FSE

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Geralt knew something was wrong almost as soon as he entered the area.

He'd hunted many monsters before in his time as a witcher - this, however, was different. It was rare to see a place so deserted, so... eerie. More often than not, if there was a monster about, there was blood. Signs of destruction. Here, there was nothing more than a fog that obscured his vision and a strange scent in the air.

The witcher sniffed, wrinkling his nose slightly in disgust. The smell was strong, almost seemed to slide intrusively down his throat. There were times when the enhanced senses of a witcher did him no favors, and this was one of them.

"No signs of struggle. Can't hear any footsteps. Place seems deserted." Geralt muttered, his voice a low, husky rumble. He shifted slightly, adjusting the straps that held his armor in place. It felt strangely uncomfortable, but he thought nothing of it - more often than not, his clothing acted as a second skin, but every so often it just wouldn't feel right.

Like when he was around Yennefer. Heh.

The two thoughts didn't quite make the connection it should have in the Witcher's mind. Instead, he moved onward, exploring the empty settlement with a sharp eye. Weapons scattered on the ground, clothing torn and ripped - he'd never seen anything quite like this before. Bandits were usually able to take care of themselves, but this...

This was something unnatural. Another monster at work, perhaps - a newly created one? It didn't quite fit in with anything he knew, and that didn't bode well. The unknown was far more dangerous than the known. The latter he could always fight against, given the tactics he'd been taught; the former meant he'd have to gather information and use caution.

Geralt shook his head, kneeling by one of the piles of torn clothing. A strong smell akin to the one that suffused the area emanated from it. He reached for the pieces of leather, sifting slowly through it and looking for anything that might be useful. All he found, unfortunately, was that the leather was strangely stained; some of the liquid on it was still wet, a little sticky.

The witcher shuddered slightly, and he wasn't sure why. It was the stink of magic, almost, but different - something dangerous underneath, something unknown.

He stood back up, a small frown marring his otherwise handsome face. "Powerful magic about."

The best option, Geralt knew, would be to go back - search first for the cause of this magic, and find out if there was any way to counter it. His mutations offered him certain protections, but there were also ways it could interact with the more obscure arcane powers. Anything he was unsure about needed to be examined more carefully.

Unfortunately for the witcher, he didn't have the luxury of time. Whatever curse had gotten the bandits might very well have affected the man he was looking for, and it was his job to find him. Letting out a short sigh, Geralt continued onward, trying to ignore the rather quietly eerie atmosphere.

Caution or not, he couldn't help but let his mind wander. Had he been entirely clearheaded, he might have taken that as a sign - but he wasn't, not with the strange, heavy smell invading his senses, making it difficult for him to think. He thought instead of Yennefer, as his body grew hot beneath his armor. Her sweet curves, her supple skin...

She was a beauty. It had been a while since he'd had her touch, and he found himself craving it once more.

It was no wonder, really. She was a lady that had known exactly what she was doing, exactly how to do it. He could remember how it felt to have her body pressed against his, his hot breaths gliding out across her ear.

Geralt couldn't help but wonder what it felt like for her. Did she enjoy him as much as he'd enjoyed her? The feel of his hard muscles, his trained body, his rock-hard shaft pressing against her-

The witcher let out a soft growl, shaking his head and refocusing. He felt his shaft press against the front of his armor; he'd allowed himself to be distracted, lost in a fantasy of times gone past. It was dangerous at the best of times, and the field was the last place he wanted to do such a thing.

Focus. Hunt. The hunt was what he thrived for, what sent blood coursing through his veins. It was the domination of monsters too powerful to live. He didn't lack mercy; there had been many he'd allowed to go free, when the monsters had proven to be more than mere killers.

There had been others that he'd been forced to prove his strength against, striking blow after blow, sweating in the heat of his armor as he moved. His skill was unmatched; he practically danced around his opponents, making up for their greater power with his agility and experience. The thrill of the fight was exquisite, sending blood pumping through his veins and muscle.

The recollection almost made it seem like it was happening even then. Geralt grunted as his muscles seemed to shift under his skin, his clothing growing just a little tighter, a little more uncomfortable. His breathing was just a little bit heavier than before, but the witcher told himself it was from the imagined fight.

Yet there were bigger changes that he couldn't see - changes happening underneath his armor. His muscles were swelling, yes, but that wasn't the only thing that was happening. Body hair began to grow, a thin layer that wouldn't be particularly noticeable or out of place if one didn't know how Geralt already looked like under his armor.

What it did do, however, was cause the witcher to start sweating. The man let out a soft curse as he shifted, feeling drops of sweat start to form on his chest. It made his armor all the more uncomfortable. "Damn heat..." he said, his voice soft.

It struck him as strange that the place was so empty. Even in a bandit camp, there should have been more. It was rare that a place was ever entirely wiped out; there was always one or two that were resilient, that found some way to survive. That they were all no longer here...

Well, it was possible that some had run away, but they were bandits. They wouldn't have left their valuables behind, surely; they would have returned as soon as the monster had gone. Yet the place almost seemed to have been deserted willingly, coin and items left behind as though it had no meaning, some stained with that sticky fluid he'd found on the clothing.

"Least the smell isn't so bad anymore," Geralt growled, sniffing briefly at the air. Now that he thought about it, it was almost pleasant.

His cock stirred slightly within his gear, but this time he didn't notice; he was more focused on taking a deep inhalation, letting the smell settle into his mind, into his body. It helped him relax and focus, and such things were few and far between for a witcher...

His thoughts wandered for a second time, this time reviewing the monsters he'd fought and the monsters he had yet to fight. He was keeping himself focused, he told himself - reminding himself of what he might face on this journey.

He'd fought werewolves before, for instance. The creatures were powerful, beastly - yet there was a certain strength to them, a certain primal beauty in the way they fought. He'd always respected them, yet now that respect was tinged with a certain amount of... lust?

Geralt paused to consider the thought, his steps stilling on the grass. He'd only ever considered women before; their sleek bodies appealed to him, the thought of their breasts pressing against him, the sounds of their moans as he pushed into them. Yet now he thought about the creatures he fought, and he found the respect turned into a certain attraction.

He couldn't help but be curious. What would it be like, in bed with a creature with power similar to his own? What would it be like to attempt to dominate a monster - or to allow himself to be dominated by them?

He had heard tales of how it felt, to have oneself filled from within. The pleasure that accompanied it was supposedly incredible, but he'd never been curious enough to try.

Now, however, his thoughts wandered. The witcher's imagination pushed him to strange heights, even as his muscles began to push at the straps of his clothing. He pushed onwards - slowly, now, revelling in the thoughts that filled his mind - but his cock was hard within his clothing.

Geralt could see it in his mind's eye. Perhaps he would lose a battle to a werewolf, but he wouldn't want to kill him; no, he'd been seen as worthy prey in the eyes of the wolf. Perhaps it would growl into his ear, pin him up against the wall, its claws tearing away at his armor...

Until finally, he felt its length pressing against him. His fantasy faltered there; he wasn't sure how such a thing would feel, though he felt himself leaking precum at the thought. New as it was to him, it was undoubtedly attractive, and he licked his lips slightly.

His thoughts turned. Perhaps it wouldn't be him who lost; he'd never done so before, after all, not after his revival. Geralt could picture it with even greater clarity in his eye; he would defeat the werewolf, and he would beg for his life. The witcher would be generous, of course; he always was, when a creature surrendered...

But the werewolf would crawl over to him, perhaps, like a good little pup. Nuzzle at his clothing, beg to be allowed to show him his submission in the way werewolves did. He'd allow it, then, drop his clothing so the werewolf could nuzzle at his cock, his rough, canine tongue lapping away at his flesh, his manhood.

And that wouldn't be enough for the werewolf. He would turn around, present himself while his cock hung hard and aching between his legs - begging to be fucked, to be owned and marked. In the werewolf's mind, it would be how he would gain strength. The seed of a warrior greater than him would earn him a power that would allow him to reign amongst the other werewolves...

Geralt shuddered. The witcher reached down, adjusting his package and realising suddenly just how hard it was, how tight his clothing was. He thought nothing of it, still; the smell clouded his mind, told him that everything was fine, that there was nothing unusual about this.

His thoughts wandered further. He didn't notice the way his armor began to tear at the seams as his muscles continued to swell; he forced his legs up the steps to a tower, and that was enough for the leather he wore below to rip. He continued regardless - after all, what warrior needed good armor to be able to fight?

No. If the armor was so weak that his mere body could break it, then he would be better off without it. He could always find better pieces at a later time, things that would be able to accommodate his impressively large body. The witcher grinned, running his fingers along the curves of his new muscle. He looked pretty good. He wondered for a moment what Yennefer would think...

But there were better targets for his thoughts. His lusts had changed, and the witcher went along with the flow, as he'd been taught to do. He thought instead of a monster better suited to his preferences. One that didn't exist, except perhaps in tales told by bards - a large, powerful man, with green skin and thick tusks, a wild glint of barbaric pride in his eyes.

Many of the monsters in the world weren't particularly attractive, but Geralt's mind worked on the smell, took the features he thought he liked and created a monster with what he knew. That was what the spell did, though he didn't know it at the time; it took his thoughts, drew hidden desires forth and created new ones out of them.

So his thoughts of a werewolf changed instead to that of an orc, leering at him with a perverse grin - confident that it would win, confident that the witcher did not have the strength to bring it down. Geralt smirked back at it in his mind, readied his sword.

They danced. It was a fight born of the mind of a witcher - not the quick, brutal, effortless battles he typically participated in. The orc in his mind was a barbarian, certainly, but one with immense strength that was skilled with a sword. His smell permeated the air, green muscles gleaming with sweat as they traded blows...

Until eventually they were both tired, resting on the grass. They'd take a momentary break from their spar, secretly eyeing each other until Geralt gave in - press his hands against the orc and push him into the grass, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss of lust.

The orc would groan, try to push him off without much real strength or intent behind it. He wouldn't be able to help but moan in the presence of another warrior; his cock would rise quickly beneath his loincloth, pressing hard against the witcher's clothing.

The armor would come off in quick, eager movements until both were hard, grinding against each other. Their manhoods would be slippery with their precum, and it would make each thrust all the more pleasurable as they pressed into each other, unable to help but jerk their hips and hump into the heavy, muscular body of their partner...

Geralt breathed. The only thing familiar about his body now was the striking, golden shade of his eyes; the rest of his body had begun to change drastically, shreds of his armor falling to the ground as he ascended the stairs.

He was starting to understand, though the mist did its best to hide itself away from him. The spell hadn't been placed only on the bandits; it was a bit of stray magic that covered the entire area, showing itself only in the form of mist. If his suspicions were correct, then any survivors would be at the top of the tower.

...But it didn't mean that the survivor was the person he was looking for. A soldier that had been captured by the bandits.

No matter. He'd come too far to turn back now. He knew the magic was having an effect on him, but couldn't quite bring himself to care; there was something about it that was intriguing. He couldn't help but think it was improving him.

He'd already gone through mutations before, as a witcher. The magic now seemed to be interacting with those mutations, somehow boosting him even further than he'd been boosted before. Any ordinary human wouldn't gain quite as much power as he would from this, and the idea attracted him. He'd be strong, a true hunter.

And he'd be able to express that strength in so many ways that he'd never considered before...

Geralt didn't quite realise it, but he grinned at the thought. The wood beneath him began to crack as he ascended the steps, his heavy weight causing it to splinter beneath his feet; the support, however, thankfully held - a good thing, too, because it didn't take very long for his mind to begin to wander once more.

It was a devious spell that broke into his mind; it didn't explicitly try to alter his core values, the things that made him Geralt. No, what it changed was far more superficial - his appearance, his lusts, his tastes. It made him prefer the musk of male bodies, thick muscles and broad shoulders.

And lust, opposed to a change of the very self, was much harder to resist.

A third creature came about, born from Geralt's thoughts and the way his desires had evolved; he sought to combine the brutality of the orc and the primal, animalistic power of the werewolf. The wolf on its own, however, didn't quite have what he was seeking, so his mind cast itself further...

An image formed in his mind - that of a bull, but humanoid, built with the power of an orc. That same fierce, handsome features of the orc, twisted into the face of a bull; those same muscles, swollen with strength. Cloven hooves and heavy balls rather than the more mediocre ones of a human, and perhaps the long shaft of an equine, hot and rigid, its tip flared with arousal...

He groaned, pausing on the creaking steps to massage his shaft through the little armor that remained. He could almost see the creature in front of him - a minotaur, he would call it, the epitome of masculine power and musk. The fur would trap all the scent of a warrior within it, and he could bury his face within it, sniff at it with his enhanced senses.

The minotaur would take him, then - gently, pushing him back against the rail of the stairs. His cock would press against the flesh of his stomach, precum slowly dribbling down his skin as the minotaur let out a low growl of arousal; it would give him a few preparatory strokes, its shaft pressing against his own, then bend him over the rail.

He knew, logically, that being penetrated in such a place should hurt - but in the sanctity of his own mind, it never even occurred to him that it would. The flared base of the minotaur's cock pressed into him with no more pain than a mild stretch, and rather than discomfort, he felt a tingle of pleasure move through his spine.

He groaned, fingers gripping hard onto the rail; though he wasn't aware of it, he was moving as his fantasy moved, presenting himself to the air to be fucked. His cock dripped onto the wood below, staining it with his pre, but he was too lost in his fantasy to notice.

"F-fuck..." The growl of pleasure was a soft one, but it was present all the same. What he felt wasn't the invasive feeling of a cock pressing into him, however; it was instead the stretch of his spine as he _grew_to accommodate his newly developed muscles and changing body. His feet slowly widened, cracking the wood below him further; his face began to distort...

And still his change didn't complete. After all, Geralt hadn't made his choice - not yet.

Three creatures converged in his mind, each one of the ones he'd fantasized about. The werewolf, with all its primal beauty. The orc, in all its brutal power. The minotaur, the combination of feral strength and orcish muscle.

He saw the orc and the werewolf kiss, a canine cock and a more human one pressing against each other, grinding in a display of dominance. The orc pushed the werewolf back against the wall, growling softly into his ear; a thick, green hand reached down to squeeze the throbbing knot, making the creature howl with pleasure.

The minotaur, on the other hand, gripped the orc from behind. Strong arms wrapped up underneath the orc's shoulders, forcing the large man towards him; that equine cock shoved itself in without delay, causing the orc to cry out.

It was pleasure, not pain; Geralt saw the spurt of precum that jerked its way out of the monster's dick, the heated, dark green blush that appeared on his cheeks as it was fucked by the minotaur.

The werewolf had recovered, by then, took advantage of the orc's weakness by grinding their shafts together. It was the dominant one, this time, the one that made the orc pant and moan, its knot sliding along the entire length of that orcish shaft...

Geralt couldn't help himself. He reached forward, almost as though to touch the minotaur; its flexing muscles, gleaming with sweat.

There was a flash of light, and the witcher stumbled through the door.

---

Geralt of Rivia.

Balthemor had heard the name before. As a witcher, the man was almost legendary, and by far his most striking features was the white hair and his gold eyes. Balthemor was a meagre man by comparison; a Temerian soldier, yes, but nothing compared to the mutated power of a witcher.

It was for that reason that when a man stumbled through the door, staring at him with brilliant golden eyes and a scar on his face, that Balthemor knew all was lost.

He could already smell the musk creeping up to his level. He'd run as soon as he noticed the fog; his superstitions, in that sense, had kept him safe as he witnessed the sounds of monsters rutting and mating beneath.

He'd always had an attraction to men, and he had to admit, the plethora of creatures they had turned into had all been undeniably masculine and attractive. It was tempting to join them, but he'd resisted - he didn't want to lose his humanity.

Yet what he saw in the eyes of the man he assumed to be Geralt...

The witcher hadn't quite been lost to the foreign magic. He'd been changed, certainly; altered in many ways, but the core of him - the core expressed by those golden eyes - hadn't really changed. That, more than anything else, brought him a certain relief and allowed him to accept his eventual fate.

Balthemor had always been attracted to men. It wasn't something he'd ever been able to express properly, not in Temeria; it was common to be ostracized for such things. Geralt, in particular, had certainly been attractive whenever he'd had the luck to see the witcher - but had also been undeniably straight.

The tales of his exploits with various sorceresses had not gone unnoticed to the soldier.

It was a vain hope that perhaps the witcher would take interest in him, the same sort of hope that any man would hold for an idol that was held up on a pedestal of sorts. A powerful man like that wouldn't have any issues; anyone attempting to ostracize or ignore him would be ignored...

But that had just been a fantasy, of course.

Except now it wasn't - not anymore. He knew exactly what the effects of the mist were, had seen it happen to countless others. He'd wanted to avoid that fate, but now that it was inevitable, well... Geralt wasn't the worst person he could've encountered during such a thing.

He moved forward. Balthemor wasn't sure if his thoughts were affected by the musk seeping into his nostrils, but he breathed deep all the same; now was not the time for thinking. It was the time for passion.

He met Geralt's changing lips in a deep, heated kiss, heard the low growl of lust from the other man as he was pushed and pinned back against the wall. Hair was growing in on the growing man's body; his mind had been lost to his lust, and now it was his body's turn to catch up.

And catch up it did, the transformation rapid even to Balthemor's amazed eyes. As they kissed, fur grew into Geralt's body. His muscles grew and expanded one final time, snapping the final, strained straps from his body and leaving naked.

How different he was. It was all a beautiful change, to Balthemor's eyes. His feet seemed to grow and split, each side hardening into cloven hooves that attached to large, muscular thighs; a tail grew in from behind, thin but long, swishing through the air.

His face elongated into a snout, nose widening as his hair grew into a thick mane around his face. It gave him a handsome, rugged sort of look, despite its animal nature; it helped that his eyes remained sharp and intelligent, that same shade of gold, clouded only by lust.

His scalp seemed to harden, a single spot on it bulging before horns grew out from both sides; it didn't quite tear through the skin. Rather, the skin seemed to work together with the mutation, turning from flesh to bone as it spread sideways above his head. Geralt's ears grew a little longer, flopping from the upper corners of his face.

The epitome of masculinity.

The image latched easily on to Balthemor's mind. There was no need for the slow progression, like what happened with Geralt - no need to slowly sift through his likes and dislikes, his fetishes. The monster before him was perfect, and the magic latched on immediately, shifting his likeness to that of a minotaur.

It wasn't an immediate process, of course. It happened slowly. Geralt bent the soldier over, his voice a low growl of lust; he didn't speak a word as those thick fingers tore the clothing off of Balthemor's body, easily tearing through the fabric.

The thick, equine cock positioned itself quickly at Balthemor's opening. He should have been frightened, perhaps, by its sheer size and the heavy balls hanging below it - but looking into Geralt's eyes, he could only moan, spread his legs wider to make the penetration easier for the creature.

The witcher needed something to fill - a hole to fuck, and Balthemor was more than happy to oblige.

It hurt, almost. There was a moment of pain as Geralt pushed himself in, his hole forced to stretch around the flared head of the monster's cock. That pain quickly faded as the transformative magic settled in, centered around the witcher; he was almost a conduit for the magic, and sped up Balthemor's transformation that much more with his touch.

Geralt spared nothing. He was the embodiment of that masculine power and feral sexuality he had so admired, and so his rutting was that of a beast - hard, fast, drool leaking from his lips as he thrust into the soldier below him.

He watched as the soldier changed, his muscles growing every time the witcher's balls slapped against his ass, fur quickly spreading over skin and face elongating to match Geralt's snout...

But that wasn't all that changed. Balthemor's moans of pleasure quickly became growls, more powerful. They came from deeper within his throat, roars of pleasure as spittle flew from his mouth; his cock grew, thickened, bouncing against his belly with every thrust.

Before long, his legs had curled against those of the witcher, forcing the other monster deeper into him. The pleasure that rocked his body made him cry out, heavy fists pounding against the wooden floor and causing it to splinter and crack.

Balthemor didn't care. All he wanted, all he needed was that hard cock shoving its way into him, the thick length pounding him, dominating him in his entirety, marking him as belonging to Geralt...

And all too quickly, it was over. Thick seed spurted from the grunting minotaur into Balthemor's ass, dripping out of his thoroughly abused hole as Geralt gave a few more, weaker thrusts.

Balthemor needed no stimulation at all; the mere act of being so thoroughly fucked was enough for him to cum, panting and moaning as the seed landed on his face, his chest... The transformation completed itself, then, horns growing in over the former soldier's head.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then Geralt cracked a trademark grin, a look of lust merging with his trademark confidence. He didn't seem all too concerned about his transformation - it wasn't that he was different. He had a different body and different lusts, but his skills and prowess were the same, his sense of morality intact.

It did, however, take a lot more to satisfy him.

"Ready for round two?"

Balthemor was, for a moment, speechless - but then he grinned back, his own equine cock quickly rising. "Don't think you'll get me so easily this time. I might bite back."

"Sounds like a good time to me." Geralt smirked - and the two quickly closed again, tongues clashing in a harsh kiss.