Collection of One-Shots

》healing waters

SIGHING, YOU WIPE the dirt from your hands and place a sizable kettle of water over the hearth —it'll take a dozen more to fill the wooden tub for a comfortable bath. A long day in the fields under a hot summer sun leaves you covered in sweat and mud. The harvest season is drawing near, and several apothecaries have already requested a fair portion of the herbs growing in neat rows outside your small house tucked away on the outskirts of a small shithole village bordering Erlenwald. You work the laces of your bodice, peeling off the stained dress and stays, depositing them both on a low table near the bedside.

Lilac and rosemary fill the air, and soon your soft, contented sigh does as well. You sink into the tub, scrubbing the dirt from between your toes and beneath your fingernails. Few things in life are as rewarding as a long bath after a hard day's work. The cake of tallow soap lathers with the scent of fresh roses as you work the suds into your scalp —finding tangles to comb through later. You drape your arms over the sides of the wooden tub, leaning your head back —absently looking up at the rafters and the bundles of dried herbs and flowers hanging above.

A heavy knock on the door breaks the silence and snaps you out of a serene trance with an irritable groan. You swear under your breath —of all the hours in a day to have an unannounced visitor. "Go away!" You shout, splashing your hand in the water. "I'm busy!" There's a low rumble of laughter from outside and the soft nickering of a horse.

"Too busy for me?" You recognize the low rasp of his voice instantly. Geralt. Geralt of Rivia is a thorn in your side, albeit a thorn you don't mind much, except when he interrupts a peaceful and well-earned bath. You call him in, the door creaking open. Geralt raises a brow at your current state, his bright gold eyes darting over what skin isn't hidden by the soapy water.

You spare a glance, pleased to see he's standing on his own accord, and he doesn't seem to be bloody or covered guts of some foul creature, "Not bleeding out or poisoned this time?" In all the years you've known Geralt, he rarely shows up at your door without needing an antidote or stitched back together. He grunts in response, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head. "Water's still warm," you note, motioning at the vacant spot opposite of you —an invitation he will not refuse.

Geralt unbuckles the baldric holding the longsword to his back, propping it against the wall by the door before pulling his black tunic overhead —his armor left for repairs at the local tanner and smithy. You watch him, unabashedly, gaze tracing over scars on his broad chest, the silver medallion hanging from his neck, and down his burly arms. He lifts a brow at your blatant gawking, but you shrug, lips kinking into a half-smile. You aren't sure if the warmth in your cheeks is from the steam or from being caught.

Rolling your eyes, you turn your gaze back to the cooling flames in the hearth while he finishes undressing. The shred of decorum is useless as you've lost count of the number of times you've seen him bare as a newborn —Geralt could say the same of you. He steps into the water, sinking with a soft groan. Spreading his legs, he sinks further down, arms resting on the edge of the tub. "Was starting to wonder when I'd see your face again, Witcher," you smile, nudging his chest with your foot.

"Can't stay away for too long," he says, wrapping his fingers around your ankle. Indeed, he couldn't. In all his travels, Geralt has yet to come across anyone who brews potions like you —not even the great sorceresses compare to your skills with herbs, spices, and flowers. But it isn't just potions that brings the young witcher back to you so often. His hand slips from your ankle and up your calf, lowering your leg back into the water.

Shifting, you gather up the cake of soap and a rag —Geralt will be the best smelling witcher on the Continent by the time you're done with him. "Should've come a few hours earlier–" you reach for one of his arms, scrubbing away sweat, dirt, and dried blood "–could've used an extra set of hands." He huffs a dry laugh and leans his head back as you wash his other arm, loosely kneading his bicep. "That's new," you observe, finger running over an unfamiliar scar on his shoulder. Geralt hums his agreement —a small nick from a surprise encounter with a warg.