#wounded geralt

[perhapsblues]

Can you hear me?

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 17

"Jaskier, no! Keep your eyes open!" "I'm- I'm getting so tired, Geralt..." "You can rest soon. Now, talk to me." "G'rlt..." "Talk, damn it!" "..." "Jaskier, please, PLEASE. Stay awake! Fuck- Sing for me. I need you to sing for me, Jask." "...You want to hear me sing?" "Yes, yes, I've never wanted to hear you perform more than now."

If Geralt wasn't currently stitching up Jaskier's profusely bleeding wound, he'd find the time to sob in relief at the sound of fucking Fishmonger's Daughter.

[teatitty]

I love writing Dandelion because he's a performer. An unreliable narrator of his own life. He exaggerates and lies through his teeth and will dig and dig and dig into the backstory of a friend but clam up the second you ask him anything about his own and find ways to deflect and demure. He's hyperaware of how people view him and just doesn't seem to care. If you think he's a silly bard without a brain that's how he'll act for you and if you only see him as a flirt who makes terrible jokes that's how he'll act for you, he puts on whatever mask he thinks people want most from him which is why it's so compelling that his bestest friend in the whole wide world is Geralt - a Witcher who can effortlessly see through it all and strip him down to his bones if he wants to

Truly the mortifying ordeal of being Known

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I just got home from two days in the forest with a group of former soldiers. I made fire, chopped wood, caught and cooked my own dinner, and slept under the stars. I love camping, but this was a whole new level of experience.

And now I can't help but imagine Geralt setting up a "reconnect with nature" type bushcraft camp at Corvo.

[author-morgan]

Title: A Fated Storm Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Summary: If there's one thing you can count on, it's that Geralt of Rivia will be bleeding when he shows up at your door—or in this case, when you find him lying on the side of the road during a storm. ~3k words Masterlist

THE STORM RAGING in the night is unlike any you can remember in this lifetime. Rain pounds against the glass-paned windows of the forest lodge, the wind’s howl is a terrible howling shriek—only heard in the brief moments of reprieve between peals of thunder when flashes of bright white illuminate the leaden sky.

Candles and reeds flicker with the draft, shrouding the fading inks on the scrolls of parchment detailing potions, tonics, and salves passed down for millennia. You’ve memorized most—the ones used most often to treat infections, fevers, and morning sickness—but some recipes, like the poultice to draw out the venom and mend the bite of an alghoul, still warrant close adherence to the scrawling of those who came before.

In the lull of thunder and lightning, you can hear the heavy footfalls of iron-shod hooves and the squeal of a horse. Wiping your hands on the front of your leaf-and-berry-stained apron, you open the door of your lodge and are met with lashes of summer rain. The bay mare with four white socks and a white blaze is unmistakable—as is the red-leather hilt of the steel longsword strapped to the saddle. Roach. 

But she is without her rider, and there is blood on her neck and saddle. You take hold of Roach’s reins and lay your hand on her soaked muzzle, soothing the panic in her dark eyes. “Where is Geralt?” The mare neighs and stamps her hoof into the soft earth. “Take me,” you whisper, bringing the reins back over Roach’s head. You pull yourself into the saddle and set off to search for a wounded Witcher in the storm.

He lies face down on the side of the path leading from the road, his body contorted in an unnatural way—the puddle around him stained a dark red. A passerby would likely mistake him for a corpse already. You slide from Roach’s saddle and into the mud next to him, rolling him onto his back as gently as you can manage—he’s taller than you and must weigh twice as much with his leather-and-metal armor. Geralt flops onto his back, and a strained groan passes his lips. It's only momentary relief, though, as you see the gaping wound on his side.

The gash is deep, cutting through thick leather, flesh, and sinew—from breast to navel. It hardly bleeds now but is caked with dried blood and dirt. You need to get him back to your home, quickly. Slipping your arms beneath his, you start to drag him toward Roach. “Couldn’t just drop by for dinner and a glass of wine?” His reply is only a quiet grunt when your footing slips in the mud. Roach bends her front legs, easing your efforts to drape Geralt over the saddle. You mount behind him, spurring the bay mare on through the storm.

Roach stops at the door of your lonely lodge, and you slip from her back. Geralt slides off the wet saddle quicker than you anticipate, and you don’t have time steady yourself, let alone brace for the full brunt of his weight, and he doesn’t have the strength left to stop himself from falling. Your knees give, footing lost in the muddy path, and he lands atop you—cursing incoherently. You stumble trying to stand—hair and muck clinging to your face—but you maneuver him and yourself, pulling him into the dry warmth of your home and onto a low cot.

Geralt recognizes the smell of herbs and flowers and can make out the drying bundles hanging from the rafters. He can hear your familiar voice cursing, too—rummaging through a chest of glass vials. The firelight reflects in his weary yellow eyes when you return to his side, unable to smile for him just yet. The unstoppered concoction smells close to rotting corpses. “Drink this.” Geralt does, and he can taste the hints of mugwort and chicory with no honey or wine to reduce the bitterness, but the effects are near-instant. Most of the pain ebbs and his strength to speak returns.

“Attempt to finish me off?” His voice is unrecognizable—quiet and weak and laced with pain.

You start to work the buckles and laces of his armor, first taking off his gauntlets. “There is a bounty on your head last I checked.” The townsfolk say he offered offense to the Duke of Brugge at a feast to celebrate his victory in ridding the city of several beasts and more than a few unsavory characters. Geralt had ridden off in the night with the Duke promising six-hundred crowns to the man who could bring the Witcher back to face punishment. A fool’s errand. But you’ll hear the story from his own tongue soon enough—he always tells you of his exploits. You peel back his armor and ease his tunic overhead. His collection of scars has grown since last you saw him, but those will pale in comparison to this.

“Had worse.” He tries to tell you when you start washing away the muck and clotted blood before dousing the wound with vinegar. 

“No, Geralt” —you shake your head— “you haven’t.” The wound is among the most grievous you’ve treated and the worst you’ve seen mangling Geralt’s body —a human would have already perished. This is nigh enough to claim his life, even with his Witcher mutations judging by the amount of blood he’s lost. It doesn’t help the tonic to quell his pain is harsh and bitter on his tongue, the foulest tasting brew in your inventory, even compared to Witcher potions, but you know the toll your powers have on people. Fires can warm, and fires can burn. 

You lay your hands on either side of the jagged tear across his abdomen and begin to mouth the ancient language—it does not sound like the One Speech to Geralt, though. He knows you are skilled in magic, but this is different. This is something more. Your eyes slip shut as you focus, drawing from the power deep inside you’d kept hidden for years, and then warmth and light fill your palms, sinking into his skin. It feels like he is burning from the inside. He hasn’t felt this type of pain since the Trials. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth together, but he will not cry out. 

The torn muscles mend themselves at your bidding, melding together as though never severed, but with each passing heartbeat, each rumbling clap of thunder, you take on his pain—unbridled. But you must fight through it. Tears prick at your closed eyes and the first that trails down your cheek is stained red and burning. Voice trembling, you push on, hands sliding until both rest atop Geralt’s broken flesh—willing it to mend too, and it does. 

When the damage is rectified, you let out a tired gasp and quickly look away from him to wipe the bloody tears from your cheeks before he notices. He’ll reprimand you for exerting yourself to help someone like him and claim he would have been fine. But he’s too weak and tired to say much else or do anything besides let sleep embrace him. His yellow eyes are almost shut when you kiss his forehead. “Rest,” you tell him, and for once, Geralt of Rivia listens without complaint.

THE FIRST RAYS of light filter through the windows and draw you out of bed to start the day. Geralt is still asleep on the canvas cot—the furrow between his brows gone. He looks at ease, peaceful almost. It’s a rare thing to see. Craning down, you place a chaste kiss on his cheek and leave him be as you don your apron and begin the morning chores.

Roach has found the stable. Both her and your silver mare, Storm, munch on the last hay in the feeder. It’s all routine, and once muscle memory kicks in, you scarcely need to think about any of it—fresh hay, clean water, check the goat stall, feed the chickens and goose. Wiping the first drops of sweat on your sleeve, you set to relieving Roach of her saddle and preparing Storm for a short trip to the nearest village.

Geralt is sitting up when you return, his fingers prodding the silvery skin cutting across his ribs. Another scar to add to his growing collection, but this one is smooth, more a patch of discolored skin than anything. It bewilders him that you’ve never shown this talent before—always resorting to salves and tonics—but then again, he’s never come back with a wound quite so bad. His medallion begins to thrum as you draw near, another first. “Didn’t think you’d be awake so soon,” you note, sitting next to him. You press your hand against the mended flesh and close your eyes, feeling for any remaining damage. “Care to tell me what happened this time?”

“Wyvern nest,” Geralt answers. He’s cut down Wyverns before but never a bonded pair keen on defending their unhatched brood. Piece of him wishes he’d just taken his chances with the pack of necrophages, but Roach veered off the road before he could calm the mare—he shakes his head thinking about it all. Another lesson learned—he makes a mental note to buy Roach blinders, maybe even try casting Axii next time she tries to buck him and bolt.

Warmth trickles from your fingertips into his flesh, enough energy to spur the remaining cuts and scrapes on his back and arms to seal themselves. “Contract?” You ask to distract him.

He wishes it had been a contract—two wyverns would have earned him two heavy coin purses, maybe four if he’d returned to collect half-dead from the battle. “Happenstance,” he grunts.

“It’s good to see you, Geralt,” you breathe, hand trailing up from his ribs to rest on his neck—thumb trailing along his jaw and the coarse stubble there. His yellow eyes flit across your face, finally settling on your smile. He leans closer, thinking he might finally get a kiss, but as he draws nigh, your nose scrunches up. “Smell like shit, though,” you tell him with a laugh, pushing back on his chest.

“Mmm,” he huffs, watching you put a kettle of water on to start filling the bath, “missed you too.”

HE CLAIMS TO dislike baths, but the faint smile on his lips and soft little groan he makes when he fully slides into the steaming water say otherwise. Geralt soaks, content for the moment, his yellow eyes following your movements around the lodge as you gather up vials, bottles, and tins, packing them into a leather satchel.

Watching you work—just being here with you—feels oddly domestic, comfortable even, and it’s these moments which make his stomach churn and his heart ache for a life he can never have. He wonders if you would winter in Kaer Morhen with him if he asked, but Geralt thinks he knows your answer already. Too many people rely on you to remedy their ailments, and you would not have the heart to leave them for so long.

Geralt chases the thoughts away by sniffing the vials of sweet oils next to the wooden tub—the same ones you added just before he finished undressing. He knows the scents well from his alchemy lessons and crafting. “A Witcher that smells of bryonia and lavender,” he laments, leaning his head back. The way he says it makes smelling of sweet flowers sound like a worse fate than dying alone on the side of a muddy narrow path in the forest.

Alas, you take a seat behind the tub, setting down an oyster comb and boar bristle brush. “Don’t worry” —you unbind the black leather thong holding back his hair— “I won’t tell anyone,” you tease, not wanting his brutish and stoic reputation to be damaged because he smells of sweet summer petals. His white hair is stained with dirt and dried blood and tangled. With your fingers, you work through the largest knot, humming a soft tune.

“Not even Vesemir?” He asks. The old witcher made your acquaintance after he came seeking to purchase several blue lotus blossoms and arenaria. The townsfolk spake of your lodge to him. They took you for a simple herbalist. You were younger then—by about five decades—and a still reckless and eager Witcher named Geralt of Rivia had yet to stumble into your life.

But every summer, you can count on Vesemir to knock on your door, wishing to purchase his usual, with a few different oddities sprinkled in each time. It happened by chance that one of the times he stopped by, you had Geralt lying in your bed, a cataplasm covering a bite from a necrophage.

“Now that you mention it,” your voice trails off as you rub a cake of soap into a lather between your hands before sinking your sudsy fingers into his hair. Geralt’s lips part and his bright eyes slip shut as you rub circles on his scalp. “I think even he would agree flowers are more pleasant than wyvern blood and shit.” That earns you a dry laugh, barely audible. The silence that settles between you and Geralt is an easy one—understanding silence is preferable to empty words.

Time does not stop, even if you wish for it to, and the chiming chronometer reminds you of duties and promises. Filing a pitcher with the cooling bathwater, you douse Geralt’s hair, rinsing away the grime and soap. In place of a dingy grey is white snow.

His lips purse into a frown when you rise, meaning you won’t rub his back or aching arms, but you place a lingering kiss on his damp forehead, just beside the scar on his temple. “I need to make my deliveries to the village,” you explain. “Promised I’d have them by noon.” He nods, hiding his disappointment as you collect your satchel. “Geralt” —you stop at the door, looking back at him— “you will be here when I return, won’t you?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you. The door to the lodge closes, and Geralt leans his head back against the tub, sighing. So much for Witchers not having emotions, he thinks, wondering if there’s a potion or decoction strong enough to halt the fondness he feels for you. 

It is not a long trip to the village, and when you return to the forest lodge with payment and new orders, Geralt is standing next to Roach, brushing the dried clots of mud from her mane. You greet him with a smile, and he offers his scarred and calloused hand, helping you from your silver mount like a gallant knight from a children’s tale.

HE TRACES LINES over the length of your spine as you lay with him, head pillowed on his chest, listening to the slow rhythmic beat of his heat, bare legs entwined. “I shouldn’t stay long,” he tells you in a whisper. There’s still a bounty on his head, and the last thing he wants is bounty hunters or the Duke’s men showing up here. But it’s always like this. Sometimes he stays for two or three days, and other times he is gone before you wake—leaving a bloom or trinket in the spot he laid. Only, it’s been nigh a year since you last saw him, and you are not ready to part again so soon.

“Just a few more days,” you beg of him. “I was going to visit Cidaris for Belleteyn” —you outline one of the scars on his breast with your fingertips— “see the bonfire and lantern lights.” Geralt’s muscle tenses under your touch. He stills your wandering hand, threading his fingers through yours. “Will you accompany me?” It’s a simple request and spoken sweetly. He will not deny you an evening to celebrate. He gives his answer with a kiss on the back of your hand.

After a long while, Geralt guides your hand to his mended wound, pressing your palm flat against his ribs beneath his own. “How did you learn this?” He asks—if you could heal such a wound with ease, you may very well have been able to raise the dead too. You think of the best way to explain it, but his curiosities are eager to be slaked. Geralt narrows his eyes, one corner of his lips quirking upward. “Mage?”

You shake your head and prop your chin up on his chest with folded hands. “Something else,” you explain. Once there may have been a name for the power, but it’s since been lost to time. “All the women in my family have the Gift, as we call it.” Some chose to use their power openly, but your mother and grandmother always felt there was more safety in anonymity. “Nowhere would have us,” you tell Geralt, “not even Aretuza.” It is simpler to live as an herbalist in the woods, and no one, besides wayward Witchers, has ever suspected anything odd.

Geralt shifts, rolling onto his side, his face level with yours, noses almost touching. “See” —you rest a hand on his scarred cheek and smile— “we are not so different after all.” He takes your lips and your breath, holding you close. You sigh into his mouth, letting his tongue brush yours, fingers slipping back into his pale hair. His kiss is achingly slow and tender, reverent even, and you cannot help but miss the cracked softness of his lips against yours when he parts. 

“I’ll consider it luck I found you then,” Geralt notes, pressing his forehead to yours, tiredness tinging his voice as the rough pad of his thumb grazes along your ribs and the underside of your breast. 

“Or destiny,” you counter, playing with the ends of his hair, gaze flicking up to his yellow eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a twisting feeling in his gut that knows you’re right. No matter where his paths led, he always came back, always found you—surrendering to tangled threads of fate.

His arm settles around your waist, and he turns his cheek into your hair, lips brushing against your temple. Geralt thinks he could live in this moment forever, given a chance. He is a Witcher, though. And the longer he stays, the harder it is to leave—and leave he must. But the thought of leaving doesn’t plague him like it once did—people linked by destiny always found their way back to one another. 

[taglist: @erzsebetrosztoczy @certifiedlittleshit @t-virus0 @charming-merlin @yalos-writing ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Geralt of Rivia taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[patroclusdefencesquad]

i'm ignoring the existence of the witcher season 2 in my head yennefer and jaskier bumped into each other going down the mountain in episode 6 and decided to travel together just to spite geralt

[simonstamenovic]

knife / wounds / guns?

10/10 in theory, we prefer scratching or biting or impact play in terms of being hurt, however

a) conceptually, wound fucking is... well slightly less my thing as a person but we as a whole have freaks way more into it

b) i will suck the barrel of a gun like it is cock for absolutely nothing

[vulpinesaint]

man whose smile is like. pus. :|

[aramblingjay]

Geraskier headcanon: witchers are humans too, aka Geralt could survive on nothing but spite and willpower with no sleep and minimal food, but that doesn’t mean he should (and Jaskier makes sure he won’t)

Geralt doesn’t need to follow normal circadian patterns, but it’s better if he does. He can see nearly as well in the dark as during the day, but too much prolonged night vision leaves him with stinging eyes and splitting headaches. Sleep can be an afterthought for days at a time, but after several consecutive hours of rest he’s less likely to be overwhelmed by every little sound or scent. His metabolism can process just about any food he gets his hands on, or shut off entirely if he can’t get his hands on any at all, but his grumpiness is directly related to the quality and quantity of his last three meals

Of course Geralt doesn’t really realize most of this, because he’s never taken enough care of himself to find out. It won’t kill him to travel at night when there are fewer people around to curse and spit at him, so he often does. It won’t kill him to skip a meal or two when a town seems particularly hostile. His stomach growls and his head feels like someone’s using it for target practice and he has to wait several days before heading into the city because every sound grates on his ears, but to Geralt that’s just life on the Path

Along comes Jaskier

Jaskier does not share Geralt’s views about neglecting his self-care, but more importantly, Jaskier is very much not a Witcher and physically can’t function on Geralt’s schedule. At first this is an annoyance, and Geralt overdoes it in an effort to make Jaskier realize that following him around isn’t the life he wants. But Jaskier can outstubborn literally anyone, and just hangs on like a (very lovable) barnacle the more Geralt tries to push him away

Eventually, there comes a breaking point. Jaskier trips over something in the dark and nearly splits his skull open on a rock. Jaskier is so sleep-deprived and drained of energy he very quietly asks if Geralt would be willing to carry his lute for him. Jaskier hasn’t had enough water in days, and loses his voice when he tries to perform at the next inn they stop at. Geralt has two options: 1) use this as a final opportunity to rid himself of Jaskier forever or 2) adapt

To nobody’s surprise (except maybe Geralt’s), he adapts. They start to travel only during the day and rest when it’s dark. If some dire circumstance presents itself (sometimes people take exception to him, or Jaskier is recognized by the wrong husband) and they have to flee in the night, Jaskier gets to ride on Roach. He tries to make sure they stop early enough and leave late enough that Jaskier gets at least six hours of sleep most nights. Geralt starts carrying a second waterskin and takes detours to make sure they pass by a stream whenever it begins to empty

As a result, Geralt accidentally takes better care of himself too. He’s lived so long in a constant state of discomfort that he doesn’t even understand what’s happening the first time he wakes up completely pain-free, no headache, an unfamiliar lightness in his muscles, eyes bright and sharp, ears attuned to every sound but equally able to filter them out, and strangely calm. Geralt didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this, thought his aches and pains and weariness was just the consequence of the Path. Some of it is, but turns out sleeping and eating well and not overtaxing your senses can help your physical and mental wellbeing. Who knew? Not Geralt

Geralt does his best to describe it to Jaskier who has to try very, very hard not to cuddle his witcher into the next dimension in response. After that, it’s Jaskier’s mission to make sure Geralt doesn’t push his limits more than he absolutely has to. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should, Geralt!” When he sees Geralt tiring (or what counts as tiring for a witcher), Jaskier makes a show of how much he’d like a bed for the night so they camp at an inn and Geralt can rest in an actual bed. He likes to order Geralt’s favorite meats and wines when they go to taverns, even if it means kicking up a fuss (Geralt won’t ask for an extra portion himself, he’s just happy enough to be served at all, but luckily he has no reservations about stealing off Jaskier’s plate)

Jaskier can always tell when Geralt’s taking care of himself, sees the way he moves more freely and smiles more easily and (on the really good days) barks out beautiful, booming laughs at Jaskier’s bawdier jokes

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

Wound- Geralt (5)

Pairing: Geralt x Reader

Characters: Geralt

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 420

Author: Aaron

You held the heavy satchel firmly on your back, the leather straps dug deeply into your shoulders and every step through the forest became harder and harder. Geralt took the lead, tracking the foul beast through the forest, following its path of destruction and terror.

“Were close, don’t lose focus.” Geralt’s eyes darted back and forth along the tree line, desperate to find anything that would prevent a potential ambush. “The fiend could strike at any moment, keep your sword at the ready.” You felt down at your hip to make sure the sharpened blade was still there, a fierce upgrade from the tiny kris that you had initially been equipped with, a small token of appreciation from Geralt from the forge of one of the finest blacksmith’s he had met on his travels.

“Don’t worry, we have all the potions and oils we could need. We just need to strike before we are pounced upon, are we getting close?” He knelt down to the ground and pressed his finger into the large track that lay on the floor.

“The tracks are getting fresher; we are going to come across it at any minute. Remember, when we find it, you hide, okay? You let me do the fighting. Please just keep yourself safe.

“I will hide for as long as I need to, but if it looks like you’re in danger I’m coming to help you. Even if I just throw a bomb to distract it or I charge at it with my weapon drawn I’m not going to just leave you out there to die.” Geralt shook his head and firmly stopped his march.

“Listen to me. Even a fierce witcher would struggle against this beast, if I go down, you warn the village and you run, that isn’t a choice it isn’t a suggestion it is an order. Believe me I am more than capable of leaving you here, stuck in a pen no bigger than a goat’s paddock if you are going to cause me trouble.” He stuck a pointed finger into your chest before carrying on with his mission.

A harsh screech rumbled across the forest floor, piercing your ears as Geralt continued his progression unaltered. You quickly caught up as you approached the lake where the who of you had first met. “It’s here.” He held an arm out, blocking your path. “Wait here, stay quiet and try not to be too impressed when I’m out there saving the lives of your friends and family.

[astaldis]

Prompts: Fearsome fangs, Terrifying tentacles, Something wicked in the water, Bubbles, Puncture wound, Menacing maw

Published: 2021-08-16, Completed: 2021-09-10

Chapters: 8/8, Words: 9334

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences, Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply 

Characters: Angoulême (The Witcher), Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Hansa | Geralt's Company (The Witcher) - Character, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Maria Barring | Milva 

Additional Tags: on the way to Stygga Castle, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, mostly book canon, compatible with Netflix S1, written pre-season 2, Cahir Whump, caretaker Regis

Summary: After having crossed the Malheur Pass, Geralt's company finds a cosy little cave by a beautiful frozen lake. Angoulême wants to have some innocent fun on the ice, but not all is as quiet and peaceful as it seems. And Cahir has to bear the consequences...

[viking-raider]

Are you still writing Always Us? Xxxx

I am! But currently Muse is pouring its heart into a new story, Salt in Our Wounds, for Heny's new character, Gus! So, Always Us and A Witcher's Legacy are being delayed. My sincerest apologies!

[melinoiaagesander]

Chapter 9 is up! :)

[modernhypocrite]

Ah yes, my scrungly little red flag men:

Solas (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Geralt of Rivia (Witcher 3)

Astarion (Baulder's Gate 3)

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Steamy｡⋆.

Steve Rogers x plus size reader

Stolen shampoo, hot shower and a perky little ass

Warnings: fluff, nudity but no smut, domestic fluff, some crack humour, implied smut WC: 564

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

5k Follower Celebration

You were absolutely covered in sweat and grime, a result of letting Sam pick your hiking trail for the day and of course he picked one that would give you a ‘challenge’. 10 miles of mostly uphill terrain later, you were so ready for a hot shower and a nap with your boyfriend. 

Your clothes came off piece by piece as you stumbled through your apartment until you reached the bathroom, where the shower was already running. You smirked as you tugged off your panties and slowly opened the door, revealing the site of a lifetime. 

The steam made his pale skin glow under the bathroom light. Water rolled down the defined muscles of Steve’s back, droplets getting caught in the divots and valleys of his shoulder blades and the small dimples at the base of his spine, leading right to the perky ass of your dreams. 

You bit your lip, it was far too tempting.

Your hand whistled as it flew through the air and collided with his perfect cheek with a satisfying smack. Steve immediately froze up, his hands still buried in his hair where he had been massaging in shampoo. Your smirk widened as he slowly turned to face you, his pretty blue eyes wide.

“Did you just… slap my ass?” 

“And what are you gonna do about it doll?” You retorted with Steve’s usual line when he was the one to smack your ass. He glared at you so hard he didn’t even notice that you were completely naked. You let your own gaze drift downwards, following a particularly fat drop of water as it rolled down his torso. It raced between his toned abs before getting lost in the thick patch of hair right at the base of his pelvis.

Your eyes wandered lower but before you could go down any further, Steve’s hands flew to cover himself. “You’re objectifying me.” He whined yet his bright red cheeks gave away just how much he enjoyed your attention.

“You like it.” You stepped into the shower, letting out a happy groan as the hot water washed over your sore muscles. Your boyfriend wrapped a muscular arm around your thick waist and tugged you into his chest.

“How was the hike?” He asked as he pressed a kiss to your hair. 

“It was fine but you need to tell Sam-“ You paused and sniffed at Steve. He raised an eyebrow at you but you ignored it and instead wound your fingers into his hair to pull him to your level. You buried your nose against his scalp and inhaled deeply. “Did you use my shampoo?”

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet?”

“How. Dare. You. Do you know how much that stuff costs! I only use it for special occasions!” You slapped a hand against his chest, purposefully ignoring the way he was flexing his pecs. Steve caught your wrists in one big hand. You thrashed playfully in his hold.

“Hey, it makes my hair look good.” He defended.

“Oh like you need to look any better than you normally do.” You sassed.

It was Steve’s turn to smirk as he pushed his hips forward and pressed his hardening cock into your soft stomach. “I just need to do my best to keep up with you.”

“Fuck you.” 

“I’m trying.” He grinned and you rolled your eyes and leaned into him.

Request: Steve Rogers: 13,12 and28 @as-white-as-snow-love

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[bimrwolf]

Healing Hands by the Fire

geralt of rivia x afab!reader words: 3,684 warnings: smut !! 18+ (minors dni) ; squint and you may see a casual plot summary: Geralt visits Reader, a healer, with severe injuries. a/n: very out of my comfort zone. however, i promised my friend to write this as her christmas present because writing fanfics are my love language. good thing i know basic things about the witcher heheehe.

How did she always end up here? Months without a word or seeing him. She had accepted the peace. Only occasionally did she perk up when there was a knock on her door, secretly hoping it was him. But only one could be so lucky. Instead, it was travelers from all over the Continent who heard word of her abilities.

She couldn’t complain. Healing others in exchange for seeds, food, and sometimes money. Not that it was required for her service but she couldn’t complain about the gratuity.

In fact, she enjoyed helping others. However, it was nearing winter and there were less travelers. They were most likely home to prepare for the violent winter storms that damned the Continent. 

It was one of the first snow falls of the season. She had finished feeding the chickens and her horse Atticus. That was always her nighttime routine. Feed the animals, make some tea, study until all the tea is drunk, and finally get ready for bed. 

Some might think the routine would get tiring, but there was never any guarantee. It was the one consistent thing in her life at the moment. She was content. 

However, some nights, she heard the enchanted chimes outside that let her know someone was approaching. But before she made it to the door, it swung open, snow flurries drifted inside. The cold was sharp and pricked her nose, making her sniffle. 

In most cases she would be alarmed. There was no telling what creatures or people were harmless and which ones weren’t. She clutched the nearest thing to her— a broom that always gave her splinters when she used it. 

His snow white hair peeked from under his hood and she recognized the distinct low grumble that could be mistaken as a quake. He slowly closed the door, ensuring it was locked this time. “You startled me.” She said, releasing her grip from the broom, checking her hand for any loose wood. 

“You should keep the door locked. What if I was a dangerous man breaking in?” She played it off as a joke, not seeing the concerned look on his face. 

“Some might say you are dangerous.” She smirked. She never expected him to react to her jokes, but she could feel the warmth blanket around her when his shoulders relaxed. “Are you going to stand there all night?” 

He limped further into the cabin. She could see the snow melting on his cloak, dripping on her floor. “You made a mess,” she huffed. 

His head lifted and cat-like eyes met hers. It was known his abilities and job forced him to lack showing how he felt. But, she noticed right away how his eyes drooped that he was in pain. 

She ran towards him, immediately untying his cloak so that it dropped to the floor. She gasped at the large claw marks scratched into his chest. He could withstand most injuries but the cuts had broken past the many layers of skin. 

“Fuck, Geralt. What happened?” Her finger ghosted over the wound on his shoulder. Almost immediately he grabbed her wrist. But she didn’t pull away. 

“I’m starving.” He took a moment to look her up and down before letting go of her wrist and walking past her. 

Unbelievable. She scoffed and followed him into her den. “Are you serious? Geralt, you’re hurt and need to be healed before you get an infection.” 

“I smell meat pie. Do you have any to spare?” He left no time for her to answer. He grabbed the plate on a table and began to shove them in his mouth. He groaned in satisfaction. 

She wanted to be annoyed, but she had never seen him act this way. So instead she watched as he stuffed his face. He sat down slowly in a wooden chair. His large body mass made it creak, rocking it with the sound of the crackling fire. His spastic breathing mellowed out into a deep sigh.

He was definitely hurting from his wound but there was something else. She could sense that something was bothering him. Yet, she didn’t pry for an explanation. Instead, she let him watch the fire as she gathered her supplies of elixirs and jars. Then she picked up the pot full of water hanging above the fire and poured it into a bowl. The steam warmed her face that was still cold from earlier. 

“Are you still hungry? I think I only have bread.” She sat her things on the table next to him, but not looking in his direction. However, she could feel his piercing eyes watching her every single move. “If you’re not feeling like bread I can stay up and make you soup.” 

His hand flew to her wrist. She jumped, nearly knocking over a bottle with green shiny liquid. She turned her head slightly, sighing deeply. “It hurts,” Geralt mumbled. 

His wound was red, inflamed, and looked worse in the light. And if Geralt says it hurts then it was worse than she had imagined. “Take your tunic off while I prepare.” Although it was her giving the instruction, she couldn’t help the heat on her cheeks arise. Especially when he did what he was told. She had only seen his bare chest a handful of times, but each time made her stomach knot up. 

He took a heavy breath as he settled back into the chair, wincing when she placed a hot cloth on his open wound. His nails dug into the chair. His teeth clenched as he threw his head back. She couldn’t help but giggle. In return, he snapped his head to look at her, visibly annoyed. “What?” 

She swatted him for the rash reaction. “No need to be hot headed, Geralt. I was only laughing because I’ve never seen you act so dramatic.” 

“I’m not being dramatic,” he argued. He winced again when the cloth touched his skin once more. He rolled his eyes when he noticed the smirk she tried to hide from him, her hair covered her face. Not thinking, he took his finger and pushed it out of the way so he could see her more clearly. 

She tried to ignore the knot in her stomach or how her chest was breathing differently. She even tried to look away subtly but the only thing she could look at without being suspicious was his bare chest. “How’s Yennefer?” 

The change of subject was almost as if she had poured salt into his fresh wounds. He yanked his hand away and turned his head to face the fire, jaw ticked. She should’ve felt guilty for bringing up his on and off lover. Instead, she felt relieved his attention was no longer on her and probably wouldn’t be the rest of the night. 

That’s how it always went. He would get too close and right before she fell under his spell she would mention the other woman. She had only met the sorceress once. They neither liked or disliked one another. Yet, she could tell there would not be any attempts to go frollicking in a field like they were the best of friends. 

In some ways, she had been jealous of Yennefer– she was interesting and traveled the Continent and had fought in many wars. She was beautiful and cunning. Of course Geralt would pick her as a lover. 

“Ow.” Geralt grimaced, shifting in the chair. Her fingers were touching the wounds, and spreading them apart. “Are you about done? I’m tired.” 

She continued to inspect his wounds closely, having to push between his legs to get a closer look. “I have to ensure there are no severe damages so I know what to make.” His huff made her roll her eyes. She wanted to swat him for still acting like a child. “Whatever got you, got you good, eh?” 

He looked away then back at her, swallowing. “Yes, I suppose.” 

There was a beat of silence. Only the fire was popping. 

“I thought I was goin’ to die.” He said out loud in a low whisper. Almost like he didn’t want her to hear him.

She stopped briefly to look up at him. He was serious. “Well, fortunately whatever it was missed your heart by a hair.” She pointed to where his heart was and traced a line to the start of one of the scratches only millimeters away. She got up, leaving him with a witty smile as she started to pour the many different potions into a different bowl. 

“Me and Yennefer haven’t spoken in months,” he admitted. 

It was hard not to react, but she had never seen him willingly talk about the woman before. “Oh.” 

“We wanted different things I suppose,” he continued. “If it weren’t for Ciri’s letters, then I wouldn’t even know if she was still alive.” 

“You miss her?” It was meant to sound like a question, but it came across as a statement. 

He looked down at his hands, ashamed. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to miss someone.” 

“Are you not allowed or are you unsure you know what it’s supposed to feel like?” 

He didn’t answer. 

She walked back and found her place again between his legs. “Missing someone feels like always looking at the door when there’s a knock, and your heart skips a beat, hoping it’s them.” She dipped her finger in the cream she had made and started to apply it to the open wound. 

“I don’t live in a cottage with a door.” His hands creeped to his thighs so they brushed her as she moved. 

She finished with the first cut and moved onto the second, which was much deeper and longer. “Well, missing someone can also feel like wanting to cry even when you’re happy.” 

“You do know I have emotions?” He quizzed her. 

She smirked. “Of course I do. I was only trying to help you figure out if you miss Yennefer.” 

He hummed, running a finger over the first wound she had treated which was starting to already heal. His skin attaching itself together again. “I miss her, but not in the way you think I do.” 

“Then in what way?” She raised her brow, clearly confused as to what he meant. 

He didn’t answer her right away. “Not in the way I miss you.” 

The bowl in her hand nearly clattered to the floor. She froze, replaying the words over and over as if she hadn’t heard him. Did Geralt really admit to missing her? No, he doesn’t actually mean it. He was messing with her. “That’s not funny.” Her breath was shaky. In fact, her hands were shaky too as she tried to continue healing him. 

“Did I make a joke?” His tone was unwavering. He placed his hand on her warm cheek, brushing his thumb over her soft flesh. He had never touched her so intimately like he was now. 

She shook her head, using her free hand to brush him away, focusing on the rest of his injuries. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re delusional.” 

“I thought your potions helped with that?” 

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, briefly, before averting them back to the bowl. She swooped the last of the cream on her finger and spread it slowly over the last scratch. The others had closed up but one could make out the red scar. “Those will go away in due time,” she mumbled. 

As she tried to get up he caught her arm, standing up with her, and in doing so their chests were against one another. He could feel her heavy breathing. And she could feel the warmth from his body electrifying hers. 

“I should go make your bed. You need to rest.” She tried to walk away but his grip never left her arm. “Geralt.” 

He took the bowl from her hands and placed it back on the table. “How much longer will you deny it?” 

She swallowed the gasp that had almost escaped her, shaking her head. “What do you mean?” Finally, she had pulled away but made no efforts to leave the room, only stepping back to make space between them. And of course he could probably read her like an open book while she only had his stoic expressions to decipher. He opened his mouth, but closed it, sighing loudly. “Thank you, Y/n.” 

Her face softened. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what I would’ve done if it weren’t for you. In fact, I don’t know what I would do without you.” His jaw slacked, watching her intensely. 

She could feel the pull, like a magnet, all too familiar when it came to Geralt. Normally, she had to ignore it. But at that moment, it felt like a boiling pot of water, steaming and bubbling, unable to contain itself. And as she looked into his piercing eyes, the knot in her stomach told her it was time to say something. “Geralt.” Her voice was above a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?” His expression never faltered. 

She shifted her feet, uncomfortable. “I… I um… I’m making oat porridge in the morning.” She had decided it was best to hold back what she really wanted to say. “I’ll go prepare your room.” 

His yellow eyes narrowed, searching for hers. She knew he was watching the emotions swirl through her mind. She knew that he knew that wasn’t what she really wanted to say to him. “No.” He was assertive and the growled vibrations dragged along her back like a dagger, giving her chills. 

Ignoring the goosebumps along her arms, she ran her hand over her face. “What do you want me to say?” She felt like a twig that had snapped. “Why are you being mean? You stand there forcing a confession out of me. A confession you will never get because there’s nothing to say.” Her tears burned in the corner of her eyes. She hated how foolish she looked in front of him. Crying and blubbering because he decided to dig deeper. 

They had a routine. He would knock on the door and she would heal his wounds. Their deep conversations were rare, and sometimes he wouldn’t speak at all. Sometimes he would leave in the morning without a word. So why must this time be any different than the others? 

“You’re angry.” 

She scoffed. “Yes, I’m angry.” Unable to face him, she turned to look at the fireplace, shaking her head. “That’s the most frustrating part of all of this. I’m angry that you’re here. I’m angry that I don’t see you for months with no word if you’re even alive. I’m angry that you show up when I’m missing you the most.” Her eyes caught his, her nostrils flared. She had had enough of it, storming up to him and putting a finger against his bare chest. “I’m angry that you sit there and touch me and talk to me like we’re lovers. I’m angry that you won’t go to someone else for help. Because I can’t do it anymore, Geralt. I can’t do it.” 

And there it was. Years worth of bubbling water, spilling over the pot and all over the floor. She had made a mess that she wasn’t sure if she would be able to clean up. 

Geralt’s jaw ticked, his eyes scanning her face. “You wish to not see me anymore? Would that be easier?” 

Her finger fell slowly from his chest. Her voice trembled. “It’s easier than caring about you.” 

Geralt brought his hand up slowly to her cheek, brushing his knuckle against a tear. “I am angry at you too,” he whispered. Her brows furrowed, unsure what he meant. “I told you I have feelings too. Yet, you assume I don’t. You assume I don’t care about you either.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you?” 

“Why do you think I keep coming back?” His jaw slacked. 

The tension between them was thick and palpable. She wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Her heart was torn. Even with the confession, there was no guarantee. He was a Witcher with responsibilities that were not suitable for the life she wanted. She pushed it away, cracking a smile. “Are you saying that you got injured on purpose? So you could see me?” 

“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth flickered, leaning his head down towards her. 

“You could’ve died.” She stepped closer to him, tracing her finger of his scars, looking at his lips.

“But I didn’t.” He said against her mouth, finally closing the gap between them. 

He wrapped his arms around her, strong and sure, deepening the kiss. It was gentle but fierce, full of longing and tension that had been built up along the years. It tasted like all the warm tea she had made for him over time. 

When she moaned, Geralt took the opportunity to slip his tongue in her mouth, gliding it tenderly and carefully against hers, groaning in satisfaction. He somehow managed to pull her closer as if their bodies weren’t already meshed together.

It was her who broke away first, both of them gasping for air, chests heaving from the heavy kiss. Geralt’s eyes had turned black, his senses heightened, craving more. 

Without a word, she unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her chest as she dropped it to the floor. She kissed Geralt again on the mouth, his neck, and then his chest. She whispered in his ear, “I think I should go prepare your room now.” 

He nodded, allowing her to take his hand to lead him to her room, rather than the room up in the attic that her guests normally stayed in. It was full of knick knacks and books scattered. Her bed was unmade, but neither one of them cared. 

She pushed him on the bed, straddling his lap, peppering kisses all over his chest. If she was smart, she would savor all of it– every kiss and touch. But fuck all of it. She had waited too long to savor it.  She grinded herself against his hardness, smiling against his ear when she felt him jump through his trousers. Something had told her it was too long for him too. 

The rest of their clothes had found a new place on the floor of her bedroom. She was now laying down, Geralt hovered over her, his chain dangled over her face, and his hands roamed over her bare body as she whimpered under his touch. His lips attacked her neck, trailing down her body, relishing every inch. 

“Geralt,” she mewled. 

She felt the vibrations of his chuckle, revitalizing her, the warmth between her legs now ached. “Yes?” He came back towards her mouth, placing a life-wrecking kiss on it. 

She nibbled his bottom lip. “You know.” 

“Mm, I don’t think I do,” he teased. His hand was between her legs, fingers gliding, taunting her. 

She thrusted her hips upwards, forcing friction against her swollen clit, gasping when he slid a finger in her. “I need you.”

The pitiful look in her eyes convinced him enough to give her what she wanted. And because any longer, he felt like he would combust. Geralt pushed her legs apart and then guided his girthy length to her entrance, sliding it in slowly. 

She gasped as he sunk deeper inside her, finally able to marvel all of her. It was sweet like the honey she snuck in his tea. Rich like the pastries she packed in his knapsack whenever he left in the mornings, without saying goodbye because he was afraid he would never leave if he saw her golden smile in the mornings. Yet, he wasn’t strong enough to never come back. 

At first, his thrusts were slow and tender, slipping so deep that his tip reached as far as it could. She gripped his shoulders, nails forming crescents, back arching as he picked up the pace. She wanted to hug him with her thighs, but his hands were sure to keep them open and spread for him. 

The sounds of their sticky skin crashing together blended with their moans and grunts, forming a delectable melody. She pulled him into an open-mouth sloppy kiss, humming. The bed rattled beneath them, his pace was dangerously close to cracking the frame. 

In a swift move, he pulled her up, so that she was straddling him. Their bare chests flushed together, her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering as she bounced on his cock. “I’m… fuck,” she breathed, unable to make the words as it hit her sweet spot. 

“Me too.” He slightly pushed her shoulders back, wanting to see her. His palm cradled her face, swallowing the thickness stuck in his throat. He knew he looked destroyed. He didn’t show how he felt often, but the pent up tension over the year had finally arisen. 

“G…Geralt!” She shouted as her walls closed around him, releasing her orgasm around him, resting her forehead on his chest as he continued to move her up and down. She clutched onto him as if she was about to float away. 

He threw his head back as his cock twitched, finishing, He thrusted through his climax, panting as he slowed to a halt. His senses were still high and could hear the fire still crackling in the den. He could feel her breathing still rugged and hot, sticking to his chest. 

She couldn’t see it but Geralt let a small smile briefly appear as he stroked her bare back. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him, running her fingers through his snow-white hair. “Will you stay one more night?” 

He tilted his head, brows knitted together. “Are you still angry with me?” 

A mischievous glimmer crossed her eyes. “If I am, does that mean you’ll stay?” 

He snickered, placing a peck on her lips, lingering, scared if he were to break away she’d disappear. 

Angry or not, he was going to stay one more night.