Chapter Text
Geralt needed a bath. Or a couple of baths, Jaskier acknowledged as he trudged after the witcher.
They’d been on the road for weeks, and the utter lack of monsters had seen them without the funds for a room most nights. And no matter what Geralt said, a stew needed more than salt and meat to taste good.
“Halt,” a voice called, sounding like it had swallowed a frog. “Name yourselves.”
Geralt grunted, turning to face the guard, medallion flashing on his chest. The guard didn’t seem to notice.
“I am the bard Jaskier and this is my companion, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier interceded, “Might I inquire as to what has merited such a level of caution this day?” Jaskier waved vaguely at the town, and it’s notable lack of a protective wall.
“And why does a bard wish to know?” The guard had moved close enough to talk without shouting, but his hand had yet to leave his truncheon.
“Because it stands that his companion is a witcher,” Geralt said, stepping fully out from behind Roach.
The guard flinched back like he’d been stung.
“Urk. Well, y-you see witcher, we have been quite free of monsters for some time now. So while it is good to know you are an option, you will find no work here.”
Jaskier watched the guard, who seemed to be both more on guard and yet less fearful than before. Behind him, Geralt grunted in the way he did whenever someone was making his job harder.
“Where’s your healer,” he said, already starting to walk into the village proper.
~~~~~
The healer was a red-faced man with an apron covered in stains of unnatural colors. He was also busy, despite the sun remaining a ways off from its peak.
“Unusual injuries,” he echoed, handing a sleepy eyed farmer’s daughter a flask of something that smelled spicy. “Not sure what counts as unusual in these parts.” He was cut off by a cough from the guard.
“But no unexplained injuries if that’s what you seek to inquire about.”
“We’ve been hearing about travelers disappearing betwixt here and the next inn. Have you heard anything about that?” Jaskier asked, poking at the massive batch of salves the healer was passing out. They seemed vaguely familiar, but Jaskier couldn’t pin down why.
“You sirs are the only outsiders this village has seen since the tinker-tailors came through last month.”
“Hmm.” Geralt collected a few items and set them on the man’s table, giving Jaskier a look as he dumped the pepper, ginger, and onion down next to a jar of the same oddly familiar salve.
At least Jaskier would get a decent meal tonight, even if nobody in the village would house an unneeded witcher. And Geralt might not admit it, but he appreciated Jaskier sacrificing his own comfort to keep him company.
~~~~~
“Do you recognize this perchance?” Geralt asked over dinner, tossing Jaskier the salve. They had made camp well beyond the village gates, and the warm summer nights meant that there was plenty of light remaining to illuminate the jar.
Jaskier caught it, unscrewed the cap and spread a bit on his fingers. It was sticky and vaguely sweet smelling. It had also been mixed with a powder so fine that the honey making up most of the salve barely stuck to the jar.
“It’s for chafing,” Jaskier said, “Typically applied to areas of a, shall we say, private nature.”
“From fucking.” Geralt took another sip of stew.
“Indeed my friend,” Jaskier ignored his flaming ears, “Among other pastimes.”
“How long does it keep?”
“About a fortnight at most,” Jaskier said, trying not to imagine what this village got up to, if their healer was making batches en masse.
“Sex demon,” Geralt said.
“Or it could be just really good sex,” Jaskier argued, taking another bite of ginger, onion and stringy rabbit. “I’ve seen a thing or two that would make an old man like you flush red.”
“If there is a sex demon people won’t admit to a monster,” Geralt sighed. “But they know, in their spirit, that they are in danger, and so they will not chase a witcher away when he comes.” Behind him, Roach snorted.
“How might you kill a sex demon?” Jaskier asked, through the dawning realization that Geralt was serious. And perhaps hoping that the story behind the sigh was a good one.
“If it should feed on sex like a succubus, then you need cut away the genitals. If it would feed on arousal and not sex like the incubus then you need secondly behead it. And if only attraction provides sustenance as for the ladykiller you need first stab it through the heart then shave the head so it might not rise again.” The words were in a monotone, as if to make up for how much Geralt was speaking.
Jaskier offered an exaggerated wince, “And to be sure, you see me as none of these foul beasts, but a highly lovable man of fine taste and feature.” He smiled, his teeth glinting pearly white beneath the full moon.
“More of a scoundrel,” Geralt snorted. “But no, sex demons are altogether a less whiny lot than you.”
“You wound me, my friend.”
“Do you often seek to be mistaken for a succubus?”
“No, but it would be flattering in this case.”
“Wait until we find it tomorrow, then decide if you still believe that. With the activity this one has seen, they’re likely to be more bloated than a king after feasting.”
Some things did not need an answer, Jaskier decided, and let Geralt fall asleep without further question.
~~~~~
“You wait out here,” Geralt said, nodding towards the empty courtyard of an old manor. The path there was well traveled, and the woodshed yielded green kindling. The entryway however, was coated in dust, as if for all the deliveries made to the manor, none dared enter the residence proper. At least not through the front door.
“But I might offer my help,” Jaskier said, ignoring the fact that he had already settled on the nearest step with his lute. Geralt wasn’t going to take him up on the offer.
“No,” the witcher said, right on cue. “The Durma’s Flower would poison you.”
“Durma’s Flower would poison anyone,” Jaskier corrected, “Which begs the question, why are you taking it?”
“In the right dosage, it ensures that a man is unable to perform for a time,” Geralt said, popping the cork to a vial the size of Jaskier’s pinkie nail. “If the succubus catches me, she’ll waste time trying to fuck.”
“You are mad,” Jaskier said, keeping well away from the drops of Durma’s flower Geralt was tipping into his mouth.
“I’m a witcher,” Geralt returned, forcing the manor doors open with a squeal. “If you see someone who isn’t me, get on Roach and get the fuck away from here. I should be done within the hour. And whatever you do, don’t start playing with your lute.”
Jaskier valiantly did not titter at that, and Geralt disappeared into the manor.
~~~~~
The better part of an hour had passed, and Jaskier’s ass had grown numb from sitting on the old stone for so long. Roach had found a bale of hay amidst the deliveries of wood and wine, and was making steady progress through it, ignoring Jaskier all the while.
Rising with a muffled groan, Jaskier moved to poke around the deliveries himself, to see if he could learn anything about where the deliveries originated.
The bulk of the goods were what one might expect of a manor: fine milled flour, eggs, wine, fabric, and a scented soap Jaskier had to take a sample of. There were a few items that broke the pattern however. He found more of the salve they’d found in the village and several glass figurines he couldn’t find a function for. They were cone shaped for the most part, with a base that narrowed before spreading back wider than the top.
Repacking everything but the soap, Jaskier was crossing the courtyard to see if Roach needed to be brushed down when the manor doors creaked open. The squeak was high and thin, as if the hinges were protesting.
Beyond the door, a figure too slim to be Geralt oozed into the light. He was pale, his face bony for all his fine features, and his coat probably cost as much as the manor with all the golden thread embroidered into it. His smile was crooked, revealing teeth sharper than they strictly ought to be.
He was onto Jaskier before he could do more than blink, one hand grabbing him by the throat to pull him bodily in front of himself as Geralt appeared behind him. The figure’s other hand crept down over his stomach and settled at his groin, rubbing miniscule circles there.
Geralt paused in the doorway. “Let him go,” he ordered, pointing a sword directly at the man behind him.
“You know that is not about to happen,” the man said, tracing clawlike nails over Jaskier’s windpipe. “So why don’t you drop your sword.”
Geralt growled, and looked about to lunge when Jaskier yelped. The sound echoed around the old courtyard, even as the pain of having his dick crushed echoed through Jaskier’s body. For one terrifying moment, Jaskier’s legs gave out, leaving him suspended by his throat, and he struggled to get his breathing back under control.
Geralt recoiled at the noise, but the man simply went back to rubbing circles there a moment later, his long nails catching at the lacings and rubbing the fabric against Jaskier until he would agree that taking Durma’s Flower might not be a poor idea.
Still, Jaskier was not entirely ruled by his lust, so he watched Geralt, waiting to see if he thought they could escape the situation or if they'd better wait for a safer chance.
Geralt’s sword hit the ground with a clang, answering that question even as Jaskier recovered enough to plant his own feet on the ground again.
“Very good,” the man said, his voice a rumble deeper than Geralt’s, “Now drop your trousers.”