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“So,” Dandelion says, “what’s the weirdest creature you’ve fucked? And don’t tell me you haven’t, I won’t believe it for a moment.”
Geralt eyes him speculatively.
“What’s this about?” he asks. They’re waiting--impatiently, for his part--for the rabbits Geralt has caught to cook.
“Pure curiosity. We’ve been on the road; it’s been a while,” Dandelion says. He’s lying -- Geralt can hear it in the way his heartbeat picks up ever so slightly.
He raises an eyebrow, imitating Eskel at his most skeptical.
“Oh alright,” Dandelion huffs out, “I’ve been writing too many love ballads. I think people are getting bored of them. The people want dirty songs to sing in taverns more than love songs, would you believe it?”
“You’re not writing a dirty ballad about me,” Geralt says flatly.
“There are already dirty ballads about you,” Dandelion says primly. “Mine would just be a superior rendition. Involving monsters.”
“No ballads.”
Dandelion frowns at him.
“I’ll tell you about it, but you have to swear first not to write any fucking songs, Dandelion,” Geralt says.
Dandelion looks thoughtful now, and at last he nods.
***
“A Witcher!” the succubus said. She didn’t rise from her position, reclining on the bed with a dazed student draped over her. The student, Geralt noted with little surprise, was very much alive. In fact, the room had nothing of death-smell, no shit nor blood nor the strange cooked scent of a succubus draining her victims of their lives. It smelled, mostly, of patchouli.
Geralt really shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Let me guess,” he sighed, as the succubus shifted out from under the student and propped her up against the soft red pillows of her bed. “A jealous lover is framing you for murdering students?”
“More likely one of those strange celibate cultists,” the succubus murmured in her pretty, warbling accent. “Give me a moment to attend to this lovely girl, and I shall be happy to discuss the details of my operation. I assure you, no one is harmed permanently here, and no more than they want to be.”
Geralt waited patiently as the succubus lifted the student out of the bed and effortlessly carried her from the room. Down the hall he could hear the sounds of others fucking, but there wasn’t any of the reek of desperation or boredom one usually found at a whorehouse.
A sex cult, then. It had been a while since he found one of those.
“Well?” she asked when she returned. “Are you here to kill me, or would you rather fuck me and be on your way?”
“Don’t need to fuck you not to kill you,” Geralt said, because he never did like to be bribed that way. She grinned viciously at him.
“I see your medallion, wolf pup. Your kind don’t usually kill sentient creatures, not unless we’re murderers ourselves. The offer to fuck is freely given; you’re very pretty, you know.”
Geralt did know, not that he’d ever admit it out loud.
He eyed her thoughtfully. She was very beautiful, like all of her kind, plump and full, her breasts bare to the world under intricate patterns of pale paint. There was a bit of cloth resembling a skirt around her waist, but it did little to cover her furred legs or her delicate hooves with their gold anklets.
“I am Siân,” she added politely.
“Hm,” he said. He hadn’t fucked a succubus before. Generally, the books he read while studying at Kaer Morhen discouraged such actions, but, well… it would be a great story to tell the others when he returned for the winter.
“I’m Geralt,” he said, and he shrugged and began to unlace his armor. He could feel the approval rolling off the succubus even without his eyes on her. He heard the bed shift, the soft slide of silken sheets against skin and fur, and felt his cock stir in his trousers.
“Tell me, Witcher,” she said as he divested himself of his boots. “Have you ever lain with one of my kind before?”
“Not yet,” Geralt admitted, and put a bit of a leer into his expression. He slipped out of his shirt, hastily unlaced his trousers and let them drop to the floor alongside his boots.
“Ah,” she said, and grinned wide enough to reveal small pointed incisors. She crooked a finger at him, summoning him closer.
Geralt dropped his braies and scrambled to join her on the bed.
She wasted no time, grasping at his shoulders hard enough he thought she might leave scratches and pulling him into the warm heat of her.
“Ah,” she said smugly. “You won’t come until I allow you to, you know, so you must tell me--do you want me to take my time with you?”
Geralt vaguely remembered reading something to that effect, once, but he was far too busy savoring the warm slide of her, the bite of her nails on his shoulders, the strange warmth, like candle flame, that danced across his skin where it met hers.
The succubus shifted and grasped his hips in her hands, positioning him at a slightly different angle, and Geralt bit his lips with the effort not to come. He’d always liked being manhandled, but there were so few who could manage it.
“You liked that,” the succubus purred, “Would you like to see another trick?”
“Yes,” Geralt said simply, as he drew back for another thrust.
The succubus leaned up to him and pulled him into a filthy kiss, sucking at his lips and tongue so that her sharp canines nipped him and drew blood. He moaned as the coppery taste seeped across his tongue.
“Shhh,” she said into the kiss, and then she did something, and no words that Geralt had or ever would have could quite describe it; it was like being lit from within, like one long drawn out orgasm that didn’t crest but instead went on and on and on. Distantly, he could feel himself releasing within her with a soft keen.
“Aaaah,” she sighed, as her cunt spasmed and tightened around his oversensitive cock and she shuddered against him.
Some time later, he came back around to himself, feeling wrung-out and vaguely aware that she could have killed him at any time over the last hour or so.
“You’re back with me, I see,” the succubus said, and he realized she was lying beside him, watching him.
“Hm,” he said. Definitely not dead, so Eskel wasn’t going to kill him, especially if he left out some bits when he told the story later.
“How long will you be in Oxenfurt?” Siân asked politely, though her small grin was wicked.
“Depends,” he said, rolling languidly onto his back. “Know of any other monster contracts in the area? Bit short on coin at the moment.”
He could feel her studying him. She reached out a hand and ran it over his chest, leaving that candle-flame sensation and a series of goosebumps in the wake of her touch.
“Come again tomorrow and I shall give you a lock of my hair, so that you can collect on the contract. It would be nice if those foolish boys with their foolish celibacy vows let me be for a time.”
Geralt grinned up at the ceiling.
“Deal,” he said.
***
“I don’t know if I believe you,” Dandelion says, but the curiosity in his voice says otherwise.
Geralt shrugs.
“Ask Eskel sometime, he’s fucked more incubi than the rest of us put together. He attracts them like flies.”
“Don’t think I won’t,” Dandelion says, and then, “Well? Surely that’s not all.”
“Fucked a ghost once,” Geralt says. “Strange experience.”
***
“Ye can sleep in the barn, if ye don’t mind what’s haunting it,” the farmer had said, and Geralt had been tired, saddle-sore, and damp from three days of rain, with not an inn in sight, so he had agreed. Geralt had questioned him, but it didn’t sound like a wraith, and ordinary ghosts were usually quite harmless. Often, they just wanted to talk. A reasonable enough price, for a dry place to sleep.
Talking was not, it turned out, what this particular ghost wanted.
“Hello,” the ghost said, hovering hesitantly by the haystack where Geralt intended to make his bed. “You’re new.”
He was a thin young man with a well-manicured beard and a cap a century out of fashion.
“Just here for the night,” Geralt promised.
“Well,” the ghost said, as Geralt shoveled down some of the hay and spread out his bedroll on top, “ye wanna fuck, or not?”
“Uh,” Geralt said.
“Farmer’s wife comes out here at least once a fortnight for it,” the ghost said, a little braggadaccio in its voice now, “but truth be told I always preferred men. You’ll let me suck you, won’t you?”
There was something a little plaintive in the ghost’s voice as he said the last.
“Let me get this straight,” Geralt said, as he peeled off his damp clothing, “you haunt this barn and you… fuck or suck anyone who comes by?”
“Yes,” the ghost said, “Da killed me for being a whore, oh, must be a hundred years or so ago. Twas a mistake to come visit instead of staying in Ard Carraigh where they don’t mind my like, it was. Didn’t go on when I died, figured I might as well stick around to piss him off.”
“He’s long gone by now,” Geralt pointed out.
“Oh, I know,” the ghost said cheerfully, “but I like it, see.”
Geralt did not remember reading about this in any book he’d ever encountered. Usually, the ghost would have turned into a wraith long since.
But, well, if he didn’t remember reading about this in any book he’d ever encountered, probably there was no danger in it?
“Alright,” Geralt said.
“Charge is half a copper penny on my father’s grave?” the ghost asked tentatively, and Geralt began to get a sense of how he might free this particular ghost.
“You get anyone to pay you yet?” he asked.
“Not a one,” the ghost said, still cheerful.
“Well, I’ll pay,” Geralt promised, though he suspected if he sent the ghost on the farmwife wouldn’t thank him for it. “What’s your father’s name and where’ll I find his grave?”
“Thank you,” the ghost said, and he did indeed sound grateful if a little dubious. “His name don’t matter, but he’s buried out just inside the forest, with a marker made of white oak.”
Geralt nodded.
“Well, lay back then,” the ghost said.
Geralt let his braies drop and did as he was bid, not expecting very much. After all, most ghosts couldn’t interact much at all with the living.
Like the softest sigh, an icy mouth slid down over his cock and swallowed him down. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, shouldn’t have been possible to grow hard, but the butterfly brush of an icy tongue brought his cock to half mast just in time for the faintest touch of a ghostly hand to wrap itself around his balls. He could almost, but not quite, feel the texture of a soft beard against his inner thighs. He arched up against the sensation, and he could feel the vibration of the ghost humming as it swallowed him down to the shaft.
No gag reflex for the dead, Geralt supposed.
The ghost set to work, bobbing very lightly on Geralt’s cock with his feather-soft icy mouth, and Geralt leaned his head back and focused on the sensations of cold and friction and the movement of a ghostly hand fondling his ass.
When the ghost slid a finger inside, he shouted, a short aborted sound because he didn't want the farmer in his house to hear.
Once again, the ghost hummed around him, radiating pleasure, and the faint vibration was enough to set Geralt off. He came, his useless seed splashing almost burningly hot against his thighs as it passed through the ghost. The ghost continued for a moment, the cold against his sensitive, softening cock almost unbearable, before he pulled off and smirked at him.
“Worth it?” he asked.
Geralt leaned back against his bedroll and groaned his agreement. He’d never had anything quite like it.
“Don’t forget to pay,” the ghost said, pressing an almost imperceptible kiss to Geralt’s jaw before it faded out of sight.
“Huh,” Geralt said.
On his way out of town he took the long route, to the back of the farm, and flipped a half-penny onto the grave he found there. The farmwife would just have to make do.
***
“Let me get this straight,” Dandelion says, somewhere between incredulous and petulant, “you let a ghost suck you off in a barn somewhere in fuckall, Kaedwen and then you paid him to banish him?”
“To help him move on,” Geralt clarifies.
“If you were going to mess with me, you could have just refused to answer,” Dandelion says, definitely petulant now.
“Wouldn’t do that,” Geralt says, but he’s grinning. “Weirdest ever was this bruxa just north of Dol Blathanna, in the Blue Mountains. Not long before we met, actually.”
It’s a story Geralt has never shared before, mainly because the other Witchers would throw him in the lake for his stupidity if he did.
***
Geralt had seen a number of strange things in his years on the Path, but he thought waking up in a bruxa’s cavern-hut to the light of a shrine to the Eternal Flame probably put everything else to shame.
“You’re awake,” the bruxa said, staring down at him with her inhuman black eyes.
“Sure am,” Geralt said tentatively. He fought the urge to feel at his neck, see if she’d been feeding on him. He didn’t feel drained, just slightly damaged from his fight with a particularly nasty fiend.
“I harvested the horns and the teeth for you after I brought you here and patched you up,” she said, still watching him. “I am Aerowen.”
“You brought me back to your lair,” Geralt said flatly. He couldn’t think of many stupider things for a bruxa to do, and the thing was, he couldn’t help but wonder why.
The bruxa glanced at the flame on the shrine, lightning-quick, and then her eyes darted back to where Geralt was lying on her bed.
“The Eternal Fire would have us care for all sentient creatures,” she intoned, but she sounded slightly hesitant.
“You’re… a devotee of the Eternal Fire,” Geralt said, his voice heavy with disbelief.
“You’re in my territory, Witcher,” she said, not quite an answer, “and so it is my responsibility to see that you stay alive. I have brought no harm to any sentient being in many years, but I have offered no aid to one either. Normally, such creatures do not venture so far into the mountains.”
“Sorcerer was paying good money for the fiend’s horns and a couple of the villages had contracts out on it,” Geralt answered. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did a bruxa find herself a devotee of the Eternal Fire?”
“I was…. Something of a hedonist, destroying life everywhere I looked, and then I fell in love,” the bruxa answered. The story that followed was long and surprisingly romantic, and in spite of himself, Geralt found himself believing it. There ought to have been more missing villagers, a contract or two, if she was feeding off the local population.
It took a few days for Geralt to heal a leg that had broken badly, and the bruxa kept him company, leaving only once to consume a deer and another time to harvest the fiend’s claws, at Geralt’s request.
On the last day, when Geralt was beginning to move about the small hut smoothly on his own, she approached him shyly.
“It has been a very long time,” she said, laying a hand against the muscles of his chest, and Geralt smiled down at her. She was very beautiful, with her pale heart-shaped face and inky hair and strange black eyes.
He shifted his hand to the hem of her short roughspun dress and lifted it over her head while she moved her hand to fumble with the laces of his trousers. She pushed him back to the bed with supernatural strength, at least as great as his own, and he went happily as she pinned him against her soft pile of deerskins.
“Ah,” she sighed, her voice pitching towards inhuman, as she sank onto him, enveloping him in her warm heat.
“Ah,” she said, lifting herself slightly and beginning to rock against him, warm and soft in all the right places. Her fingers lengthened against his skin, trailing roughly down his arms and drawing the slightest pinpricks of blood from his biceps.
“Ah,” she growled, and reached down to nip at his throat, and Geralt stiffened and prepared to defend himself, but to his surprise, she did not draw blood. Some part of Geralt’s brain had the presence of mind to be surprised by her control.
“Ah,” she purred, as his hand found its way to her clitorus and he pinched it gently between his fingers.
They fucked slowly and thoughtfully by the light of her little shrine, their sighs and then their moans echoing through the air.
“You’ll leave in the morning?” she asked, when they lay side by side, satiated.
“Yes,” Geralt said.
There were other contracts, better and worse beds, other fucks, waiting for him on the Path.
“Might come back this way in the fall, though,” he added. She smiled at him.
“I would like that, Geralt,” she said.
***
“Did you?” Dandelion asks, all wide eyes. “Return in the fall, I mean?”
“Nah,” Geralt says. “Too far out of the way. Did go back some years later on another contract from Ban Ard, but she’d moved on by then, or maybe she just didn’t want to be found.”
Privately, Geralt suspects she grew tired of the Eternal Fire and went back to her old ways, but he can’t bring himself to regret not killing her. Leave that for some other Witcher, in some other time, in some other place.
“Well,” Dandelion says cheerfully, “if I write a song that’s just about some Witcher then I’m not breaking my word, am I?”
Geralt sighs, unsurprised.
“Everyone will know you mean me,” he says wearily. All of Dandelion’s songs about Witchers are about Geralt of Rivia, and everyone knows it.
“Won’t do you any harm,” Dandelion says, with a long slow wink, and Geralt sighs again.
He’d better tell Eksel about the bruxa before he hears it from someone else, he realizes. He’s going to get thrown in the lake for sure.