#papa guxart

[blooms-in-april]

Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?

Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.

Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?

Geralt: *grunts angrily*

Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.

Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.

Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!

[0dde11eth]

Poor vesemir, he tries to give his pups life lessons beyond being a witcher, but this is the kaer MORONS we are talking about. The following occurs when they are all trying to make dinner one evening.

Papa vesemir: ok boys familiarize yourself with the spices, these can make walking the path a little nicer, as you can look forward to a delicious meal at the end of a rough day

So they go over to the spice rack to read the labels.

Eskel: basil, oregano, cilantro (yuck), coriander, thyme, paprika...

Geralt: hmm, ground pepper, sounds spicy. Hmm, not sure I like the sound of garlic, seems spicier...

Lambert: cinnamon, nutmeg. Cum? DRIED CUM!?!?!

Eskel: what?? Cum?? Is this a prank??

Geralt: did jaskier put you up to this??

Lambert: I'm not fucking eating dried cum!!!

Papa vesemir: Its CUMIN YOU IDIOTS. that's it! Everyone out of my kitchen and go run the walls, everyones getting plain boiled potatoes for the rest of the week!

Geralt: yay! Finally some good food!

Papa Vesemir: OUT!!!

Jaskier (in the background): *dumping a mouthful of the dried "cum" in his mouth and then gagging* that's NOT CUM!

Papa vesemir: *internally* I bet guxart doesn't have this problem with the cat witchers

*** across the continent at the cat caravan***

Aiden: *gagging* that's NOT CUM!

Guxart: *internally* I bet vesemir doesn't have this problem with the wolf witchers

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

Guxart asking Vesemir if his kittens can please stay at Kaer Morhen too

[blackberrywars]

Story - Dyn Marv

SFW prompt for day 6 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Shout out to @hellinglasses and her own kitty companions for beta’ing

Rating: G

Words: 4350

Pairing: Gen with references to Arnaghad/Erland and Guxart/Vesemir

Tags: Cat School, Dyn Marv Caravan, Cutagens, Papa Guxart, Bedtime Stories, All Of The Younger Cats Are Kittens, Non-Graphic Violence, Swearing But Not In Front Of Kittens, Must Be A Good Example, Witcher Lore References But Disguised As Fables

Summary: Every night, Guxart reads a fable to a tangled pile of kittens, and though the pages are stained and the illustrations are faded, his newest clowder is just as enraptured as his first. He hopes they learn its lessons well.

Read on AO3

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If he didn’t know what little bastards they are, Guxart could almost call his smallest kittens, piled up and on top of each other in the trainee wagon, cute. At this age, they’re all still devastatingly little in a way that makes him ache. Gaetan barely reaches his mid-thigh on tiptoe. Dragonfly head-butted him in the balls earlier today during training. Kari lost his four front teeth this year, and won’t regrow stronger, dwarven ones until he loses the rest. At eight years old, Aiden still has cheeks like bread rolls —entirely too squishy for her own good. Daniet just hit a growth spurt, making her knees spasm constantly with the pressure. Even Cedric and Axel, both nearly eleven, can each hang off one of his arms with little difficulty on his part. And every last one of them is staring up at him with their expectant little eyes in every shade that won’t last. Like a chorus, the nightly question goes up into the night air.

“Story? Stoey? Storytime? Story? Storytime? Stoeytime? Stories! Story! Story! Storytime! Papi, it’s Storytime!”

According to whatever rotation they’ve cooked up, Dragonfly guards the book tonight. It’s a heavy tome, one of the few that Dyn Marv can afford to carry around. Brown, weathered pages slip between her fingers as she finds the right page. The Bear and the Bird. He recognizes the tale immediately, though the illustrations have faded from the vibrant colors they once displayed, the ones he painstakingly inked onto the parchment so many years ago. Time hadn’t been kind to the book, but his newest kits love it just as the elder ones did. With an imperious stare, carrying all the self-assured authority of the princess she almost was, Dragonfly drops the open book into his lap with a painful thud against his still-sore groin. 

“Storytime.”

She nods her little chin once and sits back down with her littermates, pushing Gaetan onto Aiden’s lap so she can take the pillow for her own head, lounging across it carelessly. Guxart sighs, settling his back further against the wall. His usual reading cushion has disappeared, likely under the mass of watchful kittens in front of him, so he makes do with the wooden floor, crossing his legs and resting the book on his knee. He doesn’t need to actually look at the words to tell them the story, but the kits always insist that he should get to read it too. With a cough to clear his throat, he begins the prologue:

“Very well, kits. Storytime. But this is the only story you’re getting, because after this, you are all going to sleep. If I hear a single sound out of any of you once I close this book, you will have to make your own breakfast for a week.”

Guileless, with seven little grins and fourteen shining eyes, they promise to all fall right asleep. They won’t bother him or Gezras for anything unless someone dies or “frows up” in the middle of the night. It’s bullshit, of course. Bullshit of the highest order. But he nods and tells them they’re good little kits anyway because they look so cute when they’re proud of themselves for successfully lying to him. 

“Now, where was I? Right, yes —the begining. A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, a little bear cub wandered through the woods all alone. His mother had left the den a week ago in search of food, but never returned. When his hunger became too great, despite how small his size and how blunt his teeth and how thin his fur, he decided to risk the dangers of the world, for his other option was death. He ventured out. For two days and two nights, he wandered through the forest, his belly rumbling, empty and cramped. Still, no matter how he tried, food remained out of his reach.

Bees stung him when he reached for their hive. Fish slipped from his little paws, too slippery for the soft pads. Squirrels leapt into trees he couldn’t climb. Deer vanished before he could even chase them. Even the berry bushes were all picked clean by earlier hunters, who’d left nothing but rotten fruit on the ground. Desperate, he ate them. They were slimy, mushy, and foul but he’d never been hungrier, so he devoured every last one he could find. With each bite, he felt sicker. His head felt fuzzy, his tummy ached, and soon he was so disoriented that he could barely keep his feet, stumbling until he found the edge of a cliff…… and fell right off it!”

Gaetan gasps, “No!” from his perch on Aiden’s lap, chubby leg kicking out in alarm. Guxart fixes his face into a mournful expression, nodding solemnly.

“Yes! He fell for what must have been miles, spinning through the air. All he could see was the blue sky, the gray cliffs, and the green grass, one after the other until they blurred into one, and he shut his eyes against it, bracing himself for the end. When he stopped, the air left his lungs in a rush, which didn’t shock him much more —he had died. Dead little bears don’t need breath. But then he inhaled, and a strange, soft thing brushed his long snout, gently enough to make him sneeze himself upright. He opened his eyes, and there in front of him, on a bed of brown twigs and leaves, hopped a little bird. It peered up at him before speaking, eyes wider than dinner plates:

‘You don’t look like a bird.’

Confused, the bear replied, ‘That’s because I’m not one.’

‘Then how did you fly here?’

‘I fell. I think.’

‘But you landed safely!’

The little bear, whose back hurt quite a bit, disagreed. On the last word, at least. Furiously so. But the little bird refused to believe anything else —he had fallen from the sky, so a bird he must be. They sat in the nest, arguing and quarreling until they exhausted themselves and fell asleep, with the little bird curled against the little bear’s warm, soft belly and the little bear balanced so as not to squash him. They woke the next morning, and though the little bear remained hungry, he could not help but be dragged into the argument once more.

‘I am not a bird!’

Immediately, the little bird protested, ‘You are! You fell from the sky and landed here, just like a bird! Your wings are strange, and you landed heavily, but a bird you must be.’

‘I am not!’ said the little bear, waving his arms around as if to prove their lack of feathers. ‘I have no beak, no wings, and no tail!’

‘But you flew!’

They went on, back and forth, until finally the little bird, frustrated and indignant, cried out to his father: ‘You say you’re not a bird? Fine, then, I’ll prove it to you!’

Saying this, he used all his might to push the bear off the side of the nest. Had the bear been less hungry, less tired, and less weak, the little bird would have failed, but the bear, startled, toppled over the edge for the second time, crashing upon the rocky earth with a horrible crunch.”

“NO!!” cry all his kits in unison, and Daniet lunges for the book in his lap, quick but not quick enough as Guxart hides it behind his back with one arm, and holds the misbehaving kitten by the forehead with the other fully extended. A gentle flick of the wrist, sends her back to the pile so she can grumble.

“A horrible crunch from his right arm, and as the little bear lay on the ground, howling in pain, the bird descended from its nest, shouting in alarm, hovering over the bear’s prone body:

‘Have I killed you?! Did your parents never teach you to fly?’

Through gritted teeth, the bear replied, ‘I’m alive, no thanks to you. And like I already told you, I’m not a bird.”

Apologetic, the little bird fussed over the bear’s broken arm and cared for him over the course of a month until it healed. And while the bear was angry at the bird for pushing him off the nest, he was so well-cared for —with clean water, herbs for pain, and all the food he could stand— that the little bear felt his grudge subside quickly. In fact, by the time he could walk again, he could no longer be called a little bear at all. Everyday, the bird brought him a feast. Honey stolen from the bees, fish small enough to fit in his beak, nuts and fresh berries instead of rotten ones, all of it went into his belly until he was healthy and fatter than a caravan!” 

“Fatter than a caravan!” Aiden shouts, curving her arms around her body in an approximate comparison, “Papi, that’s impossible.”

“Ah, but it isn’t! Not for this bear, at least.”

“Impossible,” accompanied by exasperated bug eyes.

“Everything’s possible, kit, except maybe you shutting your trap. Oh, wait. Shut your mouth, kitten, or I’ll close this book.”

Before he even finishes his sentence, three pillows —one from Dragonfly, one from Axel, and one from Cedric— club her across the face, knocking her right onto her back. Gaetan keeps his seat, miraculously, and turns around, beating her stomach with his little fists. The things a good union can do truly amaze him. If his kits all make it past the Grasses and manage to stop arguing at every occasion that isn’t their hallowed Storytime, they’ll topple anything in their path. Before he becomes that very thing, he continues reading.

“Thank you. After the month had passed, the bear could walk easily again, and learned to hunt for himself. Still, his arm ached. As the seasons turned ever closer to winter, the cold seeped into his fragile bones, and he became sleepier and sleepier, preparing for a long winter’s nap. Such was his nature, but still the bird —who had grown large and strong in his own right— fretted. When the bear grew fatter, the bird worried over the waddle in his step. When he began digging his den, the bird fussed over his dirty claws. Worst of all, when the time came that the bear retreated into his yearly sleep, the bird insisted on waking him every day.

‘Wake up!’ the bird cried, flapping his wings as loudly as he could at the den entrance, ‘You will freeze in here if you sleep any longer —move, please, to keep yourself alive!’

The bear, half-dazed, grumbled back, ‘Leave me be, birdie. I’m a bear, we’re meant to sleep the winters away.’

‘You’re wrong! If you stop moving, your blood will go cold and you’ll die! I would miss you so, now please wake up!’

‘You will see me in the spring. No need to miss me at all.’

Again, despite all the bear’s insistence that yes, he was fine and could certainly survive being buried under the snow, the bird returned to rouse him each morning at dawn. Each time the bird came to wake him, the bear sent him away, pleading with him to not return until spring. They would meet again soon. Even asleep, even in the ground, he was safe and sound. Still, the bird persisted, and each day, the bear grew more tired. Without prolonged sleep, he lost weight faster and faster until by just midwinter, he was as skinny and hungry as he had been on that fateful day he wandered into the forest. Just as before, he gathered all his strength and wandered out alone.

This time, though he was more than large, strong, and clever enough to hunt, the winter had turned the lush wild into a barren wasteland. Bees hid away in their haves. Fish swam trapped under frozen ponds. Squirrels burrowed, sleeping in their own dens, just as he should have been. Deer had long since left for warmer climates. Not a berry remained on the dead branches of the shrubs he’d once feasted on. By chance, or by luck, or by some strange wrinkle of fate, he chanced upon a lone, injured wolf, and despite not wanting to fight another predator, he was hungry enough to hunt it. 

Across the woods and fields, he chased it, though his arm throbbed with pain from the movement and the cold. Eventually, just as the sun appeared on the horizon, he was able to clamp his jaws around its tail, biting down hard and dragging it towards him to tear at its soft underbelly with powerful claws. But his hunger made him clumsy. Instead of reaching the heart, the bear only tore open his abdomen —a fatal blow, but not at once. And although the wolf had his guts hanging out of his body, tell me kits, when is a creature most dangerous?”

From the pile, in various tones of enraptured squeaks comes the answer, “When it knows it’s about to die!” Kari’s missing teeth make the words come out round, Gaetan still has trouble with pronouncing consonants at the ends of words, and Axel's voice decides to slide down an octave halfway through, but they all have it correct. Just so.

“Well done! So the wolf, one paw in his grave, gave a final lunge, whipping his body around to bite at the bear’s sore arm, right over where the old break had settled. It gave a horribly familiar creak, but the bear growled, tearing his arm out of the wolf’s jaw before the crunch and releasing his hold on the wolf’s tail. Allowing the creature to escape into the underbrush, leaving nothing behind but a trail of thick, dark red blood. Not too far away, he could hear the wolf whimpering and howling, but the pain in his arm immobilized him. Before, it had ached. Now, it burned with the ghosts of sharp teeth and hard earth. Just as he steeled himself once more, to chase it again despite his exhaustion, the bird appeared through the trees.

‘What happened?’ he shouted, flying closer to land by the bloody snow, ‘I returned to wake you this morning, and I found you gone! Are you hurt?’

‘Yes,’ the bear hissed, tucking his wounded arm closer to his body, ‘Because of your waking me, I grew hungry, and all I found to eat was a wolf almost as skinny and desperate as I am. But even a wolf like that still has teeth.’

The bird ducked his head, chastised.

‘How can I help you? This is the second time I’ve hurt you, my dear, and I want to make up for it.”

‘Hmm,” the bear grumbled, ‘Fine. That wolf got away, and I’m still hungry.”

Eager to help, the bird took flight, tracking the blood trail from above and leading the bear, slow on his injured paw, to the wolf, who had curled up at the base of a tree to die. The bear killed it quickly. He ate even faster as a heavy fatigue set in over his body and mind. After, they walked back to his den together, the bird perched delicately on the bear’s back as the bear settled in below the earth, full and tired. He made the bird promise not to wake him. The bird, feeling how warm the den was and seeing firsthand how much his friend needed this rest, agreed, on the condition that he would stay in the den too, to watch over the bear. If the bear had any objections, he voiced them with a snore. They passed the winter like that —the bird watching over his sleeping bear— but in spring, his arm still ached.

At first, the bear tried to ignore it. He avoided hunting anything that could run, kept his lame arm as still as he could whenever possible. It wasn’t enough. Eventually, he had slowed so much that by midsummer, when he should have been fat again, he remained lean without a steady supply of fresh meat or fish. Again, the bird fretted. With minimal grumbling, the bear accepted his dear friend’s care, but every step brought pain that not even the strongest herbs could relieve, and he grew thinner by the hour. After a near fall off the very cliff he’d stumbled from as a cub, the bird confronted him.

‘Dear one, you can’t go on like this. I can’t hunt enough for both of us, and I don’t think you’ll be able to stand in the river for the salmon run. You won’t live through the winter.’

‘I’ll survive, birdie. I have so far.’

‘But you might not this time,’ the bird said, flapping his wings nervously, ‘You need help, and I… yesterday, I flew over a human  town not far from here. They have a hedgewitch who can fix your arm.’

‘Humans?’ cried the bear, ‘A human, hedgewitch or not, would poison me before she healed me. And that’s if the rest of the town doesn’t chase me out with pitchforks on sight!’

‘What other option do you have? You’re injured, why would they be frightened by you?’

‘I’m a bear! That’s enough, for most creatures. You’re the exception, little bird.’

For a day, the bird left him be. But as soon as yet another fish slipped through the bear’s paws, he returned, pestering him to go to the healer. Worn down, tired, and in constant pain, the bear finally agreed to go if his friend would watch over him, and so, the next day, he trudged after him until he could smell the town —smoke and sweat and waste. He walked to the edge of the forest as each pebble sent shockwaves of pain through his arm. He hesitated at the fields before loud squawking overhead pushed him forwards. He took a step on the supposed hedgewitch’s road. And so the screaming started.

It started and didn’t stop, tearing from the mouths of humans and the dogs they’d tamed. Women shrieked and babes cried, the hedgewitch herself stepped out to bellow curses at him. The bear turned back around, and already  he could see the men of the town running from their homes and fields, the sun reflecting off their weapons with the hard glitter of iron and bronze. They screamed for more men, more dogs, and most of all for his head as they drew closer. As quick as he could on his injured leg, the bear turned and ran. A stray torch burned a brand into his side, a fencepost cracked across his spine, and a sharp axe swung just an inch too wide to hit its mark, but he kept going deeper into the woods, all the while his bird followed overhead, yelling furiously.

He ran and ran and ran until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, and then one step further before collapsing to the forest floor, motionless.”

Still on Aiden’s lap,  Gaetan sniffles loudly, bringing one fist up to his pale, round cheek to brush out the tears. Quickly, Aiden tries for damage control, gently shushing her little brother and squeezing him tighter, but Guxart sees the panic in her eyes and reaches forward to take him onto his own hip. Gaetan hugs his side like a limpet, burying his face in Guxart’s soft sleep-tunic. His littlest kit. The rest of his clowder is mercifully patient as he runs a hand through his kitten’s fine brown hair, smoothing down the spikes before lifting his little chin up.

“What’s wrong, kit?”

Gaetan only sniffles again, shaking his head.

“Come on, now. Sit up. We’ll finish it together.”

That tiny frown only deepens, and the wobble in his chin stops before he grumbles, “I ‘on’t get it. Why the people hurt the bear? Why don’t the bird listen?”

“Ah, that is the question, kit.” Guxart sighs, hefting his child further up on his hip and adjusting the book on his knee. “Bears can be dangerous, and people often lash out. As for the bird, well. There’s a few more pages left to read.”

“It’s stupid! If I had a big friend, I won’t hurt him!”

“Good kitten. Now, we’ve got plenty more kits who want to hear the ending too, so sit tight.”

 He acquiesces, nodding into Guxart’s armpit and reaching out one little finger to trace the edge of a yellowed page, where a slightly crooked drawing of tree branch falls off into the margin. 

“For many long minutes, the bear laid there, growling with pain as the bird sobbed, screaming out into the empty woods.

‘Dear, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, my bear, please get up! They could still be chasing you, we can’t stay here!’

The bear sighed, but said nothing.

‘Please!’ the bird cried, ‘I’ve hurt you a third time, and I won’t forgive myself if you die because of my mistakes.’

‘Be quiet, birdie. They’ve given up —I can’t hear or smell them. Just go.’

‘No! I… I won’t leave you here.’

‘And why not?’ he said, anger slipping into his voice, no matter how it tired him, ‘Your attempts to help left me with a broken arm, an infected wound, and now this. All because you don’t believe me when I tell you I am not like you —you call me your bear yet don’t listen until I roar. So go. You can’t help anyone here.’

This made the bird cry harder, tucking his head into the bear’s warm, soft fur.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, bear. I…… it’s not an excuse, but I want to do better by you. You aren’t like me, you aren’t a bird, you’re a bear, and the dearest one I know. I want to care for you the way you need.’

It was then, as his tears fell onto the bear’s skin, through the dense fur, that the bear felt the pain leave his body, and with it, much of his anger. Somewhere in his heart, he believed his little bird. And somewhere in the world, something else believed it too, as the wounds all along his body began to glow. Brighter and brighter —he looked something like the sun before it faded. Slowly, the bear stood, taking stock of himself as the bird gasped with shock.

His wounds were gone. Only the scars remained.

A strange magic, one he might have been frightened by, but the bear didn’t protest as he sat back on the ground, scooped his bird up into his paws, and nuzzled his feathered stomach with his nose. The bird wrapped his large wings around the bear’s head, hugging him tightly. He whispered promises to listen to his bear, and the bear simply held him tighter, and did his best to believe in him the same way the magic did, that he could be wholly himself with his little bird. And so they lived all that long, long time ago, beyond the seven mountains, beyond the seven forests: happily ever after.”

A cheer goes up from the kittens as Guxart closes the book, and he thinks about Arnaghad and Erland.

It’s the ending he’d wanted to give them, all those years ago when he wrote their story. The bear and the bird. Two legends, even to him. Gezras had told him the story as a witcher already on the Path, rather than a kit, but even then, he’d wished for something different. An ending where Erland listened to Arnaghad and got his head out of the clouds so his feet could stand on solid ground. An ending where Arnaghad had patience, where he tried harder to reason with Erland instead of lashing out in rage and violence. An ending where they lived happily ever after. Together. He tells it this way, for himself and for his kits as they grin at him, so that they might learn from the mistakes of their elders. They chant, as they do many nights:

“Another one?”

“More story?” 

“ I’m not tired yet!”

“Another stoey?”

“Story?”

As the eldest, Cedric leads the charge, turning his eyes to liquid, bigger than dinner plates and deeper than the sea. He’s old enough to have heard each one of these stories, several times over, but still he begs to hear them again like the littlest kits. Axel hovers just over his shoulder, the very tips of his pointed ears drooping with the force of his pout, and the rest quickly follow suit, facing him with a clump of shining eyes and downturned lips and dimpled chins. The little ringleader pleads with him again.

“But what about the one where the jaguar fell in love with the wolf? What about that story?”

“No, kit.”

He turns his stern gaze down when Aiden takes up the mantle. She shuffles forward from the pile, furrowing her dark brows, widening her eyes just that little bit more.

“Please?”

A gasp rises from the crowd, echoed by Guxart’s own. Aiden wouldn’t ask for water in a desert, and certainly not politely, with an earnest please no less. And Guxart knows by the steel in her eyes that it’s not manners she’s learned, but the art of tactical, unconquerable manipulation. Immediately, the other kittens copy her, and just as cries for a story rang in the evening, so too do the cries of please ring out in the night. Pride wells in his chest. He’ll make good on his threats tomorrow. Tonight, he opens the book, finds the page by the torn bottom corner, and shows them the faded illustration he’d painted so long ago —a black jaguar presenting a deer corpse to a hesitant gray wolf. To Court a Wolf had been one of the first stories he’d thought of, and the last he’d written down. By then, Vesemir hadn’t been around to tease him with it.

All the same, his kittens have all loved it best. Kiyan and Jöel still ask him to read it every now and again. These kits are no different, it seems, so he pushes the old memories away and begins to read.

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[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[kittynannygaming]

Aww! They’re so cute!

For the banter prompts: number 5 ("I hate it, thanks") and Vesemir/Guxart?

Two weeks after his pups head down the Trail, Vesemir looks up at the faintest scratch of boot against wood in the rafters above his head. There’s nothing to see, of course. Vesemir sighs and goes back to spinning. “You could always knock, you know.”

“Well where’s the fun in that?” Guxart asks, dropping down out of the rafters and landing lightly beside Vesemir. “Ooh, that’s a nice shade of blue. You don’t usually dye the wool before you spin it.”

“Lambert got drunk and dyed a sheep blue,” Vesemir sighs.

Guxart guffaws and goes wandering off towards the kitchen, returning with a pair of mugs of ale and a plate of goat cheese and the loaf of bread Vesemir pulled out of the oven this morning. “How d’you dye a sheep blue?”

“Fuck if I know.” Vesemir shrugs. “Lambert was blackout drunk and doesn’t remember what he did either. It is a nice blue, though. I think I’ll have enough to make all of this year’s socks.”

Guxart grins and puts the plate and mugs down on the table next to Vesemir’s chair, then flops down into the empty chair beside him, leaning over to pluck curiously at the as-yet-unspun wool in Vesemir’s lap. “Better make an extra pair.”

“...Why,” Vesemir says warily.

Guxart grins at him. “Oh, well, y’know. I might have spotted one of your pups making sure one of my kittens was healthy. Or at least, I can’t imagine why else he had his tongue down my lad’s throat.”

Vesemir very carefully puts the spindle down and covers his face with his hands. “One of my pups has taken up with one of your Cats.”

“Yep!” Guxart says brightly.

“...Ah yes, I was just thinking that Lambert wasn’t chaotic enough, and could really use some Cat training to enhance his natural lack of respect for anything even vaguely resembling authority,” Vesemir sighs, and picks up his spindle again. “Thank you. I hate it.”

Guxart snorts. “How’d you guess?”

Vesemir smirks. “Well, if it had been Eskel, he would have told me straight out, and if it had been Geralt, he would have looked hangdog for weeks and then told me. Process of elimination.”

“Huh,” Guxart says, and grins. “Well then. Aren’t you going to make sure I’m healthy, old Wolf?”

“You snuck up the Trail, into the keep, and into the damned rafters without my notice,” Vesemir grumbles. “And mind who you’re calling old. You’re not three years my junior, you know.”

“Three very important years,” Guxart teases. “And I could be dreadfully ill, you don’t know!”

“You know perfectly well that Wolf witchers don’t actually lick each other’s mouths to check for illness,” Vesemir grouses. “Any more than Cat witchers lick themselves all over to get clean.”

Guxart leers cheerfully. “I could lick you all over, if you like.”

Vesemir eyes his companion for a long moment. Guxart lounges sideways in his chair, legs slung over the side - Cats, in Vesemir’s experience, cannot sit properly on chairs - and leans back to look at Vesemir upside down, batting his eyelashes hopefully.

“Guess taking up with a Cat isn’t the worst thing that pup’s ever done,” Vesemir concludes at last, and sets his spinning aside, and leans over for an upside-down kiss.

One kiss turns into several as Guxart wriggles around, still improbably agile after all these years, until he can settle in Vesemir’s lap, rumbling the low sound that he will never admit is a purr. “Well?” he murmurs as they break apart just far enough to rest their foreheads together. “Am I healthy, then?”

“Hm,” Vesemir says, rubbing their noses together gently. “Not sure. Guess I’ll have to try again.”

“Sneaky old Wolf,” Guxart says approvingly, and tilts his head to bring their lips together once again.

[dettitheholmes]

These are the fanfics I currently have in mind and want to write:

Modern!AU Vesemir adopting Eskel, Geralt and Lambert as little kids and bonding with them. (tooth-rotting fluff, papa!Vesemir, family feels, pieces of life + maybe getting together with Guxart)

The sacking of Kaer Morhen, in an AU where Vesemir hides Eskel, Geralt and Lambert in a secret corridor/room, and tells them to wait until he comes back for them, and if someone tries to open the door by force, run for their lives. They hear the massacre, and wait obedienty until it ends and attackers leave the Keep, but Vesemir doesn't come for them, so they leave their hiding spot. They find his body among the corpses, he is alive, but barely, and they try to nurse him back to health. Vesemir is sure he's not going to make it, and tries to give them instructions what should they do to survive without him, but then Guxart arrives, and with his help Vesemir survives his wounds. (angst, hurt with little comfort, some Guxart/Vesemir, tons of feelings)

Lambert finding out Aiden is a virgin just before they'd move thing further in bed, and he freaks out a bit, worrying he'll make it a bad experience for him, and he's a bit angry too, because Aiden should've told him this earlier. The Cat almost cries, which makes Lambert panicking more, but at the end they'll figure it out, and there's a happy end. (idiots in love, fluff and smut, minor hurt/comfort, good!boyfriend Lambert)

Vesemir giving Aiden the Talk. Yes, the one with the "treat my son well otherwise you'll regret that you were born" stuff. Aiden just smirks and promises that he'll take good care of Lambert, but Vesemir should be good for Guxart too, or he'll be confronted with a group of angry kittens very very soon. (crack treated seriously, protectiveness, family feels, short but sweet)

I'm a terribly slow writer but I want them to be done at least till April. Wish me luck.

[jaskiersvalley]

Joke's on you, I already lurk on Novigrad and saw you declaring your love for me. Thanks for making Papa Miri fuck.

You beautiful being! Monarch of my heart! Liege of my life! I am so pleased you’re on Novigrad already. We love lurkers there just as much as creators. There’s never any pressure to interact so enjoy your lurking and, if the mood ever takes, feel free to chat away.

As an aside, I might pop a little NSFW thing on Novigrad about Vesemir/Guxart. Because I can’t get the idea of two long lost lovers finally reacquainting themselves with each other after decades apart. There is so much softness to be had there. 

[blooms-in-april]

Me, thinking about Aiden and Lambert and all of Vesemir and Guxart's children: catpups

Me: There's no way I can use that in a fic seriously it's too cringe.

Also me, crying: CATPUPS 😭

[blooms-in-april]

Lana Del Rey 's young and beautiful is officially Guxmir's song. I don't make the rules

[blooms-in-april]

So I fell down a rabbit hole and now Vesemir x Guxart is my new favorite ship. 🤷

[0dde11eth]

Papa vesemir: It's not the size of the weapon. It's how you use it

Lambert:...well... the size matters a little

Papa vesemir: the assassins blade is just as effective as a knights sword!

Lambert: Is that why you finish so quick?

Papa vesemir: ok listen here you little shit

Aiden told Lambert that Vesemir has his own cat guxart. Lambert of course is a little shit and works it into every conversation until papa vesemir relents and allows Aiden to come up to kaer morhen for the winter.

And vesemir is fine with it, he's just waiting for his idiot pup to admit his feelings

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

In Times of War - Guxart & Aiden (Plus a bit of Lamden)

Basically I was wondering about what kind of Father Guxart is to his kittens and then I made myself sad by asking “What would he have done when learning of Aiden’s death?” (Don’t worry though! Aiden survives!)

It was Dragonfly who placed the medallion into his hand.

His daughter. The first to know that her brother no longer drew breath in their world.

Guxart would have grieved for her heart as well, but the world slowed until it was nearly frozen around the old cat, and he went to one knee first, dropping the precious silver cat’s head into the grass when the second hit the dirt beneath him.

Had his kittens called for him? Certainly they would have. Gaetan at least, who knew nothing yet of their loss, would have rushed to lift his father’s to his feet.

But Guxart could neither hear his young nor feel their desperate hands tugging upon his armored shoulders.

For a moment he was dead too. Like Aiden. Like his son. Just for a moment.

The pain didn’t take him until after the shock had faded, and in that still place between ignorance and agony, Guxart was almost sure he could see his son’s face before his own.

Yes. Green eyes. Sun kissed copper skin. Black curls dangling down to his shoulders. The cheekiest smile the old cat had ever seen.

That was Aiden, looking him in the face, trying to pull him upright alongside his brothers and sister. It couldn’t be anyone else.

“My boy...” His own voice began to bring back the sensations of life to Guxart’s rickety old bones, and when he reached to stroke a dimpled cheek that his palm knew so well, Aiden was no longer there. He couldn’t reach him any longer.

“Aiden...” He called for his son.

No answer came, but from his other kittens, Guxart began to hear pleas to stand, promises that they’d have revenge and whatever else they tried to assure him with.

Aged eyes the color of a summer’s wood shifted down to take in the sight of the medallion that laid within their master’s hand, and that’s when grief’s arrow pierced Guxart’s heart, shattering the calm around him and drawing out a blood curdling cry from the Grandmaster Witcher.

Soon enough he was on his hands as well as his knees in the dirt, shouting at the earth, the Gods, at any entity that would hear him howl.

“My son!” He screamed to the heavens above. “Not my boy! Gods be damned not my boy!”

Hands grasped his arms, his shoulders, any part they could hand onto to try to keep Guxart upright as he feel onto the ground and rolled over to his back, hurling curses and sobbing for his lost little kitten.

Aiden’s medallion remained clasped in his father’s palm, the pointed edges of the cat’s snarling fangs drawing blood from the elder Witcher’s tough and calloused skin. Perhaps he though the harder he squeezed the trinket, the better the chances that the Gods would grant his pleas for mercy.

...

When the wolf pup came over the hill, leading his horse by hand down the trail of the caravan, every cat nearby was on guard, weapons out, and ready to make a stand should the pup be accompanied by his kin.

“Stop!” Guxart halted his people, his own kittens being the first amongst the cats to lower their drawn swords. “Our quarrel with the wolves ended long ago...Farewell, pup. May you find better fortune than we.” He gave the signal for the drivers of the wagons to move on but the wolf would not be ignored.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hold up!” He insisted, leaving his horse and hurrying down the hill. Guxart could hear his footsteps and placed a hand on his own weapon before another painfully familiar voice called for him.

“Father!”

The old cat’s head snapped around quick only to come face to face with the son he’d lost some months ago.

“Aiden...” He muttered.

The kitten couldn’t move very quickly, and he leaned on the wolf pup when he reached him to help steady his feet.

“Don’t leave yet, old man. I’m here.” That blessed smile spread over his dimpled young face and Guxart pushed past his comrades to run to his boy.

“Oh Gods be blessed! Aiden!” He cried when he snatched his son from the young Wolf’s arms and squeezed him tight, close to his chest.

Strong youthful arms hugged back this time and Guxart tangled his fingers into the black curls on his boy’s head, stroking through them like he’d just discovered the most precious treasure in all of the known world.

“I’m alright...” Aiden whispered. A promise. Reassurance for his grief stricken father, who just hugged him tighter and weeped into the crook of his neck.

Guxart never wanted to let go of his kitten again, and when the young wolf introduced himself as Aiden’s partner, the old cat welcomed him to the family with open arms.

He’d brought his son home to him, after all. Guxart owed the boy everything he could give.

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

I love how every one of the wolves just assume that THIS GUY has retired from being an absolute menace.

Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?

Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.

Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?

Geralt: *grunts angrily*

Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.

Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.

Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!

[blooms-in-april]

The Kaer Morons overhear and think they're fucking, but they're actually just moving a HUGE pot full of weed.

Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?

Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.

Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?

Geralt: *grunts angrily*

Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.

Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.

Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!

[0dde11eth]

PUT HIS BACK INTO WHAT!?!?!

😂😂😂 that sentence can work in so many situations!!! Omggggg

Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?

Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.

Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?

Geralt: *grunts angrily*

Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.

Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.

Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!

[fandom-junk-drawer]

@0dde11eth @everything-but-the-not-natural @help-help-i-need-an-adult @random-apollo-child

Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?

Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.

Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?

Geralt: *grunts angrily*

Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.

Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.

Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!