dull ache in your jaw where it’s been split in two to make room for half-formed mandibles.
Wyll is looking at a monster still wearing the remains of his friend’s face.
“Hmm, this feels-“ Weird, but your voice is too garbled to pronounce that word correctly. You will have to keep to simple phrases and maybe hand gestures now that you have an extra set.
Speaking of hands, yours are moving on their own.
Wyll yelps, finally coming back to himself, as one set explores the expanse of his exposed belly and the other two readjust their hold on his arms. He’s pressed tightly against your chest with no room to wiggle free but he does wiggle.
He wiggles deliciously, like a worm on a hook, he kicks his legs out and tries to twist his torso away until he learns his lesson when a stray claw catches and spills blood.
“I demand that you let me go, now!” Wyll tries diplomacy because it’s the only tool left in his arsenal but it’s blunt from disuse, “this is unbecoming of an ally. I will not hesitate to strike you down!”
The scratch that bled freely beneath Wyll’s shirt is stopped by the fabric but not before you collect a thick drop onto your finger and bring it to your lips for a taste. A moan drips from you as Wyll scorches your tongue with hellfire and honey.
“You taste as good as you smell,” you hum against his scalp.
While savoring Wyll you’ve unconsciously pressed your fangs against the top of his head. His hair scratches the itch in your shredded skin and you get a better whiff of the soap he uses to keep it soft.
You breathe deep, using your new senses to pick apart the sources of each tasting note; pine from his wash, pigs fat for his leather, the oil that covers his blades and keeps his hair shiny. There’s also an underlying sweetness that’s uniquely human. All of which is wrapped up nicely in the blanket of brimstone.
“You’re smelling me…again,” His fear gives way to confusion, “is this regarding my robes?”
It is, but you can’t articulate a proper answer right now so, you nod your head. Wyll can"t see your face from where it’s buried against his braids but he can certainly feel the action when a few teeth pull them loose.
“Right, you stalked me because I gave you my coat.” Wyll says but he doesn’t quite believe it, “you can keep it if that’s all you wanted.”
“What-want,” you shake your head. He needs to understand, “I crave.”
With a twist and a pull you rip that tight little shirt directly off of his body. With the offending fabric gone you can see clearly where you’d slice him. The cut sits neatly under the curve of his pec. The tick muscle bounces as you give it tap to see if any more blood will spill but earn yourself an earful of threats.
Wyll must watch in horror as you ignore his warnings and plant your palm firmly over his chest. He fits perfectly within your claws. Another one of your hands scratches out a new wound on the other breast and gives it the same treatment as the last.
The action rewards you with Wyll’s sweet moans and the sight of his dark nipples pebbling from the night air. There’s not enough blood but the sight alone fills your stomach.
“Enough, you’ve had your taste. Even the vampire-hells-the vampire knows when to stop toying,” Wyll’s voice wavers. He refuses to admit defeat but his will slowly breaks down bit by bit.
Wyll’s arms, which you have trapped at his sides, flex as he searches for an opening to break free. His feet still kick at the dirt for purchase. And drops of sweat start to gather on his chest just to glisten beneath the moonlight.
“More,” you beg for his body. It’s so inviting that your own aches for it.
Oh, how you ache. Your tongue, longer than what was typical, lapped at the crook of his neck where his scent was strongest. It’s disgusting how much you’ve slobbered over this man. He must feel the trail of drool dripping down his back.
“Answer me damn you!” real fear is starting to sweeten Wyll’s voice, “I know my friend is still in there, somewhere. What do I have to do to bring him back?”
The person he calls to is still here but Wyll doesn’t see him. How do you tell him?
“It’s that darkness in you. Goblins aren’t enough anymore?” He’s still talking, searching for any reason as to why you’re attacking him now, “What did you call it, the Slayer? It’s taking control.”
Yet, you feel very in control. You have a folk-hero in your hands and a clear view of his heaving-bloodied-chest. The only thing that’d make this better was perhaps if you had a full look at all of him. Wyll’s pants appear to be just as frail as his shirt.
“If you can promise not to murder me, then perhaps we can consider the alternatives to sating your urges.”
It’s funny how quick Wyll is to make another contract with a devil. He hardly had to consider his options before deciding that offering himself up was better than getting his pretty head bitten off.
Fortunately, you can think of several ways to bury your way inside him without splitting something apart.
“Won’t break you“ you croon between nibbles. You can feel your heartbeat through your teeth so you push them against his skin, “just want to taste your innards”
Finally, you’ve managed to pull enough brain cells together to tell him what you want.
But you’re losing patience. Every gentle bite breaks something within you or on him. The shallow pools of blood you’ve been scratching out are no longer enough. You can tell that your claws are starting to dig deeper from the pained groans Wyll gives.
“I don’t see how you can do that without flaying me open.”
It’s not a resounding yes but you take the challenge where you see it by grabbing hold of Wyll’s neck like you did before and tilting his face back towards yours. His mouth opens to say something but it’s immediately occupied by the slithering length of your tongue.
It delves inward and maps the layout with precision. You can practically count each molar and when his own tongue tries to push yours away, you easily pin it down and inch further down his throat.
There’s a wretch when he chokes on your tongue. He gags on you and you feel the convulsions around the muscle and beneath your fingers. He shakes in your grasp until the fight in him fades out and he learns to swallow around you.
The hand you have on his chest takes this surrender as consent to slide its way down. You find the fabric of his pants and strip that away with his modesty. At first, the leather pulls with some defiance. It holds to Wyll’s thighs until your claws puncture the seams and tear the waist to shreds.
Little of it still remains where it held tight around his knees and calves but you got the important parts exposed.
“A-ha!” You’re required to release Wyll’s mouth to marvel at your victory.
While he’s distracted with coughing out the spit you’ve shoved down his lungs you let go of his arms to reach for his legs. They’re shaky and struggle to hold him up but beautiful all the same.
Long and thick muscle from years of running through the hells has shaped Wyll into a fine man. He’s all sinew and cord, would probably be too tough for a good meal, but otherwise something to admire.
Look, the Blade of Frontiers itself.
A laugh, a horrible sound from your maw, shakes the two of you. The movement makes Wyll’s cock bob from where it sits heavy against his thigh. It’s not at full mast but you’re overjoyed to see that his face isn’t the only thing turned red.
You touch his sword as gently as you can with claws. He flinches away from your nails but with nowhere to go it doesn’t deter you.
The skin is warmer here where it’s wrapped around his head and the rough calluses on your palm catch his foreskin and pull it back. With his blade fully unsheathed you admire how the moonlight glints off his wet interest.
Still focused on his organ, the tip of one claw skims the edge of his slit and with Volo-like precision you push it in.
“Shit!” Wyll gasps, “please don’t try to bleed me from there!”
Wyll had voiced a wonderful thought but removing his member would cut your time together short.
You twist your claw a little, coaxing a new liquid forth from the man’s body, but the hardening of his length requires you to retreat. His stiffening cock becomes too hard for your claw to fuck delicately. If you wanted to continue, you would have to risk damage without proper lubricants.
“You like?” You ask with utter glee. The evidence of Wyll’s arousal reminds you of your own neglect.
The heat in your belly now takes up your entire core. It’s been pulsing, slowly coming to life from the moment you found Wyll by the river. Now, it grows between your legs with wet enthusiasm.
“I’d like it if you gave me a bit of warning.”
The warning you give before flipping him over by the hold you have on his thighs is a roll of your hips against his exposed backside. You make him feel the jut of your sex then push it between his legs the moment he’s on his back below you.
You readjust yourself a bit to get your hands beneath Wyll’s knees once he’s down. Unlike before, when you sat on his chest, you sit back on your calves and spread him out.
“Oh gods-“ Wyll prays to anyone who will listen but the only one who answers is Bhaal.
Your mouth descends on his groin where you’re greeted by his heady scent. Sweat and grime collect at the pit of his inner thigh and instinct makes you lick it clean.
“Oh gods!” His hands, free from your constraint-dart out and grab at the spikes protruding from your skull.
His fingers slip over them and the occasional few receive cuts but he eventually gets a grip and pulls you forward.
You lap at the soft skin around his cock. Your tongue expertly curves into the space behind his balls before sucking them into your mouth where you cradle them between your fangs.
How curious, would he pray to you if you bit down?
Let’s find out!
Your mouth slowly starts to close around Wyll and you hear his voice rise in panic. He’s not praying to you, to be exact, but the way he chants your name over and over is just as good.
Again, you bless Wyll with a show of restraint. You spit him out and catch his eye with yours.
The dark pool of his remaining iris is wet with tears that have started staining tracks down his face.
“No, no tears.” You lean over his body, folding him half, to kiss them away.
“Who me?” Wyll exclaims with a forced smile on his face, “afraid of a little castration? I think not.”
The salt of his tears is nothing in comparison to the salt of his cum. While he attempts to compose himself into someone braver you put your teeth away and draw a wet stripe over his cock.
You’ve noticed that not once during your little stunt has little Wyll wavered. He likes this, the loss of control, the threat of death looming over him, it’s like chasing devils through Avernus. It’s familiar,
Maybe it’s because he knows I won’t kill him?
Won’t you?
Not tonight.
You are two sides of the same coin. Just as you trust Wyll to not summon his magic and cast you back with an eldritch-blast, he trusts you to stick to your word and only take a taste.
Like a decadent roast Wyll was soaked in brine. You suckled at his cock until any worries of bodily harm left his head. Then you bring them back when you push his knees to his chest with one set of hands and use the remaining two to spread his ass apart.
Wyll’s heartbeat picked up when he felt a sharp edge prod as his hole. You tease his rim and pull at it with a wicked push that shoots a shock of pain through Wyll that’s immediately soothed with a stroke of your tongue.
His backside is thoroughly coated with your spit. Viscous fluid drips between his cheeks and chills on his weeping cock where you left it abandoned.
After a minute of exploring the new lands with your tongue you dive into the underdark. Pushing past the ring of muscle, that Astarion proclaimed was the tightest thing in Faerun, and plunged into his scorching body.
It is here that you feel most at home. Wyll encompasses all your senses and you are taken to another realm completely; a place between the nine circles of hell and human lands. He’s the forest and the frontier. The embodiment of the moral dilemma between doing good and doing whatever it takes to be good. It’s here where you find his prostate.
Your tongue reaches deep, deeper than anything Wyll has had before, and you draw long hard strokes over that bundle of nerves inside him.
Wyll squirms against the ground, kicking up dirt and coating you both but neither person minds. There’s too much pleasure to be had here than to worry about what dirties you.
In fact, you welcome the struggle that Wyll gives. He"s pushing and pulling you away simultaneously as he seeks an orgasm admist his torture. You want to make sure this death, no matter how small, is just as glorious compared to murder.
The cock that comes with this body is bulging for attention. You take care of your small clothes and let it spring forth from your body with an animalistic groan that Wyll feels echo through his core.
“Fuck me-“He swears when he dares to sneak a peak of what awaits him.
Your member stands tall with a thick vein running up through the middle and dull barbs lining the sides. It’s a new addition that came with your transformation, a gift from Bhaal you might say.
“That can’t-no magic in the world can-how will that fit?!”
You’re pleased to hear that he knows what’s going to happen. There was no way you could illiterate the fact that he will take all of you tonight.
“No magic, just flesh,” You assure him. He can take it.
Two hands keep his legs spread, one pins his chest to the ground, and the other guides you towards his waiting body.
“Are you a fucking lunatic?!” He tries to sit up when he yells but you push him back all the same, “have some sense! I can’t possibly-“
He’s cut off by a high pitched scream when your cock pushes past his entrance. Then his cry melts into a low moan when the ridges that decorate your shaft are slowly dragged over that sweet spot inside him.
“That’s it, take me, feel me, feel Bhaal.”
It’s a tight fit as expected but worth the effort of working your way in. You fight against the unbearable squeeze of Wyll’s tense body and sheath yourself fully with a few rough strokes.
Without waiting for your companion to adjust to the stretch you’ve inflicted, you start to move.
The slick your mouth had provided a moment ago eases the glide of your cock now that it has finally carved a place for itself inside of Wyll and the sensation overpowers every voice on your head.
There is no urge, no darkness, not even a worm that can tell you what to do right now. With Wyll wrapped around you there is only a building pleasure that rivals the ecstasy Bhaal bestows when you end a life.
Far from your awareness you are growling from your chest. The sound reverberates through Wyll who’s harmonizing with his own breathy prayers. He’s gasping something you can’t hear but the look on his face is challenging you; the crook in his jaw from where he struggles to hold back his moans and the half-lid stare that shoves you closer to the edge.
Then his lips part and wrap around the word, “faster.”
You move in a blur of tangled limbs that ends with Wyll’s pretty face pressed into the dirt.
“Gods forgive me for wanting any dignity,” he snipes during the short break you take from pounding yourself into his body, “I should have known you’d take me like the beast you are. ”
The adjustment requires you to pull out but now that you have Wyll where you want him you don’t hesitate to shut him up again. His complaints die on his tongue as you slide back in without any resistance. It was like his body opened for you. Now comfortable with your size it pulled you in and refused to let go.
The slick that dripped from where you connected now paints Wyll’s thighs. When you fuck Wyll again, once your nerves had calmed, you to notice the wet slap of skin on skin that your bodies made; the sound sweeter than the splatter of guts.
The music made from you two awakens primal feelings from inside you. The Slayer yearns for release so it can breed Wyll itself.
The guttural noise you make is animalistic and instinct makes you clamp your maw over Wyll’s shoulder to mark your claim on him. Tonight he is yours and yours alone. His body, his mind, the imaginary womb you picture your seed filling.
It’s a shame Wyll can’t host the next generation of Bhaalspawn.
Not if you don’t try hard enough
“Fuck-“you choke on your own excitement, “fuck I’m going to fuck you full-“
You growl against Wyll’s ear before taking his shoulder into your teeth and pound into him with wild abandon.
“Fill you, mine, mine, mine-“ SNAP
A grotesque transformation begins as what remains of your skin takes on a sickly, pale quality, and veins pulse beneath the surface like fiery rivers. Horns burst from your forehead, curving upward, and your short jaw stretches to make room for new fangs.
The change continues as the human"s limbs contort, elongating and thickening, their hands and feet morphing into massive, clawed appendages. As you convulse in pain and pleasure, your spine cracks and extends, forcing you into a hunched posture, while their flesh ripples with grotesque muscle growth.
Your sex, still buried in Wyll, fills with infernal heat. The pre-barbed nubs thicken and catch on his walls and pull an excruciating scream from his lungs.
Finally, your true form, now an abominable child of Bhaal. You dwarf Wyll with your mass and stretch him to limits beyond what any human can withstand. But, he has been blessed by your father’s mercy. Wyll won"t die by your cock alone.
He cries like he’s dying. Wyll scratches at the earth like an animal, his short nails leaving behind scorches from involuntary flames, and curses your name between choked gasps.
Your extra arms allow you to brace yourself while you hump him from behind. There is no more sense to be found in your head. There is blood in your mouth and hellfire filling your nose. From the foggy ooze of hormones and magic soaking your brain there is; heat, wet, tight, breed.
The orgasim that rushes you is euphoric. Pleasure wracks your body, hums through your horns, and whites out your vision. Your cock pumps Wyll full and further. Cum paints his insides white and spills out over the edges when his stomach can not hold any more seed.
There is a thunderous sound that pounds against your skull and your release gives way with a downpour of something hot soaking your body and weighing it down.
A fuck so violent and raw it has satisfied both your lust for murder and touch.
When you wake you find that the Slayer has been dispelled and the ache you feel only lingers within one set of arms and a soft fleshy body.
The air was filled with the scent of wildflowers, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a nearby tree.
Without the aid of armored spikes the dirt beneath your back sticks to your sweat and digs small pebbles uncomfortably into your skin. You look longingly at the grassy side of the riverbank and wish you had pulled Wyll there instead of taking him where he stood amongst the rocks.
“Have anything to say for yourself?”
You didn’t expect him to be conscious. Wyll’s voice, raspy from screaming into the night, shakes you from your thoughts so you open your eyes to find him lying motionless beside you.
“Any last words before I add your head to the collection?”
You can’t help but laugh. He looks so pathetic on his stomach and covered with bruises and bite marks that track down his back.
“Yes, a few actually.”
It’s a struggle just to stand. Your knees shake and every step you take is a gamble, on whether you’ll fall on your face, but you finally make it to your goal and return with something in hand that makes Wyll scoff when he sees it.
“I got the blood out,” you’re proud to say.
Wyll doesn’t reply but also doesn’t fight it when you help him sit up and pull his arms through the sleeves of the robe.
From this angle you can see his spent cock sticky with a mix of both your cum although the white streaks on his thighs are certainly all yours. The sight of it makes you smile.
“Real proud of yourself then?”
“Of course, I seduced the Blade of Frontiers,” you press your mouth to one of the many scars decorating his face, “I have never felt so full. I may even sit out our next fight.”
Wyll doesn’t look like he believes you. He raises a brow but he’s too tired to argue with you right now. There’s not enough words in the common language to describe the bodily exhaustion he’s experiencing or the newfound fear for your power.
You’ve twisted him inside out, pulling his most shameful desires, and making him powerless to your will. Mizora will hate you, or be impressed, for the way you’ve stripped his dignity.
He seethes with unbridled rage towards the monster inside you but he touches the spot on his cheek where your lips have landed with reverence.
“I think I’ll sit out the next one too.”
The river flowed beside them, its waters reflecting the moon"s gentle glow. In the embrace of the night, you and Wyll rest your weary eyes, you fall asleep wrapped in his scent and him wrapped in your arms.