#gezras

A Witcher out hunting. What for?

@akilah12902 asked: May I request A6 and Gezras? (Thank you!)

there ae is :3

Witchers never die in their beds!

Ask and ye shall receive, my friend! It ended up just slightly angstier than intended, because witchers and Vesemir are involved, but I hope it meets your expectations for the Kitten Shenanigans™. Full disclosure, it is heavily inspired by this post.

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Kittens love to be tossed.

This epiphany —perhaps the most important one in all of Guxart’s many, many years of raising kittens into Cats— came at the cost of his ungreyed temples and his witcher-slow pulse. All he remembers now, four decades later, is that he had been walking through a Toussaint forest with Gezras when a horrible, ear-piercing shriek shattered the peaceful morning air. It had ripped through him like poison. Made his guts fall through to his feet. Nearly took him out at the knees before he whipped his useless body around, sprinting to the source, the lake where he’d left his kittens to bathe. Another scream found his ears, and he barely fucking registers the orange blur of Gezras beside him as he pushed ahead, bursting though the treeline to save his kitten 

“Lexandre!”

The sound nearly tore his throat apart, but how could he care? Just beyond the shores stood Lexandre, cowering from the claws of a water hag. He ran. Vicious, disgusting claws tore into his back as he tackled his kitten, curling him into his chest and away from the danger. He barely felt them, just kicked away underwater as fast as he could, hearing the sound of steel on flesh, knowing that Gezras had the danger in hand so he could focus on getting his precious cargo to safety. When Lexandre began to scratch at his arm, he pulled them upwards to the surface, took their heads above the sudden waves.

He expected screaming. He expected whimpering and sobbing, to have to comfort his kittens and scold them in the morning.

He hadn’t expected laughter.

—

— — —

—

From that day onward —when the beat of his heart had kept pace only with the rapid, joyful cries of “Again! Again! Again!” as rowdy kits begged to be tackled once more— Guxart had a new tool to wrangle his growing clowder. Lakes, rivers, bushes, leaf piles, snowdrifts, pillows. Other kittens, on occasion. And oftentimes, right back into his arms. Any and every surface that could give them a somewhat soft landing, and Guxart has both an irresistible reward for good behavior and a deterrent for excessive mischief, all in one. Good kits are tossed, repeatedly. Naughty kits would have to, unsatisfyingly, throw themselves. It minimizes considerable damage. So, when he decides to show Vesemir his newfound knowledge, he expects more gratitude than he gets, and maybe even a fun, tossing-related reward of his own.

“What the actual fuck, Guxart.”

It was foolish, in retrospect.

“What? They’re having fun, look at ‘em.” 

Guxart’s newest charge, a dwarvish girl just barely past five summers, falls hard into his arms, giggling with glee. Kiyan’s weight pulls at the strained muscles of his back the same way her smile pulls at the strained strings of his too-soft heart. Shrödinger handles his other kit, Joël, in a similar manner, tossing him higher still. The pair had done excellent in their drills today, and had been slowly learning to hold knives properly with no delays, thanks to the promise of being tossed. His wolf snarls, curling his lip. It’s handsome, but ultimately unnecessary.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, damnit! What the fuck are you even doing to them? What for?”

“I’ll be fine, pretty boy. My kits aren’t so big yet. And it’s called kitten-tossing, a favorite pastime around here.”

He catches Kiyan again, and lets the resistant kitten wiggle her way out of his arms to be tossed by some other willing elder before turning back to his sometimes-lover.

“The long and short is that they like it. It keeps the hellions sweet, and I thought you’d appreciate that for your own little pack. I’m sure they’re no kits, but surely not all of your pups are as stiff as the pole stuck up Rennes’ ass.”

“Don’t you bring up Rennes, not when he doesn’t know I’m even here. What are you coddling them for? With their odds, what’s the point?”

Guxart sighs, rubbing at his graying temples. The movement makes his shoulder twinge again, but he ignores it again.

“Fuck off, Vesi. I can love them at least a little while, or however long they last. Besides, I think it really does help them —we don’t just get lucky picking acrobatic children, not with how desperate we’ve been for new trainees. The throwing… balances them, oddly enough.”

“Maybe. Or it’ could be what makes them all crazy.”

It’s a low blow, and it stings like bitter herbs in a fresh wound. But Vesemir can’t stay for long, so Guxart lets it slide with a wink and a laugh. A joke.

“Then what’s my excuse, hm? And yours, for coming here?”

“Don’t make it like that. You’ve always had your way of handling your recruits, and I won’t stop you. Lexandre turned out mostly fine, explosives aside.”

With that, the Wolf bumps his hip against Guxart’s, the best apology he can make, and Guxart takes it. He likes his way, and this method is one of his best to not only prepare his kittens for witcher life, but show them some kind of affection under the guise of training. It works, whether Vesemir understands it or not. He’ll bet anything the bastard adopts it himself, once he gets a pup who needs it badly enough.