#we sits

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?