#vesemir x guxart

[therainbowdragoness]

Witchers on Halloween

Cat School Edition

Decorating the Caravan with ridiculously over the top things, like a skeleton hanging out of a sunroof

Nobody coordinates their costumes because they can’t agree on anything.

Aiden usually does something with Lambert, and since the wolves usually have a theme for costumes, he lets Lamb decide what they’re doing.

The younger cats all hit up a club or something of the like on Halloween night.

They have a competition going too. How many people can they each jumpscare before the night is over?

Rules are, you aren’t allowed to use the same method of scaring someone twice and they actually have to be scared, little flinches don’t count.

The cats either dress incredibly sexy or incredibly scary. Sometimes both depending on the costume.

Dragonfly is the reigning champ of the Jumpscare contest.

If Gaetan is with Letho on Halloween, he’s still playing the game. When people walk up to Letho’s place, he ends up running them off, terrifying them in some demented manner whilst his Viper boyfriend is curled up inside, waiting for his boys to come home.

Guxart splits his time. He stays around at the caravan for awhile, getting buzzed and listening to his old music, relaxing by the bonfire he’s built and handing out candy to any kids that come by the camp. Then at some point he douses the fire, straightens everything up around the caravan for when the kits get back (there’s plenty of supplies for hangover cures in the main camper for morning) and then makes his way over to Vesemir’s place to spend the rest of the evening.

[simoondraws]

Husbands 🤲💕

😺✨🐺

[meepthemeeping]

Reunion :)

(If you think of them as friends or a couple, either one is valid. If you want an opinion on what I think the relationship both platonic\romantic feel free to ask.)

[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!

[blackberrywars]

I just realised I wasn't following you yet? Which is honestly a crime. For your Witcher ficlets, I'd love to see some grandpa Vesemir bonding time with Ciri as a child. Just a lot of fluff, preferably modern where Vesemir gets to spend an afternoon alone with her

Hi hello sorry for the delay and thank you for this prompt!! It's very cute, and the fluff was a nice treat.

Title: Grampa's House

Rating: G Words: 1,945 Relationships: Vesemir & Ciri, Background Vesemir/Guxart, Background Yennefer/Geralt Additional Tags: Family Bonding, Fluff, Young Ciri, Grandparents & Grandchildren, The Magic of Your Grandparents' House

Summary: Vesemir struggles to figure out what to do while watching his five year-old granddaughter for the weekend because he’s an old-ass man with old-ass man hobbies, like bird-watching, whittling, gardening, and making coffee on the stove because who needs a fancy machine anyway? Turns out, she’s happy to do all those things with her grampa.

AO3 LINK

——————————————————————————————

When his idiot son drops his squealing granddaughter onto his porch, not even Yennefer can hide a sheepish grin. “Business trip,” his bony ass. He can smell a swinger’s party from here. Still, their hesitation doesn’t stop Ciri from running toward him and wrapping her skinny, freckled arms around his thighs.

“GRAMPA!!”

She hits him with the force of a gale wind, and Vesemir can’t help but run a hand through her hair. Whiter than his, but not quite so pale as Geralt’s. Before that thought overwhelms him, he takes both a deep breath and her little, inexplicably sticky hand. She proudly shows him her missing incisor as she yells hello, and she’s so much bigger now, but even still, the straps of her tiny backpack barely fit over his elbow. Her wolf plush toy has a dark stain that might just explain the state of her fingers, but he holds them anyway for the goodbye kisses and hugs. Yennefer gives him a less-stiff hug than usual, and Geralt shoots him a wry smile over her shoulder, nodding in what he probably thinks is encouragement. Vesemir just shakes his head. The pair of them slide back into the ever-beloved shitbox, Roach. Which leaves him with a five year-old granddaughter.

He’s raised several boys over the years in the Wolfe home, all of them hellions in their own special ways. Half of his grey hairs have nothing to do with his age.

That was nearly twenty years and two knee surgeries ago.

Guxart had told him in the morning that he’d do just fine, but that was just before the bastard had blown him a kiss from the driveway and sped off, off to his own weekend away. It was right about then that he realized he has no idea what little girls like to do. Ciri has only been with his son for two years, and they’d got along well, but he’s never watched her for more than a few hours. She’d been littler then. What can he offer her, now that he is old and his own boys are grown, most of their favorite toys destroyed, given away, or lost? When he was younger, this might have been easier. He had more energy then, enough to chase and tumble after a tot without fearing his worse knee would give out.

Cleaning her up is probably a good place to start.

That decided, Vesemir finds an old stepstool and guides her onto it, making sure she washes her hands. He takes some dish soap to Mr. Wolf, who is much fluffier, but just about as gray and scruffy as himself. All the while, Ciri tells him about her life.

“At recess, we play Lions and Ant-lopes! I run really fast! I like taking my shoes off, but Mama gets mad when that happens.”

“Oh? And why is that, lass?”

“It gets my socks dirty. An’ stinky. And —kitty!”

She points to the edge of his windowsill, just behind where the dish soap had been, to a tiny wooden cat figurine. The chubby little creature had been yesterday’s work, hidden in its little nook where his partner would never find it, because the bastard hates washing plates more than anything else. Vesemir chuckles.

“Hm? Oh, yes, for Guxart. It needs some work, but it’s almost done now.”

“You made that?” she asks, eyes wide as dinner plates, “How?”

“Well, if you’re interested…… I suppose I can show you.”

“YES!” she balks a bit, smiling sheepishly, “…please?”

Vesemir spends the next two hours answering that please. He gives Ciri a full tour of the garage-turned-woodworking-shed. Explains to her the difference between his chisels —paring, mortise, tang, that fancy one Eskel bought him that he still doesn’t know the name of— and almost starts in on the mallets before he stops, with no small amount of trepidation. The poor lass must be bored to tears. He braves a look down at her face and finds wide blue eyes and pursed lips. One of his larger chisels is polished enough to show her reflection, shining with curiosity. As deftly as he can, he pulls the little cat out of his pocket, holding it out to her.

“As for this little beast… are you listening?” Vesemir tweaks a pale curl, just to hear her giggle (and to distract from the chisels because she probably shouldn’t touch those until she’s at least eight or so), “What he needs is to be sanded down and polished so he’s shiny.”

“Howdja do that?”

“Sandpaper. The grains smooth out the rough bits. Here. Feel it.”

He fans out his collection, arranged from 40 to 180 grit, and lets her pet each one. He doesn’t worry for her soft skin even though she winces at the roughness because she quickly reaches for the next one. She picks out the 120 grit sandpaper —a bit too fine for this, but he allows it— and lets him show her how to gently smooth out the figurine. Her fingers are still small and clumsy, but she dutifully keeps to the direction of the grain, and the cat feels even softer than her little hands once they’re through. She paints it with a sponge brush and his own polish, a mixture of olive oil and lemon juice, gasping as the red bubinga wood reveals all its colorful stripes. Again, it receives pride of place on the windowsill.

“So…” Ciri asks, somehow even more excited than before, “whad’we do now?”

She’d liked his workshop, dusty and turpentine-smelling though it is.

“Hmm. Why don’t we go outside? I have some birdhouses I made there.”

— — — — —

Ciri squeals over the birdhouses, especially the dark purple one that “looks like Mama!” but the real noise comes when the painted bunting couple —unusually late in the season, spirits bless them— pops out of it. The little husband’s rainbow coat is vibrant as always, and while Vesemir scolds Ciri for trying to chase him, he can’t blame her for wanting to pet his colorful feathers. She agrees, thankfully, apologizing to the ruffled pair. Vesemir settles into the rocking chair he made, and once she finishes cooing at the green little wife, Ciri leaves Guxart’s alone in favor of his lap, and they sit to watch the birds until his hips start creaking.

His garden provokes similar wonder. Vesemir points out each plant and all the weeds that had sprung up in between the rows, which she happily plucks. Ciri categorizes his herbs by smell and taste, ranks sage as her favorite, and eats a little bit of dirt as a control group. He nods approvingly, because little immune systems need help, and then offers some dandelion roots instead, since they still have dirt on them and are more nutritionally useful. Maybe tomorrow they can take a walk and he’ll teach her how to forage properly. It’s good knowledge, especially for a tot. If her stomach is anything like the bottomless pit that was Lambert’s, she should know what will be delicious and what could make her sick, spirits forbid.

By the end of the afternoon, his knees are dirty and sore, and he desperately needs a coffee. Sunshine and sweat have tired Ciri out, but she’ll be up again before long, which he’d need more than a little artificial energy to survive. Quickly, he herds Ciri back inside and into the bath with as little contamination as possible. Once his sleeves are soaked to the armpits, he sets her into a chair with two pillows stacked atop it and heads over to his wood stove. The greca is an old, battered thing now, but it still makes his brew as sweet and strong as it did the day Guxart brought it home. As soon as it’s full, he pours himself a mug and turns back to the table.

“Do you want some?”

Ciri wrinkles her nose, “Coffee tastes icky.”

“That is why your abuelo uses lots of milk and sugar.”

He adds both into her sippy cup to fix what Guxart calls a tetero and puts a suspirito on the plate beside it. Then gives her another three because he’s a grandfather, and it’s his job. They eat in mostly-silence, aside from the gummy sound of her chewing the cookies through her first missing tooth, and the clink of his own mug on the table. Ciri finishes her cup with an exaggerated ah! and he can’t help but smile.

“You liked it, lass?”

“Mmhm! I din’t even taste the coffee.”

Which is usually exactly what Vesemir says to Guxart when he’s making fun of him, but it’s hard to argue with this kind of sincerity. Especially not when she tips her mostly empty cup back again, trying to get the last few drops between the gap in her teeth.

“Grampa, can we watch a movie now? Do yours have color in them?”

His knees cheer for joy even as his eyebrows quirk of their own will, which might just prove her point, along with the fact that he barely had any movies at all. Thank the spirits Geralt had given him a DVD along with her overnight bag. He remembers the fat, seal-like creature on the cover.

“Yes, we can watch a movie. How do you feel about Neighbor Toto?”

“Grampa!!” Ciri bursts out laughing, knocking over her sippy cup, “Nooooo, it’s My Neighbor Totoro!”

“My Neighbor Tot-ro, then.”

“Noooooooo! To-to-ro!”

He smiles and takes their dishes to the sink, letting her pester him until he finally says it right. She nods imperiously, and he can’t help but ruffle her white-blonde hair. She’s more or less a quiet presence beside him as he cleans the greca, right until he pulls out his jar of popcorn kernels. Apparently, those are supposed to come in a brown paper bag, and they get cooked in a microwave. Vesemir owns neither.

“Well, lass. This way is more fun —watch, now.”

For once, he’s glad for the new glass lids Guxart bought, since they let Ciri ooh and ahh and the popcorn exploding with butter (and a little bit of brown sugar). It’s easy enough work to herd her onto his admittedly-ancient couch. Less so when he has to remember how to play movies.

“Spirits, how does this damn thing work again?” he grumbles, unsuccessfully starting to put the brick through the slot, and then pivots back to Ciri, with her wide blue eyes and perked up ears, “Don’t repeat that.”

“Why not? Papa says bad words all the time.”

“Yes, well I tried my best with him. You’ll have to be better.”

“Aw damn.”

He barely restrains a laugh, settling for a cough as he retrieves the ever-so-slightly burnt popcorn. The movie is made slightly grainy by the TV he hasn’t changed in twenty years, but it plays nonetheless, and he can understand Ciri’s defense of it. She’s utterly enraptured, practically bouncing in her seat before she settles in beside him. He wonders if he could carve a Totoro before Ciri has to leave. By the time he hears Ciri go quiet beside him, he’s fully planned out the size and polish he’s going to use, but should he paint it? It’s never been his strength, but he should try, at least. A gentle snore interrupts his thoughts, and the weight against his side grows heavier. Ciri is fast asleep against his arm, drooling ever so slightly from the gap in her teeth. He’ll have to wake her for dinner and clean the (yet again) sticky child, but he can let her sleep until the credits roll. He yawns.

She can help him paint the Totoro on her next visit.

——————————————————————————————

Well that was some tooth-rotting fluff, and I enjoyed every second of it. I tried my best to keep the story in line with Vesemir's gruff disposition, but softened for the modern era and prompt. Ciri gets to be baby, and an utterly curious delight.

greca: a stovetop mokapot, popular throughout Latin America abuelo: grandfather tetero: baby bottle/Venezuelan term for coffee made with lots of milk and sugar, usually given to children or used to mock people who drink coffee this way suspirito: a small, bite-sized meringue cookie

Taglist: @karolincki, @hellinglasses, @girls-and-honey, @halehathnofury, @the-butch-of-blaviken, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @t4tlambert, @alllthequeenshorses, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide (if anyone wants to be added/removed, pm me and I'll have it done no problem)

[thewolvesandtheirbard]

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

[heartoferebor]

SOME VESEMIR FUN! Thank you so much @joyfullynervouscreator​ for the fantastic prompt. I apologise for the unplanned fucking, whoops. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I had a blast writing this and flesh out the complicated relationship between Vesemir and Guxart a little more. Any excuse to hurt the old man and get him laid lol. 

Alt Prompt: Left Behind Fandom/Series: The Witcher Characters: Vesemir, Guxart Pairing: Vesemir/Guxart Rating: E Length: 2,519 words Summary: Vesemir meets with a mishap on one of the rare weeks outside Kaer Morhen. Guxart saves him, making all the complicated emotions between them bubble back up to the surface again. Warnings: injury, anti-witcher sentiments, insults, rough sex

“Vesemir?”

The voice is unmistakeable.

“Guxart.” Vesemir isn’t even sure that he can make himself understood between the blood in his mouth and his swollen face.

“They really pulled a number on you, didn’t they. How did a few thugs almost kill you?” The Grandmaster of the Cat School turns Vesemir around, and Vesemir groans in pain when the movement jostles his broken bones. He blinks into the falling rain to see Guxart’s face hovering above him. The old Cat looks almost exactly like he remembers him – high cheekbones in a round face, carefully looked after black hair shot through with silver, its strands currently braided into a high tail on the back of his head and a short beard that he still keeps meticulously clipped. And, of course, that glint of haughtiness in his eyes that Vesemir knows so well mixed with, perhaps, just a hint of concern.

“Trap,” Vesemir manages to force out. Guxart rolls his eyes.

“Come on, then. Let’s at least get you out of the rain.” He tries to help Vesemir up into a sitting position.

Vesemir faints.

[blooms-in-april]

Guxart and Vesemir.

(He likes it)

[meepthemeeping]

(Secret scene from Please Don't Forget Me)

(Guxart X Vesemir)

Guxart moved through the cramped interior of the caravan, his movements slow and deliberate as he scanned every surface for his missing book. The cluttered space was dimly lit by a single lantern swaying gently with the motion of the wheels beneath them, casting long, flickering shadows across the piles of belongings that littered the floor. He muttered to himself, half in frustration and half in disbelief. 'It was just here,' he thought, his fingers brushing over a stack of rolled maps, old and worn, before shifting them aside. Every step seemed to disturb something else, sending small items tumbling to the ground with soft thuds.

Just as he was about to look through a pile of notes in the corner, a voice cut through the silence.

"Guxart!" The call was clear, unmistakable, and familiar.

Standing there, framed by the doorway, was Aiden, now with one less eye.

"Aiden?" Guxart’s voice was tinged with disbelief, his mind struggling to reconcile the sight before him with the information he’d been given. "Last time I heard, Jad had killed you."

Aiden’s lips curled into a sly, toothy smile, a glint of dark amusement in his eye. "It's a long story," he replied, his tone casual, as if he were discussing nothing more than the weather. "But you won't be hearing from Jad again."

He didn’t press for details, though a part of him wanted to. Instead, he let out a slow breath, relief mingling with the confusion still swirling in his mind. "Well, that’s… good," Guxart said, his voice softer now. "Most of the others are gone already, but I’m sure the rest would be happy to see you."

Aiden reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered envelope, extending it towards Guxart. "I have a letter to give you," Aiden said, his voice steady, though there was an undercurrent of something else—something Guxart couldn’t quite place.

Guxart took the envelope, his fingers brushing against the rough paper as he brought it closer. His eyes widened as he saw the seal—a wolf’s head embossed in dark wax. His heart skipped a beat, and a thousand questions began to race through his mind, each one more urgent than the last. He glanced back up at Aiden, searching his face for answers, but found none.

"Who is this from exactly?" Guxart asked, though a part of him already suspected the answer.

"Vesemir," Aiden replied coolly. "He let me stay in the keep this winter."

Guxart’s brow furrowed in confusion, the information only adding to the tangled mess of thoughts in his head. 'Vesemir?' The name alone stirred memories long buried, memories of a time before everything had changed. Why would Vesemir, of all people, send him a letter? And why, in the name of all the gods, would he let a Cat School witcher like Aiden stay with him? Vesemir had always been vocal in his disdain for the Cats, had never hidden his contempt for their methods. The idea that Vesemir had not only written to him but had also harbored Aiden was… baffling.

"I… I’ll find you in a second," Guxart said slowly, his mind still reeling as he stared down at the letter in his hand. "I guess I’ll be reading this now."

Aiden nodded, turning to leave without another word. Guxart barely noticed his departure, his attention wholly consumed by the envelope in his hands. His fingers traced the seal, lingering on the familiar design, before he broke it open. Guxart’s heart quickened as he began to read, each word sinking into him like a stone dropped into deep water.

With every sentence, a wave of emotions crashed over him—excitement at hearing from Vesemir after so long, pain as old wounds were reopened, joy at the possibility of reconnecting, and another emotion he refused to name, one that twisted in his gut and left him breathless. It had been so many years since they’d last seen each other, so many years since the sacking had torn them apart. Guxart had often wondered what had become of Vesemir, whether he had moved on, forgotten, or perhaps… missed him.

And now, here he was, standing in the middle of the cluttered caravan, staring at a letter that said everything he had hoped to hear. Vesemir missed him. The words were simple, yet they carried a weight that nearly overwhelmed him. Guxart’s hands trembled slightly as he held the letter, his eyes lingering on those final words. The memories, the shared moments, the words left unspoken—all of it surged back with a force that left him reeling.

He leaned against the rough wooden wall of the caravan, clutching the letter as if it were the most precious thing in the world. The book he had been searching for was forgotten, replaced by the flood of emotions that now filled him to the brim. Vesemir missed him. The thought echoed in his mind, over and over, a refrain that stirred up feelings he had long tried to bury.

Guxart bit his lip, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

[blooms-in-april]

"I don't think I can ever forgive you. For being what you are."

"And what's that?"

"Yourself."

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[blooms-in-april]

Guxart trying to get that dick! 😂 😂 😂

Wow - The Witcher: Nightmare of the Wolf anime looks really great. Such beautiful animation. I’m so excited! (And did you SEE this hidden frame they tried to sneak past us?)

[blackberrywars]

Requests for Witcher Ficlets!

What: Me taking requests for 500-1000 word witcher ficlets because I’m home for the holidays and I need something to do!

When: 12/27-1/10

Rules:

Most game/show characters and ships  are welcome! As a fair warning, I don’t know a lot about book canon, but I will do my best to research and deliver on any requests from that angle

Modern/Alternate AUs are accepted and appreciated!

I will take up to 3 requests per person! Please flood my ask box, for it is barren as a desert and dry as my mouth at 3am.

NSFW requests are welcome! I will write a wide variety of kinks, but it is case-by-case, and there are some I won’t do. Still, don’t be shy, my anon is available, and I will answer any respectful questions via ask/PM

Limited Dead Dove. Acceptance will be case-by-case, but I will do canon-typical types of violence, whump, and taboos. Rape is off the table as far as an actual scene, but references are allowed

Recommendations: I am very excited to branch out of my comfort zone with this, so feel free to go buckwild, but if you want recommendations of stuff I’m more practiced at, I have a masterpost over on my page. The following is a list of stuff I’ve posted, drafted, or am otherwise really into.

Fem!Lambert x Fem!Aiden (it’s my brand and my specialty)

School of the Cat/Dyn Marv (group dynamics + partners)

School of the Wolf (both brotherly and romantic)

School of the Bear (particularly Arnaghad, Ivo, and Junod)

Nenneke (bamf and milf supreme)

Witchers & Whores (as allies)

Iorveth x Roche (I’ve seen a lot of content for them recently, and go absolutely wild over the fics/art where Roche is revealed as a half-elf)

Ves (she’s so hot and she loves knives and I wanna be her)

Previous Fills: I’ve done this thing exactly once before, and it was a blast, so if you want to check out what you can expect, these are the two prompts I received last time

Waltzing Wolves: a Super-soldier Spy AU for Gereskel + Jaskier, where Geralt drools over Eskel waltzing like a suave gentlemen, with ART by the amazing original requester, @whyzowl!

Kitten Shenanigans: Guxart learns a way to manage his unruly kittens while also developing their skills. Vesemir is only a little horrified. Done for my dear @halehathnofury.

I will accept requests from now until midnight on January 10th, 2023! Ficlets will be posted as soon as I get them done because I have zero self-control.

[dyns33]

Vesemir : "I don't trust the Cat." 

Jaskier : "Oh come on, Aiden is nice !" 

Eskel : "He's kind of nice." 

Geralt : "... He's okay, I guess." 

Vesemir : "He remains a Cat." 

Lambert : "Fucking old man." 

Jaskier : "Vesemir, Lambert is happy with his lov... his very dear friend, so please, don't ruin that." 

Aiden : "... Wait. Vesemir. As in Guxart's Vesemir ? I never made the link ! He told us about you !" 

Eskel : "Who is Guxart ?" 

Aiden : "My mentor. With Vesemir, they were..." 

Vesemir : "Look at the time ! Geralt, Eskel, Jaskier, you have things to do ! Lambert, you can rest a bit today. Oh, and Aiden, my dear boy, you can stay with him, relax a bit, I'll prepare a warm meal for you." 

Lambert : "... What the fuck did you do with this Guxart ?!" 

Aiden : "They..." 

Vesemir : "Come with me Aiden, I have an old armor that we don't use, a very good one, I'm sure you will like it." 

Lambert : "Kitten, forget the armor, tell me." 

Aiden : "But free armor Lamby !" 

Lambert : "Kitten ! Tell me !" 

Vesemir : "Aiden, son, you won't have to do anything during the whole winter and you will always be welcome here." 

Aiden : "... Sorry Lamb, he got me at 'son'." 

Lambert : "Aiden, no, come back here !" 

Jaskier : "I'm sure Vesemir and this Guxart fucked." 

Eskel : "Yup." 

Geralt : "I don't want to imagine the old man doing it, thank you."

[artistsfuneral]

Aiden and Lambert staring at each other.

Aiden slowly blinks once.

Lambert blushes furiously.

[blooms-in-april]

"I RESPECTED THEM ON MY KNEES WHEN THEY WERE ALIVE" I'm dead, I'm dying, RIP me and Lambert. 💀

Thank you for the Vexart content we do not get enough! Cry 😭😭😭

Miri fucks

Nonnie. My beautiful Nonnie. You are so right. Miri does fuck. I mean, have you seen the Young Vesemir card in the Gwent game (someone please teach me how to play, I am losing so bad in it every time)? All I can say is that Vesemir had game both young and old. This fic idea came about thanks to Novigrad Market on Discord, you could always come and join the fun!

Vesemir’s Bedroom and Other Mysteries

The arrival of Guxart wasn’t unexpected as such. However, everything else that came with it was a surprise. The two old Witchers had only gone into the kitchen for their reunion and nobody knew or even wanted to guess which of them had squealed like that. In a way it didn’t matter because the joy in that sound was so pure, it wiped away everything else. Three minutes later, Vesemir and Guxart re-emerged from the kitchen, smiles barely hidden.

“We ought to welcome the newest arrivals with some food,” Vesemir declared, pretending as though nothing was out of the ordinary. As if his fingers weren’t linked with Guxart’s.

“Please tell me you still know the recipe of your special sauce!” Guxart actually sighed at the thought, much to Aiden’s discomfort. He wasn’t used to seeing his mentor look so, well, lovestruck.

Even worse, Vesemir snickered. “I remember the recipe for all my special sauces. The key is to use the left hand.”

Lambert clapped hands over his ears while Eskel stared into the distance, trying desperately to erase those words from his mind. It had nothing to do with being a Witcher sadly, having heard those words clearly regardless of enhanced hearing so he couldn’t even curse his mutations for subjecting him to such things.

All too quickly everyone was settled around the table which heaved under the amount of food on offer. Without a doubt it would all disappear into hungry bellies in record time but it was still an impressive amount of food.

“So, Miri-” Guxart grinned as he piled up his plate, happy to be interrupted.

“I haven’t been called that in decades.” Vesemir looked nostalgic and soft. “It’s good to hear it again.”

Repeating himself, Guxart looked ever so please, “So, Miri, tell me, do you finally have a bedroom?”

It was a weird as fuck question and Jaskier cleared his throat before speaking. “Did you not always have a bedroom?” He turned to Geralt. “I thought this keep was so big, every witcher had a room of their own for the winter.”

“They did.” Geralt glanced to Eskel, looking for some backup. “Wasn’t Vesemir’s room destroyed in the sacking?”

There was no denying the absolutely delighted way in which Guxart leaned in to watch the conversation. “Oh was it now?” He yelped as someone pointedly kicked him under the table. It only served to fuel his mischief more. “See, the way I heard it straight from the Wolf’s mouth, he didn’t have a bedroom, didn’t need one.”

“I don’t understand,” Lambert said faintly. He didn’t want to understand because the implications were more than he could cope with.

“What Guxy means,” Vesemir announced, “was that I always had a bed somewhere in the keep. I never spent a night alone.”

“I so badly want to high five you right now.” Jaskier looked absolutely ecstatic at the revelation. “You’re my hero.”

Lambert shook his head vehemently. “Nope. You did not. You only know which room was whose because you’re old as fuck and respect the dead.”

“I respected them on my knees while they were alive.”

Guxart laughed brightly and put an arm around Vesemir’s shoulders, giving him a happy squeeze. “That you did. So, when will you show me your bedroom. Maybe it’s my turn to not have a room?”

Food was steadily disappearing as they ate, Lambert keeping his head down and trying to pretend that everything around him was just a bad dream. When Vesemir and Guxart finally stood from the table, he squeaked out one last question.

“Everyone and every bed?”

“Yes.”

A wail of despair followed Vesemir as Lambert threw himself down onto the table. “I salvaged my bed from Rennes. My father figure fucked in my bed!”