multi-fandom oneshots

lemon & leather (geralt of rivia)

summary: It's by chance that you stumble upon Geralt of Rivia; it's by chance that you fall in love with him, too.

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

word count: 8.1k

warnings: smut, mentions of expectations of marriage, use of the word whore, geralt being a nasty ass and covered in dirt

note: um 👀 hey guys,,,, turns out watching henry cavill kill people in a bad lace front awakened something in me!! who's surprised!! not me!! anyways this was a big excuse to write geralt smut but also a big excuse to write geralt fluff but pls dont snipe me if the characterization is wrong, ill cancel myself

You find him lying face down in the underbrush.

In truth, you wonder just how long he's been there — covered in a layer of mud, grime, blood — but the long gash across his torso is still fresh, albeit teeming with dirt and insects, and his prized kill is sprawled just metres away, tail still twitching with the aftershocks of life. Your basket full of berries is quickly set aside to haul the strange man up — and gods, the smell. You have half a mind to leave him there dying.

Alas, your guilty conscience wins out; you huff, pulling your sleeves high to your elbows and squatting at the knees, summoning all of your strength to tug him out of the sticky muck and closer to your cottage.

He's heavy.

Though it's no surprise, you suppose: even through the slip of dirt and sweat and gods know what else, you can feel thick, corded muscle, hardened and calloused skin. Had you seen him under any other circumstances you would've marvelled at him, you think, though it's hard to appreciate him when he's bloody impossible to move—

Finally, when the sun's just about reached the horizon, you drop him onto the floor of your cottage. His wayward arm knocks over a pile of fabric and dried herbs that'd been resting atop your rickety table; one of his impossibly large legs thumps against your chair and disrupts the stack of books there. Your cottage wasn't exactly built for a man of his stature.

When all is said and done, you straighten up again — sighing so hard that the stray, sweaty hairs that'd fallen onto your forehead seem to rise up and float momentarily in the air.

Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf.

You are no fool — though you live on the outskirts of Maribor, it is often that you venture into the city, both to deliver and sell your wares and visit the markets to buy what you cannot grow yourself. The pubs are rife with drunken singing at any time of the day, and more than once you've passed a tavern only to hear the same jig:

"Toss a coin to your witcher, oh, Valley of Plenty!"

In fact, the very bard that had brought the song to life — a lively, only slightly promiscuous man by the name of Jaskier — had commissioned you for the repair of his favoured doublet. And he had talked your ear off the entire time you stitched. The entire time. And mostly about the blonde (well — blonde through the filth) man laying on your floor — his head of shocking white hair, his amber eyes and prowess with a sword, his slaying of elves, his good deeds to mankind, his affinity for bedding women.

(Jaskier had talked very fondly of that last topic. And with great detail.)

"You idiot witcher," you murmur, kneeling by his side. Tentative fingers press gently to the cut in his abdomen — his own fingers twitch in response. "What would you've done had I not been nearby?"

His clothes are thin and of bad quality, you notice — a linen shirt and worn leather armour that did nothing to stop the attacks of his opponent. The only thing of value on him — or, rather, beside him — had been a silver sword, similarly dirtied. You'd go back for it once his wounds were tended to. Nobody traipsed this area of the woods often, anyways, so both his prized kill and his sword would be safe.