“I was wondering if it would be possible for you to create two character profiles for their hypothetical children? I really like reading about how people set up their characters personality, history, dis/ likes” requested by @helzabub

This is my first Witcher imagine!! I know technically Geralt and Yen cannot have children, but let’s just pretend for this imagine that they can, okay? ☺️

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• Geralt and Yennefer had 2 children in the midst of their adventures
• 1 boy and 1 girl, twins to be exact
• The boy, they named Arthur, and his sister named Esme
• Arthur constantly looks up to his father, and constantly tries to sneak onto his horse when he’s going on jobs
• Yennefer always catches him out though
• “Uh uh, no you don’t.”
• “But mummmmmm!”
• Esme is deemed as Geralts ‘Golden Girl’, constantly spending time with her uncle Jask, she spends hours writing little jingles about him
• Which they then both proceed to perform, much to her parents dismay, all night.
• They include choreography and everything, sometimes Arthur even joins, but he mostly prefers to copy his father’s straight facial expressions
• Esme looks very similar to her mother, she shares her violet eyes and her shoulder length black hair is often seen in 2 plaits hanging behind her head.
• Arthur shares his fathers silver hair, and as much as he would hate to admit it, Geralt often fears that he will one day be a greater warrior than him
• They all live together, often Geralt is out on missions, and Jaskier is left to ‘babysit’ the children, which he absolutely loves.
• (Except for that one time Esme nearly broke his lute by trying to play it upside down)
• All in all, Geralt and Yennefer’s children are greatly loved.
• They will both grow up to flourish in their chosen paths, and destiny shall always be kind to them
• Their uncle Jask will always continue to write songs about their future adventures

So! That’s my first imagine/preference! I really hoped you liked this as I’ve never done an imagine like this before and this was really fun to imagine and create their little babies :)

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REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

I write for:

-Jaskier

-Geralt

-Yennefer

(I write X Readers, and platonic requests) (I will not write smut as it makes me uncomfortable )

Feel free to send in ANY ideas you want! ☺️

Geralt: I fell in love with a damn clown.

Jaskier: I’m a bard, you bitch!

Geralt: Sometimes I can still hear him honking his stupid little nose.

Artistic Reimagining - Geralt of Rivia

You and Jaskier have been traveling about the Continent together for…well, forever it feels like. Just when it seems you’ve written a song about everything, you make the acquaintance of a Witcher and inspiration strikes! Though, Geralt seems to regard your artistic voice with indifference, borderline disdain. You’re starting to take his comments personally.

“I like that, it’s just jaunty enough, I think.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

You glanced up at Geralt who, perched on Roach’s back, seemed as tall as the cliff faces around you. His amber eyes were squinted in your and Jaskier’s direction, watching as he often did. Always so alert. Though you surmised it was a habit that came with the Witcher title. But the aversion in his furrowed brow and frown? That was all Geralt.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” He asked, forcing your focus back to his words.

“Respect doesn’t make history,” Jaskier countered before he began to sing again. Geralt stayed still, fists tightening around Roach’s reins as your fellow bard sang away.

“It’s poetic,” you added when you saw the Witcher’s jaw clench. “An artistic reimagining.”

“It’s a lie,” he huffed, “life isn’t poetic.”

“That’s why we make music. We make things…more palatable. Your life of violence isn’t suited for everyone.” You pointed to your cut lip and added, “I know people that would run for the hills with a wound like this. But our songs will mark you in history for your chivalry…”

Geralt grunted, clearly unmoved by your speech. Despite all you and Jaskier tried to do for the Witcher, he was determined to discourage your efforts. You had long since grown tired of his unamused ‘hmming’ and blank, quiet watching. Through gritted teeth you spat out a stinging end to your miniature diatribe.

“…your chivalry, which is yet another artistic reimagining.”

Before he could make another hum of displeasure, you left Geralt in the sandy dust and followed after Jaskier. He reached the chorus in your new ballad as you neared him and, as you fell into step beside him, you glanced over your shoulder. Geralt was still….still, his head moving to take in the sight of the canyon you were walking through. For a moment, you felt that maybe your speech had reached through the iced-over love in his heart.

Then you saw his shoulders sink with a sigh and the deep line of a frown on his lips form as he pressed on Roach’s flanks to push the horse forwards. You wore your own frown as you pulled your eyes to the path ahead. As you walked, you listened to Jaskier as he sang about a more poetic Geralt that slew Elves and caught coins. Never would you admit it, but it was that fictionalized Witcher in the ballad that you found yourself dreaming of in the dark of night.

What made those wonderings all the worse was the fact that the true Witcher, Geralt, your inspiration, was always a mere few paces away. Whether you were staying the night in a grimey inn or were laid across from him with a campfire between you, as you were later that night, Geralt was always nearby. Always a reminder of what, of who, you couldn’t have. Being held hostage by the steep rock faces of the canyon did not help to ease that turmoil. Even over the crackling embers, you could hear Geralt shift in his sleep.

The sound echoed too much of reality and made falling to the fantasy of your dreamy Witcher far too difficult. From where you laid, you glanced to your right, away from the dwindling campfire, over to Jaskier. His lips were parted and soft snores filed out of his mouth only forcing rest farther from you. With a sigh, you looked up to the starry sky.

In it, you found the same quiet, and seemingly indifferent, company Geralt provided. You longed for more warmth; though you would never admit that out loud. The songs you wrote were devoid of romance for that purpose. You did not dare give away any hint of your feelings. Doing so would feel worse than death, you imagined.

And imagine you did. Your mind wandered and you stayed, terribly awake, staring up at the sky for a few minutes more before you got up. With your companions asleep, you were careful with your steps as you made off towards a nearby strip of woods. You hoped that a midnight stroll along the treeline would tire you out or, at least, dull the whirlwind whistling of your thoughts as they raced by.

Yet, you found yourself venturing further into the bush to better escape them. Ferns of all sorts nipped at your legs while a small symphony of nocturnal birds led you deeper. Their singing distracted you enough, but not quite enough to dull your every thought of Geralt, as he consumed so many.

And definitely not enough to ignore how a sudden mass of fog seemed to surround you. Hazy and light, the low clouds sent a shiver down your spine. How eery, you thought before you asked yourself: how could this be worked into a ballad? Perhaps there was a poor fair maiden, lost and alone, who wandered the woods in search of home.

But you were no fair maiden, and that would be considered dishonest if Geralt had any say. You scoffed at the thought. How you hated his influence over you. Every comment he made, every disapproving stare, Gods! However, it wasn’t anger for the Witcher himself that swelled in your chest. No, it was anger for yourself, for falling for a man so, seemingly, cold.

Your body, unable to hold all that disdain within itself, made your foot stomp against the obscured earth as you trekked through the fog. Heaviness nestled in your heart like a root of some toxic plant and you forced yourself to stop, take a breath. The walk through the woods wasn’t helping to clear your head, not anymore. You needed to lay down, push the thoughts aside with the promise of sleep.

Though, when you took the next few seconds to glance around, you saw only fog. “But I am lost,” you murmured bitterly, “and I am alone.”

It was then you heard the crackling of twigs. A white-hot flash of panic flooded your entire being. Where had it come from? Somewhere in the fog! Above? To the side?

Fear sent you into a frenzy of wide-eyed glances between trees and through the mist. You saw nothing but heard something. Something large, you imagined, something viler than the elves of the morning. Something with sharper teeth and a thirst for blood.

Just as you felt the darkness of doom creep over your shoulders, a glimmer in the fog caught your eyes. Almost as if a firefly found itself lost in the haze, a dull flicker of light spread through the mass of mist. The romantic in you hoped that it was a mystical muse lighting your way back to camp. A more primal part of you begged you to step towards your only possible source of illumination.

The Geralt in you, his voice nearly ever-present, scolded you. Turn around and run, that’s what it told you. For the first time, you were compelled to listen.

Quickly, you spun around on your heel and tried to ignore the continuous rustling of fauna behind you. You started forwards, back the way you came, just as the sounds of whatever hidden something grew louder. With each step you took, your apprehension grew, as did the volume of the growling, glowing creature that stalked after you. Your gut twisted with wild nerves, stirring you into the closest thing to a sprint as you could muster.

Lungs heaving, you darted through the trees in a desperate attempt to escape. Astray in the searing panic that was running for your life, you sent frantic, wild-eyed glances over your shoulder. What chased after you was a spindly figure that almost seemed to glow from its chest, shedding a dim light on the forest floor before it. Soulless eyes were sunken in a wrinkled face that was framed by a pair of pointed ears.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, only that its grimace made it less friend and more a dangerous foe.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, until a gruff voice shouted out, “Fogler!”

The yell made you jump, set your footfalls off-center, and primed you to fall flat on your face. Roots entangled your foot, anchoring you firmly and suddenly to the dirt. Stones and sharper twigs bit at every inch of skin you had exposed. You winced at the pain until the scurrying and nasty gurgling of the creature, the Fogler, pulled you back to the threat of death. Then numbed by fear, you turned and saw it.

Claws, long and dark, reached for you. In a feeble attempt of defense, you raised your hands and cried out.

Rather than a strike, thick wetness hit your open palms. Slowly, you lowered your arms and looked at where the Fogler had been moments before. The creature was still there, though it was laid back and a dagger was buried in its chest.

“Are you alright?” Asked the same gravelly, and terribly familiar, voice from before. With wide eyes, you glanced up and were met with Geralt’s amber eyes. He looked down at you, as he always did, with his hand extended towards you, fingers waiting for your own.

“You…You?”

“Were you expecting a valiant knight?” He asked, gently shaking his hand for you to take it. “C’mon.”

You shook your head and stood on your own, despite the aching in your legs. Geralt’s sudden appearance shook you from the panic that claimed you a mere moment ago. “Did you follow me? Were you following me?!”

“You went for a walk in the woods, in the dark, like an idiot. So, yes, I followed you.” Geralt replied, his hand falling to his side and gesturing towards the slain creature behind you. “It’s a good thing I did.”

“A good thing?!”

“Yes,” Geralt replied coolly. Even in the limited light, you could make out his stone-cold features. There was no give in him. No deeper twinge that whispered of concern he held for you. But the way his eyes were fixed on you made you feel so watched, so wonderfully, frighteningly seen. How infuriating he was!

"Gods! All you ever do is watch and grumble and groan! You’re,” you threw your hands up in the air and looked up as if the right words hung there. You found nothing. “You’re-”

“What? What am I, Y/N?”

At the softer tone of his question, you felt compelled to meet Geralt’s gaze. His expression was still blank, waiting, and his posture was, as always, heavy. Shoulders were drawn back slightly, as if ready to hurl another dagger into the heart of a new threat. The way he carried himself made the quiet, honest curiosity in his voice all the more strained.

“Immovable,” you admitted in a breath, “a tower whose shadow I can’t escape.”

Geralt’s lips quirked upwards then, one of those fleeting smiles that you saw him wear all too rarely. Despite his expression, there was a sadness in his voice as he said, “sounds poetic.“

It was then, caught in a ray of moonlight, that you saw a Witcher more akin to the one that had your heart. Geralt’s gentle side shone through in the darkest hour. What sweet torture it was to see him at last, to have him so close, but unable to touch.

As if he read that thought, Geralt’s gaze dropped from yours and you felt a chill run down your spine. He was always out of reach. You had Folger blood on your hands anyway.

"We should get back to the camp,” you mumbled bitterly.

Geralt hummed in response, a sound you assumed was an agreement. Yet, as you began to walk past him, a hand shot out and gripped your arm. You stopped dead in your tracks and found Geralt’s eyes once more. Something shifted, something gave way.

Wordlessly, Geralt’s hand brushed down your arm until his fingers found your wrist. He pulled one of your ichor-covered hands close to his chest. You wanted to ask what he was doing, what he was planning, but you didn’t dare ruin the moment or interrupt the sensation of his skin against your own. When he pulled out an already grimey handkerchief from a pocket on his dark trousers, any question you held died on your tongue.

“Thank you,” you murmured as Geralt wiped the blood off your hands. His movements slowed as crimson soaked in the fabric, but he did not loosen his grip. You saw the amber of his eyes flick down to your lips before he looked into your eyes again.

"Poetic enough for you?”

There was an edge to his question. Not quite like the refined, cutting edge of Geralt’s favorite sword or the usual harsh honesty his words were laced with. No, it was teasing. It was an edge of humor that you had barely seen Geralt express since you met him.

“So much so that I must be imagining it,” you replied, playing into his tone.

Geralt’s eyes wandered back down to your lips at your response. When he met your gaze again, there was a question heavy in his features, his furrowed brow, and parted mouth. You leaned in closer, hoping he would take the hint, take your silent answer to his silent question. When his grip on your wrist tightened and he pulled you to his chest, you became grateful for the Witcher’s watchfulness, his intuitiveness.

Through you were far more grateful for the surprising softness of his lips, how easily they melded against your own. How you fit together like a dream, like two lines of poetry that flowed lyrically into each other. Your next song felt like that midnight kiss.

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