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“Professor, I mean no disrespect, but this is simply ridiculous.” The gunslinger cocked his hip. One hand fell to the side while the other rested on Redemption, an unconscious comfort seeking method.
“Shepherd! My dear comrade, this isn’t ridiculous! This is research! This is exactly what we came to this accursed land for!” Clayton shook with elation as he held the map.
The piece of parchment was old and worn, yellowed and the edges were flaking off, but still perfectly legible. It showed a small trail, some important way-seeking landmarks, and a hill with the label ‘werewolf den.’
Shepherd sighed, he brought a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. Victoria rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Professor, while I don’t completely agree with Shephard’s sentiments, I do think we don’t particularly have, well, the time frankly. Countess Strahdanya is planning something, we still must face Baba Lysaga, Find the sun sword-“ Victoria lists off the multitudes of tasks they have ahead but Clayton interrupts.
“Yes, yes, yes, I know of the hag and the vampire and blah blah blah, But!” He rolls up the map, quickly whispering ‘curio’ and the roll disappears into his case. “Werewolves are terrorizing this town, we have dedicated ourselves to purging the wickedness in this land. Are we to leave this village and its children to fend for itself?” His eyes drift to Sarnax, who he knows if he sways, will be able to convince Shepherd.
The lizard stays hunched, gazing into the fire of his lantern. His eyes narrow at the wizard.
“I will… consult Gherix. Give me but a moment.” He shuffles off to a more private area of the Abbey. Leaving the rest of the party to try and figure it out without godly intervention.
“Kana, you’ve been awfully quiet. Thoughts on the whole werewolf situation?” Shepherd looks at her, her face not indicative of any preference either way.
“I prefer we take care of these beasts. It doesn’t feel right to leave these creatures to prey on the children of this village, but I understand that there are possibly more pressing measures. I will go wherever the professor goes.” Always the good-hearted, Kana stands straight, maintaining eye contact with whoever is speaking. It’s almost unnerving just how proper she is.
Shepherd lets out a grunt, a noise of disappointment.
“Look, I trust your judgement, you pay me for a reason. I will go wherever you go, and protect ALL of you, but I just don’t think this is worth our time. The Abbot is back in shape, he should be able to protect them now. If we’re lookin’ to truly free this land, we need to focus on how to put that hag and the countess in the ground.” Shepherd may be a hired gun, but he doesn’t exactly go quietly. Victoria’s face shifts at the mention of Strahdanya.
“Professor, I know these werewolves are mighty… fascinatin’, to you. I’ve tussled with a couple in my time, they’re mean fuckers. We can take em’ easily, but it’s a time sink.”
Clayton pauses for a moment, his thirst for knowledge may cloud his judgement at times.
However…
“Shepherd, I’ve seen it in the tea leaves. We MUST defeat these werewolves.” A small white lie. Nothing harmful. He’s sure that a small detour won’t compromise their mission.
At that moment, Sarnax drags himself back into the room. Lantern held high and eyes narrow.
The party turns to him, even though none of them have completely dedicated themselves to the dragon god, they have seen firsthand the power he wields. Gherix is a respected god, if not a followed one.
“Weal… and woe.” Sarnax speaks, rejoining with the party.
Clayton snaps his fingers, drawing the attention of everyone
“That sounds like a confirmation from our respectable patron Gherix, and who are we to deny the fire lord, Shepherd?” Clayton turns to head out, his arm is caught by the Tiefling.
“If we’re all goin’, then we get in, kill some goddamn werewolves and we get out. No lingering. No studying. Got it?” He lets go, resting his other hand on Judgement.
“Of course Shepherd, This is for the children of Berez.” Clayton smiles, knowing that Shepherd will not be able to stop him from taking a quick look around at the werewolves den.
“Well, off we go then!” The professor snaps, a hand appears holding a hot cup of tea. He takes it and takes a long sip, as he sets the cup down it vanishes. He brushes off his coat, adjusts his hat, and leads the party out of the Abbey.
~
The Azran Expedition has had uneventful travels through the woods of Barovia, since the Martikov family lent their kindness and vigilance. It occurs to Clayton that it may be an insult to their sacrifice of resources and effort to head straight into the proverbial fire.
He looks above into the night sky, the clouds block out nearly all light, always overcast in Barovia besides the shining sunlight on the village of Berez. He can see the circular light through the thick fog though, the full moon. A shiver runs up his spine, anticipation courses through his veins and manifests in purple arcane sparks tingling at his fingertips.
He holds the map in front of him with telekinesis, the curious case at his side. Shepherd and Sarnax lead, he trusts them to ensure the path is clear and lit. Shepherd's knack for understanding his surroundings and Sarnax’s unwavering belief that Gherix will guide their path make the trip streamlined.
Victoria stays close, clutching her prayer beads and whispering to herself. Kana brings up the rear, constantly at the ready, securing the professor's safety.
“It should not be long, stay vigilant. There could be fiends about.” The excitement in his voice is detectable if you’re looking, but to the others it’s merely the navigator doing his job.
They slow down considerably, Victoria whispers something and the party feels light, their footsteps make no sound as they move along. The shadows seem to extend, covering them from any prying eyes.
They come upon a hill, a large enclave is carved into it. The party hides themselves behind a nearby boulder, Shepherd turns, His voice stays low.
“Professor, this the place?” His tail flicks as he peers over Clayton’s shoulder to get a glance at the map.
“It seems to be, we must stay low, let’s observe and wait for any movement. We must not be hasty and find ourselves surrounded.” The professor squatted down, resting on his heels, as to not ruin his suit with dirt. Despite being able to prestigio it away at any moment.
The rest followed, getting low as to not draw attention, keeping close watch of the entrance to the cave.
10 minutes pass.
15.
Half an hour.
45 minutes.
At some point Shepherd stands.
“I see no signs of anything coming to or from this cave. I think we take a quick once around to fully make sure it’s clear.” He tips his hat, and waves for the party to follow. Confident in his perceptions.
“Wh- Mr. Morgan what makes you so sure? You propose the werewolves have simply… vanished?!” His anticipation for the beasts slowly giving way to dismay and denial.
“Professor, I trust my experience in these types of creatures. We haven’t seen a single sign of life. It’s possible the Martikovs or the Abbot took care of em’ before we got here. I know you’re disappointed, but to make it up to you, let’s have a look around. Maybe you’ll collect a hair sample or somethin’.” Shepherd seemed to take a bit of pity on his employer.
Clayton sniffled, almost childlike. He said nothing and trudged toward the opening of rock, while someone from an outsiders perspective would see a distinguished gentleman with a properly large top hat, the rest of the Azran expedition could tell that his posture wasn’t quite what it usually is.
Walking into this cavern, you could tell this had once been a den fit for many werewolves. Wide open space, scratches along the walls possibly from in-fighting. Some ripped up furniture, no doubt for when the werewolves decided to conserve their energy within their human forms.
There were a myriad of other tunnels, leading deeper into this lair. At the sight that this truly was a werewolves dwelling, Clayton seemed to get some of that enthusiasm back. Investigating the deep gashes in the walls, and the dilapidated couches.
“Looks like they’ve all evacuated, or been forcibly removed. Varmints I tell ya’. Just glad we didn’t have to deal with em, let’s split up, make sure everythin’s clear. That sound good to you, Professor?”
“Yes, yes! That sounds splendid.” Clayton was currently examining what could be genuine werewolves fur, covering what used to be an opulent sofa.
“Alright then, I’ll stay with you. Sarnax can handle himself, Victoria and Kana should go together.” Shephard pointed to three of the passageways.
“Ah, no, I can quite handle myself, Shephard. You and Sarnax seem quite close, investigate with him.” Clayton knew Shephard would rush him, he wouldn’t have the proper time to examine everything.
The gunslinger raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious.
“You sure? I don’t want you gettin’ yourself in any situations.”
“I’ve been in many an expeditions, Shepherd. I am quite capable of defending myself if the need arise, and as you said, this seems to have been vacated of any werewolves. I hired you based on your exceeding capabilities, I trust your judgement.” Clayton glances at the mechanical device attached to Shepherd hip, then returns his gaze to the third passageway.
Shepherd huffs, but doesn’t further argue. Turning to follow the lantern light into the second passageway. Clayton can feel buzzing underneath his skin, new discoveries and artifacts to find make his body alight with the anticipation of curiosity. He all but skips towards the tunnel.
With keen eyes, throughout the path he sees incomplete arcane runes decorating the walls. They are so scribbled and smudged he can’t even make out what they were attempting to be. To someone less observant, this would seem to be random assortments of children’s chalk drawings.
Clayton steps into a wide opening of what he knows to be another ‘room.’ If these barbaric hollows of stone could be called such a thing. He continues to thoroughly investigate every corner, finding remnants of clothing, furniture, and possibly remains of animals. He isn’t sure they aren’t human, but for his sanity; He pretends his theories are irrefutable.
He does find more chalk markings in this room, they seem to be mildly more coherent. They seem ritualistic in nature, and very ancient. Clayton hasn’t seen magic like this since his very start in investigating Barovia, the runes are sharp in an unnatural way. Even if completed and pristine, Clayton would have issues figuring out their magical purpose.
He gathers that they are some sort of prosperity and good fortune rune, it’s unclear if they are capable of producing any sort of effect, or are simply ritualistic in nature. Clayton has been unable to find an undisturbed circle to test his theories, wondering if they could be some sort of primitive trap to keep intruders out. They seem slightly older but not horrifically so, maybe a couple days. Clayton mourns that if they were just here a tad bit sooner, he may have had an encounter with a real werewolf.
He finds there to be a smaller opening as an offshoot, what looks like a large slab of stone blocking most of the entrance, he squeezes his body in between it. Oftentimes archaeology involved a lot of maneuvering into tight places, this wasn’t out of the ordinary for the professor.
Within the chamber is dark, there were sconces made of crude materials in the main thoroughfare of the dwellings, but this has none of those in sight.
“Prestigio.” With a snap, a small flame dances on his fingertips. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to scan the room, and enough to illuminate orange eyes looking back at him.
“DECR-“ Before the spell can leave his lips, the wind is knocked out of him. A large claw-like hand envelops his torso and pins him to the ground. His case is sent sprawling across the room, the small flame is snuffed out. Clayton panics.
His voice is caught in his throat as he struggles to intake new air, he can feel a large- hand? Paw? It encases his entire midsection. He hears the creature breathing, a raspy noise as if it’s injured. He knows werewolves are semi-human, it’s possible he can talk his way out of this.
“E-excuse me, good sir, we meant no intrusion. You see, my name is Professor Clayton Azran, I’m an educator at-“ he’s cut off by the grating of stone against stone. The slab is slotted into place, trapping him in this room. As it is moved, runes begin to glow. The walls are illuminated and he sees ancient arcane markings scrawled hastily, but clear. Clayton is still unable to ponder their true purpose, being a type of magic not practiced for many years on the material plane.
“You.” A gruff voice comes out of the creature, a short, wrinkled snout, scrunched in hatred puffs breaths of hot air into Clayton’s face.
“You, small folk. You tried to kill us all.” It’s hard to make out completely, the words coming out as low rumbles in the creatures throat.
“Apologies, sir,” Clayton stutters as he feels the claws dig into his sides. It’s hulking body hovering over him. “T-that was not my call, I am quite fascinated by your kind. I came to investigate your culture, not destroy it.” It’s a mild lie. Yes, his main goal was the gathering of information, but eradication was next on the docket.
“Your, your magics. They’re an ancient art, what are these sigils? Is this room of ritualistic value? Do you worship a god of prosperity?” Even in this situation, Clayton can’t stop the questions from pouring out of him. His hunger for knowledge is never ending, a deep endless pit that will never be filled.
The werewolf, assumedly a male one, going by the voice, cocks his head. His orange eyes narrow, the wrinkles in his nose decrease as his snarling turns to low growls.
“…yes. This room is for a ritual.”
Clayton’s eyes light up, not only has he placated this werewolf some, but he has found one willing to have a discussion. He ignores the sharp points digging into his midsection in the pursuit of academic discovery.
“I would be honored if you would grant me some of your time, just to answer a few queries. I can even guarantee your safety after the encounter.” This is a bold faced lie. Clayton will disintegrate him the moment he’s exceeded his use.
“You are strange. You are a strong magic-user, I can smell it on you.” The wet nose sniffs against his neck, he feels rough fur against his chin.
“I can show you what this room is for. You may survive.”
Clayton is frozen as the other claw comes to hook themselves into his pants, raking downwards, his pants are torn to shreds.
“A-Ah! Excuse me, these are fine trousers, there is no need for this-“ Clayton protests as he’s kept in place, trying to wriggle his way free, pushing at the claw. However, he can’t deny the heat that rises in him at the implication.
The creature doesn’t reply to his babbling, it sticks its large snout in between his legs and takes a deep inhale. Clayton can’t repress a shiver at the sensation of the hot breath near his nether regions. He’s been… abstinent, since leaving Breeg. A momentary flash of his dearest Clara has electricity running underneath his skin.
‘It’s for discoveries sake, Clayton.’
A small voice inside his head whispers, the desire for knowledge, a voracious need to consume all he can know, it chimes within his thoughts.
Wet flesh licks between his legs, he trembles, he can’t deny the feeling is pleasurable, but the impending sense of possible death is ever prominent.
“Ah- Mr… werewolf? Sir?” Clayton pants it out, he doesn’t wait for a reply. “Does this ritual, mmfh, involve my, ah, end?”
The, Man? Wolf? Clayton isn’t sure what is the proper way to refer to this creature. He doesn’t want to risk taking offense.
The licking stops momentarily as he starts to growl, Clayton can feel the floor vibrate with the sheer force of his enormous vocal cords. He worries for a moment that he’s made a misstep.
“No.”
Clayton breathes a sigh of relief. The thought that this may be a false statement to placate him does cross his mind, but so far the werewolf did not seem keen on comforting him in any way, doing such as he pleases rather than on Clayton’s terms.
“May I, may I have your name?” Before he can resume the licking, Clayton forces out another question. The creature seems exasperated.
“Abel.”
“Abel! That is a dignified name, splendid, really.” Abel doesn’t reply to the compliment. Instead he grasps onto Clayton’s thighs, pulling him upwards. Clayton’s bottom half is suspended in the air, held by Abel. At this angle Clayton is able to see more of himself, his tattered clothes about in shreds, barely clinging to parts of his legs. His exposed manhood, this position is compromising to say the least, and he feels heat come to his face.
He can’t deny that the flutter in his chest doesn’t just originate in fear, there is something undeniably titillating about the forbidden nature of the situation he’s in. He’s a dignified, civil, married man. Nevertheless he is held up as his private areas are explored by a creature of the night. He’d never understood the monster romance novels so popular with his younger students, but he was starting to get an inkling of their appeal.
Abel resumes, circling the tight ring of muscle with his abnormally long tongue. Clayton holds himself back from rolling his hips, focusing on clenching his jaw and fists. He attempts to approach this from a purely educational and scientific manner, he cannot be gyrating wantonly like a common streetwalker. He is a researcher, a professor.
The air borders on awkward as Clayton restrains himself from further interrogation as to what this ritual is, mostly due to the fact that he doubts he’d be able to get a sentence out without it being accompanied by an utterance of pleasure. He looks to the side to avoid eye contact, as it seems he twitches in shameful exhilaration at the sight of a werewolf prodding it’s tongue inside him.
The soft muscle curls deep inside Clayton, it’s a wholly unfamiliar feeling, but not unwelcome. He can feel it flexing against his walls, Clayton is a learned man, he assumes the creature is looking for the small erogenous organ that is within him. He himself had never experimented with that type of stimulation, but had heard from other more sexually adventurous types that it could be quite pleasurable. His internal musings are interrupted by a shock running through his body, the already pleasurable stretch now accompanied by white hot flames of physical sensation, a new feeling that leaves Clayton writhing in the werewolf’s grasp, an unexpected yelp of surprise and ecstasy escaping him.
He tries to steel himself, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. He focuses on the stinging in his sides, where the werewolf’s large claws had dug into him, ripped his coat, drew his blood. The pain is dull though, it isn’t enough to block out the overwhelming stimuli. Clayton feels a break within him, the lingering amounts of pride he had slipping through his grasp.
“Mmf—!” The tongue massages that accursed spot, Clayton muffles his cries best he can, yet he’s unable to control his body.
He arches into the touch, fingernails scraping against the stone below him. Shame creeps into his veins but is overtaken by pure want. It had been quite a while since he’d seen his dear Clara. This is for research purposes. This is for research purposes. This is for research purposes.
The mantra repeats in his mind as his hips have a different idea of the situation, bucking upwards into the source of his indulgence. He feels a familiar coil winding in his lower stomach, at any moment it could unravel as Abel flexes his tongue. It is not usually this quick that Clayton finds himself on the precipice of climax, nevertheless this night in Barovia is full of new discoveries.
“Ah—! Abel, please, I’m—!” He attempts to warn the creature of his fast approaching orgasm, but the stimulation is replaced by a feeling of emptiness. He whines at the loss, left twitching in need at empty air.
Clayton takes the moment of brief respite on the assault of his prostate to survey. The room is… brighter. The magic circles are more luminous, the stark shadow of Abel’s prodigious body is lain upon his own. He’s able to take stock of just how imposing his figure is, broad shoulders, dark fur, nearly black covers him. Orange eyes with slits for pupils stare back at him, as his eyes trail downwards, he can observe something quite perturbing.
A phallic organ stands proudly, bright, angry crimson color. Shining with a sheen of possibly, saliva? Clayton recognizes it to be exceedingly similar to the male genitalia of common canine, but larger, even when accounting for the difference in size comparatively. It drips pre-ejaculate fluid in abundance, whiter than most Clayton had ever perceived. The implications of the scenario had long been pushed out of his mind, but the fear of his position was returning.
“Ah, Alright, is that all? The runic symbols on the wall are alight, does this spell good prosperity for your kind? A new start?” Clayton often rambles when he is nervous, intellectualizing his every thought and motion.
Instead of a verbal response, Clayton earns a growl. Abel lowers him to be at level with his pelvis, and prods at Clayton’s entrance. Clayton’s anxiety spikes, he had been enjoying himself a moment ago, but this appendage was the size of his forearm— possibly more. Abel seemed confident he’ll survive. However, Clayton wasn’t one with a proclivity for pain.
He began to squirm, trying fruitlessly to remove the clawed hands that had reinstated their place around his waist, using the leverage to spear Clayton onto the length. He feels the slimmer tip easily slip in, the earlier stretching paying off, it’s a tense and alien feeling. The feeling of unease gives way to pain as Abel sinks in further, coming to the thicker section of the shaft.
“A-Abel, sir, I’m not sure I’m equipped to take-“ Clayton is cut off by his own groan of pain, he digs dull nails into the creature's hands, of which he has no idea Abel can even feel, as he gives no reaction.
Clayton’s hat is long gone, hurled across the room with his case when he was beset upon. With all his writhing the intricate pins that kept his hair in a tight bun have become undone. Long strands cascade around him, he turns to the side and smells soap. It smells of home, provided by his case’s ability to materialize any and all he requires. He focuses on that smell, his breathing, the memories of Breeg. He tries to brace himself, pretending he’s home, just out of a bath. Clara would come to him and tenderly comb her hands through his hair, sighing contently that she loved that he kept it long for her.
It’s hard to focus on this as Abel continues to push, it’s an agonizing stretch, a burning that Clayton can’t compare to any other feeling. At least it’s slow. Clayton regulates his breathing, asks himself what answers is this giving him? What will the werewolf accomplish through this ritual? Surely, he is aware that Clayton is incapable of reproducing with him. Has this simply been a primal seeking of revenge?
“You are… small.” Abel speaks, a low grumbling Clayton almost doesn’t register as speech, just another strained growl of pleasure.
Clayton had been holding it together up until now, he’d say. He’d done many difficult things for the sake of scientific advancement, his will was iron when it came to perseverance of his goals. This comment, it digs into his skin. He is not small, in any sense of the word. He is an accomplished wizard, a renowned archaeologist, a man of stature, physically and metaphorically. Yet, he lays beneath a man, a beast, and is taken. He is enveloped completely, a dark silhouette that looms above him, an inescapable grasp that pulls him towards his own impalement. He is helpless in this moment, he is small.
There’s a stinging behind his eyes, he grits his teeth to hold back a sob. He hadn’t shed tears since the birth of his daughter, he did not want to cry over such a trivial matter, but the burning. The pain is burrows into his core, not just because of its intensity but its… violation. A part of him that had never been touched is now being explored, Clayton shamefully thinks back to his demeanor moments ago, he flushes and feels sick.
“Abel… Abel, I can’t, a-apologies, I can’t do th-is” Clayton forces the words out, they are less confident than he’d like them to sound. He is undeniably frightened, the stinging radiating throughout his body makes his thighs shake.
His pleas are ignored, but a small comfort comes to him at the feeling of fur brushing the underside of his thighs. It’s all in. Clayton gasps, trembling. He feels as if the intrusion is impeding his lungs, so much fuller than he’s ever felt, no room for oxygen.
He feels suffocated, he claws at his own clothes, starting with his ascot and ripping buttons to just get it off. He’s dying of fever, pain making him act irrationally. Abel seems to notice his frantic movements, and actually helps, carefully raking his claws, effortlessly shredding the cloth. The cool stone on his skin is a shock to his system, and a comfort like no other. Just to escape this heat.
“S-stop. I want, I want to stop.” Clayton raises his hands above his head, trying to find purchase on any crack in the stone he can use to drag himself away. He knows his efforts are in vain, and yet his body fights for survival, an innate primitive need to get away from danger. He once thought he was above such things.
Abel starts to pull out, faster than he had sunk in, leaving just the crown inside before slamming deep into the heat.
Clayton lets out an undignified shriek. He feels as if his body is decaying around him, withering at every wheeze and wail. His ego is crumbling beneath him, shattering as he is easily overtaken. He glances at the case, not but 20 feet away and still so far. He is incapable, worthless, repulsive. He feels as if he’s being injected with poison, every thrust bringing him closer to a languid state.
The constant stretch is one feeling, the other is a sharp stabbing. He feels something rip. His internals unable to survive the assault as they give way to the cock hammering within him, Clayton is acutely aware of the feeling of blood coating him and Abel, an ungodly man prays for mercy.
Abel slows for but a minute, he places a clawed paw to Clayton’s face, brushing a strand of hair from his face. Inspecting him, met with lidded eyes and parted lips, puffing out small breaths and incomplete begs for it to end. He’s alive, not even unconscious.
“Almost over.” He mumbles. Clayton only catches it because all of his senses feel heightened, every touch feels like an electric shock, every noise a thundering boom, the glow from the circles burn into his retinas.
Abel pistons into him, the blood making the drag smoother. Clayton feels bile rise within him knowing that his own blood has made this whole ordeal easier. He forces it down, a motion he’d grown very accustomed to.
His head spins, he thinks he may pass out. Blood loss could be a cause, but it hasn’t been enough. Perhaps he’s exhausted. He stares into the blinding light, a circle straight above them, he can only make out the outline of it behind Abel’s monstrous shape, it illuminates him in a way that feels pulled out of fairytale nightmares. A dark, amorphous being with a face twisted in a snarl, violent amber eyes in slits.
He almost becomes used to the jostling, a rhythmic scrape against his back as he’s pushed into. Think of home. Think of Clara. Think of anywhere but here.
His escapism is interrupted by a new, entirely horrifying dread. There is a catch on his rim. The anatomy of canines is suddenly embedded into his mind, remembering a crucial point.
“Abel, Abel. Please, Abel, I can’t, stop, before—!” Clayton cries, he can feel hot tears come in globs down his face, he’s drowning in his own fluids, choking on his tears and saliva attempting to stutter out any command to cease. Though, as previous encounters have gone, he is disregarded.
The base of Abel’s dick grows, a spherical enlargement that increases with every thrust. There’s a sickening pop with each grating push in, as Abel forces himself to fit inside, before vigorously pulling out as Clayton’s body can’t decide whether to resist the intrusion, or keep it from escaping. Clayton feels delirious, he fears he’ll be ripped in half, as childish and irrational this fear may be, the imagery of his own corpse sprawled on this cave floor, dripping blood and semen, defiled and unseemly. It has him repeating the familiar action of swallowing down his own sick.
Abel stutters, the base has grown to an absurd degree. His grip on Clayton becomes searing as the sharp talons pierce his skin anew. He growls, bearing down and redoubling his efforts to sheath himself fully into Clayton’s comparatively small body. Something gives, and Clayton can’t breathe.
There is lava shooting into him, he can feel it twitching within him with every new wave of horrendous scorching. This is accompanied by the distending of his body, both to accommodate the knot that keeps him locked in this position, the other being his stomach. He hadn’t taken notice before, but his stomach has a protrusion where Abel has embedded himself, it pulses now as he is pumped into. His mouth goes dry.
The glowing runes change from a bright, golden light, to a deep purple. Abel huffs, recovering from his climax, his grip keeping Clayton from moving away and pulling at where they’re connected.
“It will go down once you are with child. The runes will heal any wounds, so you may be a proper mother.” Abel explains as if it’s nothing to be surprised about. Clayton gawks.
He only vaguely processes Abel’s words as he continues to tremble, continues to try and crawl, pull himself away in any way possible. Abel effortlessly keeps him in place, this only shatters Clayton’s dignity further.
“M-mother? I’m, you’re mistaken, I’m, I’m not-“ Clayton shivers as he feels the mass deflating, trace amounts of spend leaking out of him.
“The ritual will make you suitable to carry my pups. Don’t worry, you will make sure they are safe.” Abel loosens his grip lightly, but Clayton is frozen. They’re fertility spells. They couldn’t, no, that kind of magic doesn’t exist. Not in any tome he’d ever studied, nothing ancient magicks mentioned, no history of anything like this.
And yet.
Clayton feels different. There is something fundamentally changed, a disturbing, nauseating terror takes him. He runs through encyclopedias of knowledge in his head, attempting to sort through libraries of spells and texts within the labyrinth of his mind. The agony he feels leaves black spots in his vision, and missing rails from his train of thought.
Minutes stretch on, if you asked Clayton, he may tell you he lied on the floor for hours. The massive creature panting above him. He may also tell you that this encounter didn’t happen, if it weren’t for all the valuable information he gained through his honorable fieldwork. When Abel pulls away, his ejaculate follows, flowing out of Clayton enough that it sends an uncomfortable quiver up his spine. His body shakes from shock, but Clayton feels nothing but relief.
Abel was correct, Clayton felt better than he had in weeks. His body was rejuvenated, the aches of age had left him and injuries from Barovia’s assault on him ceased to be visible. Abel moves to reopen the chamber, he effortlessly removes the massive slab of rock that had trapped them both.
Clayton drags his body to his case. Untouched, just as he left it. He traces his fingers along the engraving of the Azran family crest, feeling his shreds of clothing hanging off his body, knowing that the case will provide him with new clothes. Family will always provide, the Azran name is sacred.
“You can leave. Thank you, for helping my line continue.” Abel sits next to the door. He’s honest in every sense, a beast incapable of knowing when to lie, or how to recognize the danger of something smaller than itself.
Clayton peers at him through strands of his long hair, hunched over his case, he pulls it to his chest.
“Decrusto.”