My Idea Of A Geralt Fic Would Be That He Somehow Traveled To Our Modern World And The Fem!reader Finds

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.

My Idea Of A Geralt Fic Would Be That He Somehow Traveled To Our Modern World And The Fem!reader Finds

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