#witcher kiyan

[thornethenorn]

Aiden, the youngest and smallest cat, was often lovingly called 'Runt', especially by Kiyan. So, years later, Aiden comes storming into the Caravan holding a miniscule werecat by the scruff and throwing him (/j) at Kiyan's feet like "WHO'S THE RUNT NOW BITCH" (affectionately)

[jayofolympus-writes]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Gezras of Leyda & Kiyan Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Gezras of Leyda Additional Tags: Witcher Trials (The Witcher), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Dreams, Visions, Rites of Passage, Hallucinations, Dreams and Nightmares, Omens, Pre-Canon, Death as an entity, Unreliable Narrator, no seriously guys super unreliable, Kiyan is a zealot, Mentioned Brehen (The Witcher), I Shook A Witcher And Intergenerational Trauma Fell Out (The Witcher), Did I Mention Unreliable Narrator?, unintentional self-harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm Series: Part 4 of Beyond the Veil Summary:

Kiyan's Trial of the Veil confirms everything he's ever known about himself, and earns him a place at Gezras' side among the Cats.

[unbury-the-gays]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher), Kiyan & Joël (The Witcher), Kiyan & OC (The Witcher) Characters: Prince Adrien (The Witcher), Kiyan (The Witcher), Joël (The Witcher), Original Male Character(s) of Color, Original Borsodi Brothers Additional Tags: Found Family, Legends, Mermaids, Post-Quest: Cat School Gear Scavenger Hunt (The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt), Birthday, Swordfighting, Swords, Character(s) of Color, Gods, Canon-Typical Violence, Sparring, Fairy Tale Curses, Pagan Gods, Adventure Series: Part 9 of Unbury The Gays

Summary:

In the midst of a charged sparring match, Adrien surprises Kiyan with an unexpected request. Shemihaza, a saber of deep personal significance, is more than just a weapon—it's a piece of Adrien’s past, imbued with meaning and memories. Kiyan’s task will be to pass it on, returning it to its rightful owner. A witcher knows better than anyone how difficult it is to part with a beloved blade.

Kiyan has spent years saving for a new sword of his own, enduring hardships and sacrifices along the way. Yet, when Adrien’s prized saber is given away, Kiyan chooses to forgo his long-awaited weapon and instead forge something truly unique for the prince—a blade that could rival even the legendary Shemihaza. To do so, he must seek out a master blacksmith capable of crafting such a weapon, but his journey will take him far beyond Novigrad. Along the way, he will uncover forgotten legends, discover secrets of ancient gods, and follow a mysterious trail that leads him to the mythical island of Jurata, the Queen of the Seas.

______________________________________

Today, Kiyan was testing one of the many steel swords from Adrien’s extensive collection—his temporary arsenal ever since he’d lost his own during Ireneus’s ambush. The witcher adjusted his grip on the ornate longsword, gauging its balance as Adrien lunged at him, his Ofieri saber cutting through the air with a graceful, deadly arc. Their duel was both a rigorous exercise and a game of subtle seduction, a physical dance that kept them sharp during the long, gray winter days. The prince was relentless, his movements precise, his footwork light despite the fatigue that weighed on his limbs. But Kiyan had seen the signs—the subtle hitch in Adrien’s breath, the slight delay in his parries, the sheen of sweat darkening his collar and shirt clinging to his toned frame. The duel had gone on long enough for the human body to falter.

Adrien, of course, refused to yield.

“You’re slowing down,” Kiyan noted, his voice even, his stance loose yet coiled with potential energy. He circled Adrien, amber eyes tracking every shift in weight, every fleeting indication of his next move.

Adrien, panting but grinning, pushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “And yet,” he countered, feinting left before pivoting into a low slash, “I’m still standing.”

Kiyan deflected the strike effortlessly, angling his blade to guide Adrien’s momentum off balance. The prince barely managed to recover, boots skidding slightly against the polished wooden floor. For all his skill, he couldn’t match the raw speed and endurance of a witcher. And yet, he fought as if he could. As if sheer willpower alone could bridge the gap between them.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

Their swords met again, sparks flying as Kiyan pressed forward, driving Adrien back step by step until his back nearly crashed into the spine of an ancient tome resting on a nearby shelf. The scent of worn leather and ink filled Kiyan’s lungs, mingling with the salt of sweat and the faintest hint of expensive perfume oils Adrien had smuggled into his morning routine.

Then, in one fluid motion, Kiyan locked their blades, twisted, and forced Adrien against the wooden frame. The prince gasped, his back hitting the shelf with a dull thud, and Kiyan took the opening—steel kissing the column of Adrien’s throat, the pulse beneath it fluttering like a caged bird.

A victorious smirk threatened to curl Kiyan’s lips, but he held it back. “Yield,” he commanded instead, his voice quiet but firm. The heat of exertion burned in his muscles, but it was nothing compared to the fire in Adrien’s dark eyes.

Silence stretched between them, thick with the tension of combat—of something more. Then, Adrien’s mouth curled into that signature, insufferably self-assured smile. For a heartbeat, time seemed to pause as Kiyan’s eyes burned into Adrien’s, watching him swallow hard. A challenge mingled with mischief.

In a husky whisper, Adrien murmured, “You have the most beautiful amber eyes, Kitty.”

Kiyan inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. His heart pounded in his chest, and though Adrien’s words sent a familiar surge of desire through him, he forced himself to remain composed. He knew this was a diversion—a calculated attempt to distract him, to tempt him into submission. He had no intention of indulging in Adrien’s little tricks.

“This won’t work,” Kiyan said, his voice steady despite the warmth curling low in his stomach. He knew this game too well. Adrien loved to push, to provoke, to see how far he could bend before breaking. “But you can compliment me after you concede.”

Adrien, unrepentant, shifted just enough to press his thigh between Kiyan’s legs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he mused, feigning innocence as he rolled his hips with slow, deliberate precision. The friction was exquisite. Undeniable.

Kiyan’s body reacted before his mind could catch up, heat pooling low, blood rushing hot beneath his skin. Adrien’s smirk deepened, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He no doubt felt Kiyan hardening in response to the teasing.

“I think it’s working rather well,” he murmured.

Kiyan growled low in frustration. That bastard.

His blade was still at Adrien’s throat. If this were a real fight, it would be over. The kill would be his. But there was something far more satisfying waiting to be won. The witcher had entirely different plans for the prince’s throat—and for claiming his victory.

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[blackberrywars]

I saw the flash fic thing you're doing!! If you're in the mood any of your adorable Kitten Shenanigans™ would be delightful ❤️❤️❤️

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.

——————————————————————————————

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.

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[witcherrarepaircommentexchange]

pairing:

Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher)

fics:

Dream by Advena87 and Gavilan

Two years after Kiyan's rescue, the nightmares weren’t as vivid and painful as they had been in the beginning, especially with Adrien’s calming, familiar scent and warmth beside him. Calming, that is, except the nights that Adrien also suffered nightmares of his own.

Saovine was approaching, the nights were growing longer and colder, and Adrien's nightmares more frequent. The prince still didn't want to talk about them, and Kiyan didn't know how to break the standstill. He wanted to help him, but there was nothing he could do but hold him in his arms.

Stray Cat by Advena87 and Gavilan

"If a cat runs away, you should tie a bell around his neck. Then you will always know where he is." Adrien doesn't know what's going on in Kiyan's life that keeps him running away, but he's determined to keep trying to build something with his mysterious stranger.

Who Sows the Wind, Reaps the Storm by Advena87 and Gavilan

"The ruins of the elven palace Est Tayiar in Redania were mentioned several times in the records of the oldest cat school masters as a potential source of exquisite weapons and diagrams, but the records didn’t specify the exact location of the palace or what it had been, exactly, in its heyday. Either way, Kiyan had nothing better to do, except avoid headhunters, so he planned on spending this year on the path searching for treasures."

[zkretchy]

doodled 1 piece of Kiyan having a bad time (not out here (yet?) so no you didn’t miss it) and immediately went and drew 2 pieces of him just having a nice time (yes even on a ship shush) to even it out cause I felt sorry and also love him-he deserves good things

[on-a-lucky-tide]

🧠 Kiyan or Gezras please 💜

Headcanon: Kiyan

My main one for Kiyan is actually wrapped up in Jerome's story.

The reason that no one knows what happened to Jerome is because he escapes his father. When he's rifling the office, blood still in his teeth, he finds research from the mage holding Kiyan. There are detailed notes about Kiyan's body, his mutagens and some preliminary tests. Jerome, being a Griffin and thus raised like a knight, can't leave a brother in distress.

He expects to turn up and have to put Kiyan down. He can barely walk or hold a sword himself. It won't be much of a fight. Jerome gets to Kiyan before the mage can do his worst (that Gwent card haunts me, Jay).

They find an abandoned house. They recover together. Slowly. They fall in love. They live a simple life as woodsmen until they die as comfortable old men, with lots of grey hairs and laughter lines, their trauma a distant memory. Timelines be damned.

[lvexpart]

mad kiyan mustve been shaped like a friend, once