Wanna Be The One Taking Care Of Chris For Once. Simple Things Even, Like Making Him Coffee Or Holding

Wanna be the one taking care of Chris for once. Simple things even, like making him coffee or holding him when he cries. Mans been through too much 😭

REAL.

fluff with a little tinge of angst below!

Waking up earlier than Chris is a challenge. It takes planning. It takes somehow convincing your body to rise without the assistance of an alarm, because if you set one, Chris gets up, too.

One Saturday, you manage it. You wake up on instinct at five in the morning, a whole hour earlier than Chris' internal clock. You're giddy. The exhaustion seeps from your bones as something like adrenaline kicks in. You climb out of bed, careful not to rouse him, and you dart into the kitchen.

You start the coffee, the ancient brewer sputtering to life. You retrieve Chris' mug. A treasured thing from the BSAA. It was a gag gift one Christmas. #1 Dad. The alpha team had thought it hysterical. Chris didn't admit it out loud, but he loved the stupid thing.

Slow drips meet your ears, and you watch the pot fill with coffee. You make it strong, just like he likes it, and you inhale the sweet, heavy scent of the Folger's brand he's been drinking for over twenty years at this point.

You run your hands along the counter idly. You think, briefly, of making Chris something extravagant for breakfast. Maybe trying your hand at some pancakes. You're sure you could do it. But Chris is locked into his habits. You know he'll eat it if you make it, but he'd rather have his usual: a bowl of cereal and a hard boiled egg.

"Morning."

The voice makes your heart drop, and you turn. "No."

Chris furrows his brow, and a smile pulls at his face, confused, but he's still so enraptured at the sight of you. "No?"

"No!" you whine. "You're supposed to be asleep. I'm supposed to wake you up with coffee and your stupid cereal and--" You stick your bottom lip out, and Chris tilts his head.

"Oh, angel." He crosses into the kitchen. His bare chest slots against your back, and he twines his arms around your waist. His chin hooks against your shoulder. "I'm sorry. Want me to go back to bed?"

"No," you murmur. He's too warm, too solid. You can't have him leave now. "But just let me do this for you. Okay?"

"Okay."

Chris stays attached to you while you ready his coffee. He's grown to like a little cream in it, so you pour some into the mug. It swirls and balloons up, beautiful, and you stir it in. You toss the spoon in the sink with a loud clatter, and you turn, pressing the mug into Chris' hands.

"Thank you," he breathes softly. Some of your annoyance at your plans having been foiled ebbs away. Chris looks at you with an outpouring of love. He leans over his mug, and he kisses your lips. "I needed this."

"You're just saying that," you mumble.

"No." Chris takes a slow sip of his coffee. "I mean it. Things have been going to shit." Code for: Chris was going to be deployed soon. Your heart thudded too slow in your chest. Chris reaches up and runs his thumb over your cheek. "But you. God, you."

"You know I'm always here for you," you whisper; you latch onto his wrist, fingers curling into the soft flesh. His pulse thrums under your fingertips. "Right?"

"I know." There's a gloss to his eyes, like he wants to cry. "I know, angel."

Silence flutters in on soft wingbeats. You catch in your throat, and you have to swallow it down. "Talk to me, Chris."

"After breakfast. I'll tell you everything I can." His voice wavers as he promises you.

Another pause. You smile at him sadly. Out on a limb, you speak: "We've got stuff for pancakes. Why don't you go lay down? I'll treat you."

Chris smiles. He humors you. Or maybe he really does need it, because he nods once. "Sounds perfect."

Would you please do some Crosshair x s/o reader who is on her period and needs cuddles? I have been going through hell this week.

Hello Anon. And may I add, FELT.

Crosshair had been up for awhile and had already eaten. He didn't wake you, wanting you to get as much sleep as you could. As he finished off his morning caf he heard you start to stir and came back to the bedroom. You looked up at him through groggy eyes and winced. He knew what kind of day it was, already having noticed the early signs last night, and he silently changed into his comfortable lounge pants and a t-shirt. They were soft and he knew you liked the feeling of them on him.

He got into bed next to you and laid on his side, propping his head up, letting a small, content smile appear as he gently ran his hand down your arm.

"I feel gross," you said. You felt tired and awful.

"Mm," he kissed your forehead, "You're not." He took your hand and kissed the back of it. "Why don't you take a shower? You'll feel better."

"I know," you replied, "but the actual getting out of bed feels a struggle, although I know I will feel better once under the water."

Crosshair got out of bed and walked to your side. He helped you up, went to the refresher, and turned the water on while you got undressed. You got in the shower and he grabbed some supplies from the kitchen to keep you hydrated and happy. When you came out, you found he'd already put out your most comfortable clothes for this time of the month. You smiled to yourself as you put them on and walked down the hall to join him. As soon as he saw you, he knew what to do. Taking his spot laying out on the sofa, he tapped his chest and grinned as you immediately laid on top of him. He pressed tender kisses to your head and his arms gently held you.

"You should eat something," he said, nodding to the end table. You did so, not really getting up, but laying on him like a snacking tooka. You couldn't help but smile at the feeling of his soft clothes underneath you. They felt and smelled like him. Like home.

You spent the rest of the day in various configurations of cuddling on the couch. Crosshair never complained. He never would. He didn't say it, but he always liked having you close anyway. While he couldn't make your pain go away, he could be there for you to see it through.

If you think it's okay to "write about" youtubers like they're fictional characters get the fuck off my blog and stay the fuck off it until you learn how to treat people with the most basic fucking respect.

"real person fiction" is wrong. Treating anyone, including youtube celebrities, like they're fictional characters, is wrong. It is immoral. It is dehumanizing.

Do not fucking interact with my blog if you think it's okay to treat real people--and yes, that fucking includes your favorite youtubers because newsflash! Just because you see them on your computer screen doesn't mean they're not real fucking people!--like fictional characters.

tracing your lover's features as they sleep with king!ghost and princess 😵‍💫😵‍💫

In the quiet intimacy of your private chambers, Simon often found himself captivated by the sight of you as you slept. He couldn't help but be drawn to the peaceful expression that graced your features during these moments of rest. 

As you lay there, lost in dreams, Simon would lay by your side, his fingers tracing the gentle contours of your face. His touch was light and tender, a silent declaration of his love and adoration for you. He would trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, and the delicate arch of your brows, committing every detail to memory.

The soft, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathed filled him with a sense of contentment and reassurance. In these stolen moments of stillness, he was reminded of his capabilities, his softness, his connection with you; qualities that he had rarely thought of himself of possessing. 

Simon often marveled at your passion, your strength, and your beauty, both inside and out. To him, you were not just his partner in ruling Kastron but also the love of his life, the one who had captured his very heart and soul.

With a tender smile, he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, knowing that his presence beside you was his silent promise to always protect and cherish you. Then, as he continued to trace your features, he would count himself among the luckiest of men, blessed to share his life with you, the woman who had captured not just his kingdom but his heart as well.

My idea of a geralt fic would be that he somehow traveled to our modern world and the fem!reader finds him hurt and wants to help him. She happens to be a doctor. but also cant help but be attractive to him:)

I haven't written a Geralt fanfic yet, but I want to (so badly!!!) so I'm kind of training myself before writing my first full-length Geralt fanfiction. Right now I can only give you a (longish) drabble but I hope you'll like it.

Warning: injuries, implied smut

Suspension of disbelief (more than usually) is advised

You blink fast, waiting for the hallucination to end, but the thing doesn't move. It just stands there, a couple of feet from the curve of the road where you'd slammed the break of your jeep.

It looks like a man but he is huge and his eyes reflect your headlights like the eerie eyes of animals. You're wondering if the other pairs of glinting eyes are the figments of your imagination just like... is that a sword on his back?

"I am not a knight", he replies distractedly in an incredibly deep, gravely voice. Okay, weirdo. "And I'm fine", he adds but his words are slurred and when he tries to take a step, his gait is wobbly.

You slowly open your car's door, get out and carefully ask, "are you hurt, sir?" You saw the blood on his forearm, gushing from a seemingly deep wound and you also spotted blood on the shoulder of his dirty shirt.

"Sir, you seem injured. I'm a doctor, let me help you" you say to him, fear and your sense of duty battling in you. But of course you have to help him.

"A healer?" he asks, his voice getting weaker. You approach him carefully, and saw his eyes are in fact amber coloured, like a those of a big cat, and his face is harsh but handsome, his jaw lines sharp, long pale hair dirty and bloody.

You talk to him the whole time while you help the strange man in the back seat of your car and you carefully drive to your cabin.

Just after you help him lay down on your couch, he passes out, giving you an opportunity to examine his injuries undisturbed.

You button down his black shirt, manage to pull it from his limp upper body and throw it on the floor next to his sword and a belt containing curious little bottles of liquids.

You reveal an enormously wide and muscular torso peppered with dark chest hair and full of botched scars.

"What a sloppy work" you frown as you run your fingers through an especially angry looking scar. "Such a shame for this body", you muse, admiring his physique.

You touch the medal on his chest, an embossed silver circle with the profile of a wolf on it. As your fingers idly circle the edge of the medal, an image of a wolf with pale white fur appears in your thoughts, looking at you with hunger in its amber eyes, growling, showing you its impressive fangs.

You check his pulse and you’re shocked discover that his heartbeat is extraordinary slow. Who and what is this man?

There is a stab wound on his shoulder. It's not that serious but needs cleaning and stitches. You quickly take care of his injuries.

When you're done, you go to the tiny kitchen nook, take a beer from the fridge, pop it and sit on the rug between the couch and the small fireplace in which you've just kindled a tiny fire.

As you’re sipping the brew, you’re wondering whether this is another cosplayer who got lost in the woods during daytime. Or maybe he played swordfight with his buddies for a photoshoot, got injured and the others bolted, fearing being arrested.

But he looks so serious, so battered, so... He somehow looks both young and old. Something about him is so ageless. Based on his features and physique you'd say he's 40 years old, tops. He looks like a younger veteran.

You sit up on your knees and lean closer to examine his face. You carefully tug the base of a strand of white hair at his hairline. It's not a wig. Curious.

You pull up the edge of his upper lip with the pad of your index finger and see that his canines are a tad longer and pointier than the average (which of course sends little currents of excitement to your core - stupid instincts) but they are not unnatural. Speaking of which...

You touch one of his eyelids, pull it up carefully, and you frown when you don't see the telltale sign of contact lens just outside the edge of his amber iris.

You jump a little when the wolf eye suddenly focuses on you, and a hand shoots out, grabbing your hand that touched his face. His hand is so strong and warm.

"Where am I?" he rasps. "In my cabin," you reply, "I took care of your injuries. You are fine but you need rest."

"Hmm" he grunts, and the sound makes your skin tingle.

"What are you?" you ask curiously.

"I'm a witcher."

"Is that like a wicca thing for dudes?" you ask amused, eyeing the little potionlike bottles.

"Don't know what that is. Are you a mage?" he asks back, amber eyes roaming your face, making you giggly. Oh, come on, pull yourself together!

"A what?" you laugh.

"There are so many things here that must be of magical origin", he looked around, eyeing the few modern equipments of the small space. “There is magic in the air” he grunts.

"What is your name?" you asked, deciding to remain alert with this weirdo, but assume this night can't get any more absurd.

"Geralt."

You tell him your name, and ask him, "do you live in the woods, Geralt?"

"More or less", he replies. "I'm a hunter."

"A hunter..." you repeat his words, touching his nose, his cheek and his jawline with your tender fingers. It was so long ago that you touched a man this intimately. And Geralt was so handsome, so rugged, so huge. He looked like a man who knows his way around a woman's body, weird wicca dude or not. 

Oh shit, you think as you realize that you are getting aroused. 

Geralt’s nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath, holding your gaze trapped. You feel as though he has some power over your body. As if he can command it.

You involuntarily lean close to his face and plant a small kiss on his lips. He doesn't let you pull away, instead he cups your nape with his huge hand and kisses you back, his tongue pushing in your mouth, giving you the faint taste of rosemary and something inexplicably arousing.

When you break the kiss to get some air in your fluttering lungs, he grabs your hips and pulls you up on the couch on top of him.

"Geralt, you are injured!" you exclaim, trying to squirm away, not wanting to hurt him.

His hands hold your hips like two iron clamps, even the hand of his injured arm, and you feel a growing bulge under your core as he slightly shifts his pelvis. Your breath hitches.

He gives you an amused smile that forms delicious dimples on his masculine cheeks and as he pulls your mouth back down on his, he says

"Don't worry, little healer. I'm more than fine."

Let me know if the picture is yours so I can tag you for credits

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