#cuteagens

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.

Well, Lambert, if we fit, we’re gonna’ sit. 

Out of all the schools, the Cats were most in tune with the peculiarities of their mutagens. Rather than hide from them—attempt to control and master them—they just gave in. It was an alien concept to all the schools. The Vipers, who had to stop themselves squeezing their lovers too tightly or burrowing into tight spaces; the Griffins who liked nothing more than to preen and prance; the Wolves who wanted to run together, yip and wiggle their butts in excitement. No. They were Witchers. And Witchering was serious business. There was no room for tomfoolery. 

The Cats begged to differ.

Their Piles of Purr—their name for it, Lambert refused to call the massive orgy heaps Piles of Purr—before the many stacked fires of Kaer Morhen quickly became infamous. Infamous in that they were impossible to resist, and many an unsuspecting Witcher fell into their midst only to melt into bliss as warm, relaxed bodies pressed in around them and snoozed. They hunted the other occupants like house cats stalking field mice, enjoyed grooming their lovers—and their frienemies, apparently—and could perform feats of acrobatics and grace that beggared belief.

There was one thing that Lambert couldn’t understand though, and that was their penchant for… sitting in things. Open bags, empty crates, open chests, drawers, cabinets. It didn’t matter. If it was vaguely square or enclosed, and you left it unattended for a handful of minutes, you’d return to find a Cat inside it. They’d make direct eye contact and purr loudly. Daring you to shoo them out. The only man with the power to remove a Cat through fear alone was Vesemir. There wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t chase a young Witcher from his kitchen, rolling pin in hand, bellowing about using a bed rather than one of his ‘bloody storage crates’.

One evening, Lambert finally asked. Gaetan sat on the floor by the fire, with a young woman—Kirah—sprawled up against his side. She was purring loudly, his agile fingers gently plaiting her hair. The strands like spun gold reflected the firelight in flashes of white and orange. “Why do you sit in shit?” 

Gaetan looked up slowly. Kirah murred when his movements paused, and he gave her a playful nudge with his knee to shut her up. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, like… bags, drawers, and Vesemir’s crates. You just randomly sit in stuff and purr. Why?”

“Dunno,” Gaetan shrugged. “You get this urge. And then when you do it, it feels good. If we’re gonna’ fit, we’re gonna’ sit. It’s just the way it is. Don’t you get that? Like… the random urge to sniff each other’s assholes or somethin’.”

Lambert scowled. “No.” Gaetan went back to plaiting, Kirah settled again and Lambert brooded for a little while. There were some urges. Not to sniff each other’s asses, but sometimes to… do other things if he felt his position the hierarchy was threatened. Once he’d wanted to lick Eskel’s mouth when he looked a bit grey to… see if he was alright. No, he didn’t fucking know either, reader. Just give him a fucking moment. “So, you just… do what feels good?”

Gaetan looked up again. “Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “People already think we’re freaks. Why not do stuff that feels good? The only thing that’s gonna’ change is that you feel happier.” A quiet huff. “Fuck, maybe if you did, that stick up your backside might shake loose. Oi, tilt your head, need to do the other side.” He kicked Kirah again, and she flopped over with a quiet grumble.

Huh. Do what makes you feel good. Doing things to make yourself happy. Now, wasn’t that a revolutionary idea? 

Aiden gives in to a very embarrassing compulsion...

Aiden stepped through the bedroom door and locked eyes on Lambert’s dozing form in the centre of the bed. He was wrapped in dense furs and thick blankets, with pillows scattered haphazardly around the outside. If there was a single vision on the Continent that represented heaven, then it was a naked, warm Lambert partially obscured by fur, bathed in firelight, all ready to be snuggled.

A shiver of anticipation ran down Aiden’s spine. Oh, he wanted to—

No. Resist. Resist. 

It wouldn’t hurt if he just… did it a little bit. If Lambert was mostly asleep, then he wouldn’t actually know, would he? Aiden’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he lingered at the edge of the bed. “Lambert?” No response other than a deep, rumbling sigh. Still asleep.

Aiden glanced over his shoulder towards the closed door and slid onto the edge of the mattress. Was he doing this? Yes, yes he was. His fingers ghosted over the top of the furs and his breath hitched. He could feel Lambert’s warmth, smell his freshly bathed skin and hear the soft, relaxed puff of his breathing punctuated by the odd sleepy snuffle. 

Oh, Aiden was weak, and he was wanting. “Nnngh.”

The purr rose from somewhere deep inside his chest as he rested his palms in the furs over Lambert’s chest until it rivalled the crackle and pop of the fireplace. Another shudder of pleasure ran through him as he rippled his fingers, the fur pressing up between them, and gave in to the overwhelming, all-encompassing need to—

—knead.

Yes, yes, yes. Aiden’s eyes rolled back into his head as he pressed and squeezed his way over the warm furs with Lambert beneath. Knead, knead. His entire body alive with the tremor of his purr and the waves of tingling, contented pleasure that rivalled sex. The softness of the fur, the heat of the man, his love, his. His. Knead, knead, knead. Going to get nice and squishy, get Lambert all ready to be slept on, and it was going to be so good; so warm, and so comfortable. Hnngh.

Aiden clambered onto the bed, and then straddled Lambert’s hips so that he could get a better angle on the expanse of his torso. His nails caught in the strands of fur, pulling away as he drove the opposing hand’s heel into the firm muscle beneath.

As he got into his rhythm, Aiden opened his eyes to watch the blankets undulate beneath his palms and looked straight into Lambert’s amused smirk. With a startled yelp, Aiden tried to throw himself off, only to have both his wrists snagged and forced back down onto Lambert’s chest. Aiden’s lower lip quivered with embarrassment, and Lambert’s grip relaxed, thumbs circling gently over the backs of Aiden’s hands. “Keep going, I like it.”

“You do?” Aiden half-squeaked.

“Yeah,” Lambert’s head cocked to the side. “And you’re enjoying yourself.” 

“It’s—I know it’s weird, I—,” Aiden couldn’t tear his gaze away from the warm, intense yellow eyes that watched him with… affection. That wasn’t judgement, it was affection. He relaxed and squeezed the furs within his grip with a pleased sigh. “Thank you.”

Jaskier is privy to the rare sight of Witchers at play...

I have something similar here. But, two cakes, right?

Geralt was nervous about Jaskier visiting Kaer Morhen. They’d been friends for near a decade, but this was the first time he’d ever suggested they winter together. For his part, Jaskier had never been more excited about something in his life. He knew the names and the vague, monosyllabic descriptions attached to them courtesy of his laconic Witcher companion, but he longed to infuse his imagination with the colour and energy of the real thing.

Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir. Aiden. Perhaps even Letho, and Gaetan. Names meant adventures. Adventures meant stories. Stories meant songs. Oh, how he longed to immortalise the cutting sarcasm of Lambert, or the gentle, loving heart of Eskel. He just needed material, dear reader. And he knew Kaer Morhen would be brimming with it.

“Jaskier, there’s something I haven’t mentioned,” Geralt said over the campfire barely a day out. “When we’re at home, we – Witchers – behave a bit differently.” 

“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t when at home and hearth? I would expect nothing less,” Jaskier beamed over the flames.

“Hm,” Geralt remarked, and then poked at the logs as they popped and disintegrated in the heat. “Well, just… don’t be surprised.”

You know they do, Non. You know.

But because it’s a human being doing it, it comes off far more erotic than they really ever intend. 

Lambert has a chat with Eskel. They decide to explore their wolfy sides...

A follow up from this. I’ve started documenting the Cute-agen Chronicles here.

“You just do what makes you happy?” Eskel asked, slowly. The words felt unwieldy in his mouth.

Lambert nodded, eyes squinting. “That’s what he said.”

“Hm,” Eskel, Lambert’s senior by more than a handful of decades, was meant to have all the answers, but even he seemed perplexed by this revelation. They exchanged a glance or two, clearly each coming up with scenarios and urges that they’d experienced in their time as Witchers. “Have you ever—? No, it’s stupid.” Eskel shook his head.

“Come on, it’s me, spit it out.” Lambert looked at him earnestly. Lead the way, Eskel. I rely on you for that.

“When you see someone you like, or when one of us arrives home for the winter, do just want to—?” Eskel trailed off, unsure of the appropriate vocabulary, and then proceeded to wiggle in his seat. It was the single most adorable fucking thing Lambert had ever seen in his life. Eskel was the School of Bear’s lost opportunity—big, beefy, could crush a wyvern’s skull between his bare hands with enough Rook in his system—and there he was, wiggling away like an excitable puppy.

“Yes,” Lambert blurted out, looked briefly embarrassed, and then realised Eskel had just exposed his soul, so he needed to do the same. “And, do you ever just want to… run through the trees? But not on your own, with… everyone else. You know, like we used to on The Killer, but obviously without the impending death.”

“All the time,” Eskel nodded, his expression thoughtful. “And, uh, don’t you sometimes think it’d be nice to sleep in one bed? Just all of us. Like it was in the dormitories.”

Lambert stared at Eskel as his training years were cast in a new light. The instructors allowed them to behave like their namesakes because it was a small shred of comfort in an otherwise appallingly bleak existence. Sleeping in piles, yipping and running through the halls as packs of friends in their downtime, completing the Killer together, permitting playfights and scuffles even though it could be viewed as a loss of discipline. And—holy shit. “Why don’t we do it now?” 

Eskel looked nonplussed. “Well, it’s—,” he cleared his throat, shoulders squared officiously. “We’re Witchers, Lambert. It’s serious. Life or death. There’s no room for childish things.”

“Piles of Purr don’t seem to hurt the Cat Witchers,” Lambert grumbled. “Ever think they took shit away from us just to make us as miserable as possible? Miserable Witchers are focused Witchers.”

“I—,” Eskel started, but he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t like that he didn’t have an answer. Lambert relied on him and the weight of failure settled on his shoulders. Luckily, Lambert’s hand settled there moments later too. 

“Tell you what,” Lambert scratched his beard. “This winter, if we get one of these… urges, we just do it, right? No judgement. None of that. You want to wiggle, big guy. You wiggle. Yeah?”

 Eskel considered it, scarred lips twisting in a troubled frown, but finally he nodded. “Sounds good.”

They had a few days together to experiment. Lambert tackled Eskel in front of the fire one evening and they had a playfight that ended with Eskel’s mouth open over Lambert’s face; dominant victory. In the morning, they went for a run together and ended up shedding their boots so they could feel the ground under their pa—feet, under their feet. Lambert moved his bedding into Eskel’s room and they snoozed in a pile. It felt so comforting. So natural. Lambert spent most of his days fucking smiling. 

By the time Geralt arrived, Lambert and Eskel felt happy and light in a way they hadn’t for years. The White Wolf was met with the sight of two wiggling pack mates in the hall. Vesemir, who’d seen what was happening but permitted it without comment, simply smiled from behind them. Eskel bounced up and licked a long line up Geralt’s face. “Welcome home, wolf.” 

Geralt grimaced, although a smile broke through the middle of it. “What’s got into you?”

Letho brings Gaetan with him to winter at Kaer Morhen. Aiden has to assert dominance...

Letho spent a few winters at Kaer Morhen here and there. He usually turned up looking as worn as everyone else, pulled his weight through the cold months with the chores, and then left as soon as the snow thawed. However, one year, he brought a companion. Not necessarily a problem - the keep was big enough for hundreds, so one more wasn’t much strain on space - but that very same year, Lambert also brought a... friend.

Both the guests happened to be from the same school. The School of Cat.

Everyone knew what happened when Cats met. The rumours had been whispered around Witcher circles for years. There would be claws, teeth and blood. Blood everywhere. Having more than a single cat in one place was a recipe for disaster.

The Wolves, bard and Aiden were in the Grand Hall when the Viper’s huge shoulders darkened the doorway. With a grunt of effort, he helped Vesemir shut the wind and snow flurries outside, before heading straight towards the fire to warm his frozen limbs.

Aiden sat up suddenly as a familiar face emerged from behind Letho’s cloak; a shaven head, scar down his left cheek and a slender build.

“Gaetan,” Aiden hissed, and left the bench before Lambert could grab hold of him.

“Oh fuck, here we go,” Geralt grumbled into his flagon, but made no move to leave his seat.

Letho, who was too tired to intervene, simply smirked, holding his hands out towards the fire to warm. Eskel leaned on the heel of his hand and watched with a raised eyebrow, while Vesemir gathered up empty plates. In fact, the only people who seemed remotely alarmed were Lambert and Jaskier. They left their seats in preparation for bloodshed. Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what he'd be able to do against a Witcher - let alone two - but he had his lute ready. 

The Cats circled each other, nostrils flaring, feline eyes blown wide. Both growled low in their throats, with occasional spikes in pitch to a yowl.

“Aiden, c’mon, leave it. It’s not wo--,” Lambert tried, but was silenced by a raised palm. This was important. They had to sort it now for the rest of the winter to pass peacefully. With a soft hiss, Aiden leapt forward and--

--started to lick Gaetan’s face aggressively.

Or tried to. Gaetan angled his head away and Aiden succeeded only in getting his neck, while trying to fend off a returned ‘assault’. Lambert and Jaskier stood a couple of metres away, stunned. They only jolted forward when Aiden wound back and threw a punch that floored Gaetan immediately; the larger Cat pounced forward and pinned his smaller brother to the floor, still licking madly at his face only to be headbutted away.

It continued for several minutes. Frantic, aggressive grooming mixed with occasional flurries of violence until Aiden smacked Gaetan so hard his head swam and he slumped, dazed. He sprawled helplessly on his back as Aiden licked repeatedly up the ridge of his nose to the point between his eyebrows. It was swift at first - lick, lick, lick - then slowed gradually. Split lips and scratched faces leaked blood over bruised skin, and then they started making a new sound.

They were purring. A symphony of low rumbles from deep in their chests that made Lambert, who stood closest, feel rather warm and fucking fuzzy on the inside. After a few more licks for good measure, Aiden rubbed his head beneath Gaetan’s chin and then returned to the dining table as if nothing had happened. Gaetan clambered off the floor and fell down opposite. “Got booze?” He glanced at Geralt, who slid him a brimmed flagon of ale. “Cheers.”

A few hours later, Aiden rolled over in bed and snuggled close to Lambert. He nuzzled his face into the bristle of his beard, and then slowly began to lick the line of his jaw; the rasp of the beard across the light prickles on his tongue always felt good. But it didn’t last long, because Lambert jerked away. “Wait,” the wolf squinted. “Are we fighting or fucking right now?”

Aiden blinked. “What?”

“With Gaetan, you--.”

“Oh,” Aiden chuckled. “Yeah. S’allright. I just needed to show him who’s boss.”

“By… licking him.”

“Hm,” Aiden hummed in acknowledgement, as if it were the most normal thing on the Continent.

A sigh. “Right… yeah, of course. And you, uh, you won, right?”

“Oh yeah, he’s my bitch.”

Lambert’s trying to repair some of his shirts from a tough year on the Path. Aiden… helps.

 Somehow, Geralt managed to wear the same shirt for twenty years and it still looked immaculate. Lambert wasn’t so lucky. By the time he reached Kaer Morhen in the winter, the majority of his clothes were threadbare and torn. It hadn’t occurred to him that Geralt might, you know, buy new clothes. That would be a complete waste of money when you could just patch them up.

“You’ve got more patches than original material,” Aiden mumbled into his knuckles as Lambert set himself up with needle, yarn, thread and patches. They occupied one of the under stuffed, ancient couches the remaining members of the Wolf School had dragged into a vaguely intact common room. “You should let me buy you new stuff.”

“I’m not your sugar baby, Aiden,” Lambert growled, before licking the tip of the thread. Honed to a point, it passed through the eye of the needle easily, and he was soon carefully sewing a new patch into a very faded red shirt. 

“You’re not sweet enough to be my sugar baby,” Aiden drawled back, and then slumped dejectedly against the arm of the couch. “Sour. You’re a sourpuss.” The only reply was a quiet grumble and Aiden glanced at the stack of books by his elbow. When the snows were at their heaviest, winters at Kaer Morhen were boring. One day, he’d convince Lambert to spend it down south with him. Sun, sand, sea and alcohol. A proper holiday from the Path.

The bobbin containing the majority of Lambert’s thread fell from the sagging cushion and Aiden’s gaze followed its progress across the floor.

Oh no.

A sudden tension unspooled across his shoulders as the thread billowed a little in a passing breeze. Kaer Morhen was one massive wind tunnel at the best of times. His eyes flickered to the rest of the yarn scattered around Lambert’s feet. On the Path he was meticulously organised, but at home he seemed to relish being as chaotic and untidy as possible. It would be Aiden’s undoing.

It’s. Just. Thread. 

He drew in a stuttering breath. Lambert glanced up briefly from his work but said nothing. Aiden’s fingers clenched into his thighs, nails biting through wool trousers, as his teeth ground. Look at it billowing like a motherfu— 

Aiden slipped to the floor very slowly, arms stretching above his head to disguise the vibrating tension coiling through his entire body. If he was just a little closer to it, he might feel a little more in control. No. No it was worse. He stretched out a hand, his fingertips brushing over the soft material of a thicker piece of yarn, and he let out a shuddering sigh. Too much. It was too much.

Lambert was just finishing off a neat little stitch when the entire shirt was whipped from his lap in a whirlwind of motion. He looked to the floor with wide eyes and barked out a laugh of amused surprise. Aiden had wrapped himself in yarn. It criss-crossed his chest, arms and head with inexplicable complexity, and his greeny yellow eyes were blown wide in playful malice. He was currently gnawing on a particularly thick piece of dyed wool, one back leg kicking like a domesticated cat trying to snap the neck of its prey. When his senses slowly flooded back, Aiden looked up at Lambert and his frantically working jaw stilled. “Don’t you dare judge me, patchboy.”