#vesefil

[lambden]

even though jaskier/vesemir isn’t my thing at all, i do think the comedic potential is huge. solely because i’m a diehard truther that vesemir fucked filavandrel in NOTW. could you imagine. could you fucking imagine. filavandrel finally reuniting with vesemir after all the time apart and then hearing about his pettiest, most irritating enemy: the bard who took HIS lute and used it to spread (at first) anti elf propaganda because he wanted to ride some witcher dick. Oh my fucking god could you imagine how irritated he would be to discover that vesemir even knows jaskier at all, let alone the sheer fury when filavandrel realizes that he fucked that old man

[chasneedsamoustache]

[lambden]

I feel like I am very predictable with this prompt, but how about (old) Vesemir and Filavandrel with “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”? for that juicy h/c <3

G, 784 words, hurt/comfort but no major warnings Drabble list here!

This is officially his least favourite time ever having Filavandrel in his arms. Vesemir supports most of the elf’s weight on his body as time slows down like he’s in combat, but the only enemy here is the unknown. He lowers them both to the warm stone ground cautiously, counting the seconds as they crawl by.

“Fil,” the witcher tries, uncertain and wavering. “Filavandrel!” The elf doesn’t react, lids still drawn shut and mouth still gently parted. Only a moment ago he had been as sharp as ever, cracking jokes despite his racing heart. Vesemir had foolishly assumed that his lover’s heart was beating fast due to him— a vain mistake he now direly regrets. 

He moves the arm braced under the elf’s shoulder and turns his head with a free hand, frantically examining his body for signs of life or death or some evil limbo. Ciri has gone cold like this in Geralt’s arms before, but always recovered (usually after having some cryptic, awful vision of peril to come). And Vesemir has cradled others both young and old as their exhaustion or injuries overtook them, but never in his long life has he felt this helpless.

Fifteen seconds pass, then twenty. “Come on,” Vesemir insists, raising his voice in frustration even as he gently brushes the pad of his thumb over his lover’s cheek. “Come on, Filavandrel. Not like this.”

The words strike a strange memory in his mind from another century, when he and the elf had been young carefree men ignorant to their higher callings. There was a festival of some sort; he doesn’t remember the name, nor the location, only bundles of pink flowers tied to every fencepost and doorknob in town. Something to do with fertility, or true love, two alien concepts to an elf and a witcher. Couples and friends and youth alike had all kissed in the street, a new chorus of cheers erupting every time they did. Vesemir had begged a kiss from Filavandrel who had spurned him over and over and over, until the teasing grew plaintive and the refusal grew sharp. ‘Not like this,’ Filavandrel eventually barked at him, wearing a strangely honest expression as he shoved Vesemir away.

In the here and now his lover stirs, perhaps roused by the blunt pressure of Vesemir’s fingers— or by his witcher shaking him silly, which he stops immediately. He pulls Filavandrel close, unwilling to admit how scared he had been. The elf, still queasy, takes advantage of the new angle to gag and spit something out over Vesemir’s shoulder. 

Vesemir doesn’t give a damn; he’d let Filavandrel throw up right on his favourite boots if it meant the elf was okay. He strokes his lover’s back, still holding him tightly enough to bruise. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” replies Filavandrel, quiet and wobbly. “What…”

“Beats me,” Vesemir says, trying to summon his old braggart attitude to hide his fear. “You were fine one moment, and the next, you fainted— straight into my arms, I might add. If you wanted my attention you didn’t need to go to such extremes.”

“I think I need to rest,” the elf mutters, slumping forward against Vesemir. Vesemir is of the opinion that Filavandrel actually requires close care and definitely not more sleep, but he’s hardly going to fight with the most stubborn person he knows when said person is clearly unwell. So he lifts the man into his arms, reassured by the strength with which Filavandrel grabs hold of his neck. “And my face is burning— why is my face burning?”

“Like a blushing maiden,” Vesemir tries. Filavandrel shoots him a glare that is one hundred percent pure unadulterated Fil, and it reassures him greatly. As he carries Filavandrel towards their rooms, he rambles, “I think you’ve been out in the sun for too long, my love. I need to build you a shaded area in the courtyard; I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the sight of me training. What do the elves call it again? A veranda?”

“Perhaps I fainted so as to catch a break from your unending tirade of bad jokes,” Filavandrel deadpans. Vesemir squeezes him closer, smiling despite how concerned he still is. Some amount of worry must show on his face because Filavandrel reaches up with shaking hands to rub the wrinkles between his eyebrows, smiling oddly at him. “I’m fine, witcher.”

What he wants to do is reprimand the elf; they aren’t young men anymore and maybe they need to start acting more responsibly. But Vesemir can’t bring himself to be stern when Filavandrel is watching him like that, so he just nods and adjusts his grip on the elf. “Veranda it is.”

[lambden]

i come once more to ask for more vesemir/fil :D you can either do 27 or 1, depending on which you feel inspired for :D

27. Help me I’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second T, 1.3K, mild sexual harassment at Ye Old Gay Bar

“Hello, darling. I’d love for you to teach me the Elder Tongue.”

Filavandrel lifts his head from where it’s buried in his hands only to give his approaching suitor a glare that would make any mortal shit their pants. But the human obviously has a few drinks under his belt already and so he hardly cowers at all, stupid smirk plastered onto his face. He must be really fucking proud of himself for what might be the worst opening line Filavandrel has ever heard.

“A d'yaebl aép arse,” Filavandrel curses, grip going white-knuckled around the neck of his goblet. He wants very badly to dump its contents over this fool’s head but he paid full price for this wine, so he sips it slowly instead, seething.

While the insult flies over the man’s hollow head, the last word is the same in Hen Llinge as it is in Common. Somehow remaining oblivious to Filavandrel’s fury, the drunkard slurs, “And what a lovely arse it is! What’s your name, elf?”

Filavandrel switches languages to inform him, “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Not interested.”

“You’re at the wrong kind of bar then,” coos the man. “Didn’t you see the cock above the door? This isn’t your usual tavern, you know…”

“I know.” He drinks from his wine again, this time slamming it down afterwards. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in men. I said I wasn’t interested in you.”

Any normal being would surely back off after a clear refusal like that, but this asshole simply doesn’t know when to quit. “Why not?” Glazed eyes dark with lust, he reaches to slap a hand down onto Filavandrel’s shoulder.

The elf jumps, tensing immediately. This is what he gets for venturing into a big city, he supposes. The shitty thing is that he hadn’t even come here looking for companionship tonight, only seeking solidarity and to be with others with similar inclinations. And now this pushy bastard has ruined his night out.

Without putting too much (or any) thought into it, he raises a hand and points absent-mindedly down the bar. “Because I’m with him,” Filavandrel lies boldly. An arrogant whoreson like this is sure to back down once he figures out that his prized elf is already taken, right? “That man is my lover, and we’re very exclusive. In fact, you had better leave now before he sees you touching me.”

Thanks be to the gods, his pursuer does pull his hand away from Filavandrel’s shoulder. But he doesn’t seem as convinced as expected, squinting at the figure at the end of the bar. Then, to Filavandrel’s horror, the drunkard calls over, “Ey! Are you really his boyfriend?”

Filavandrel seizes up, petrified, as the man lifts his head from his tankard of ale. He turns to look their way which makes Filavandrel tense for another reason— the man is bloody gorgeous, all his sharp edges tempered by the soft confusion in his golden eyes. He’s a witcher, Filavandrel realizes with a thrill.

On any other night in a bar like this Filavandrel would never be able to capture the attention of a man like this, not one dressed so finely with hair kept so neatly trimmed. Even his eyebrows, which quirk up as he looks at Filavandrel, are sculpted perfectly. Filavandrel’s traitorous heart begins thudding against its cavity, longing for this witcher to keep looking his way, to come closer, to… he doesn’t know, but he’d like to find out.

Then the curious witcher, still looking his way, does stand up and move to come closer. Filavandrel swallows heavily, sure that he must look like a frightened stag under the gaze of this bizarre, beautiful man. When he’s only a few feet away, the witcher demands, “What did you say?”

At this point, Filavandrel is truly impressed by his drunken suitor’s bravery. The man only gapes for a moment before he hastens to pick his jaw up off the floor, stammering, “He said the two of you was together! Is that the truth?”

Something flashes across that sharp face, but right as Filavandrel is about to slam his drink back and flee this awful mishap, the witcher takes everyone by surprise. “That’s right. Was he bothering you, love?”

Love! Love, meaning him. Filavandrel nearly chokes on his own tongue. Managing to pull himself together enough to reply, he glowers, “Yes, actually! He refused to take no for an answer.”

The witcher turns an almost pitying smile onto the drunkard, and Filavandrel’s pulse picks up. He tries to remind himself that it’s just an act, and that the witcher is just doing this to protect him from a creep. Shit, he might even ask Filavandrel for payment afterwards. But knowing all of that doesn’t make it any less hot when the witcher tilts his head to crack his neck, still smiling oddly. “Is that right? Well, as I’m sure he told you, he’s mine. And I don’t like sharing. So find yourself another conquest for the night— or better yet, go home and jerk off into your pisspot.”

Filavandrel raises his drink to poorly hide a sudden snort of laughter at that, and the human’s ears and cheeks go beet-red. “I didn’t know, master witcher,” he bleats. “Forgive me.”

“Unbelievable that you’re apologizing to him,” hisses Filavandrel, the rage from earlier bleeding back into his voice. “I’m the one you wouldn’t leave alone despite the very clear lack of interest.”

The man blinks, stymied, and Filavandrel scoffs. But something in his expression must give the game away, because instead of respectfully bowing out the bastard just squints, glancing between them. “What’s his name, then?”

Filavandrel’s stomach flips but he tries not to let his anxiety show on his face. “What?”

“Your witcher boyfriend,” the man spells out slowly. “What’s his name?”

Before Filavandrel can begin to stammer out an answer somewhere between witcher and handsome, there are smooth, broad fingers on his jaw that interrupt his train of thought. Caught off-guard, Filavandrel obediently turns towards the hand cupping his cheek, and then he nearly gasps as the witcher bends down to kiss him in his seat.

It’s a good kiss, he supposes. Objectivity is hard when this is the first witcher (and for that matter, first non-elf) to ever kiss him, but Filavandrel has also never been kissed so soundly that his lips part almost without thought. He chases the taste and the witcher obliges him, gently bringing him closer and tipping his head back into a new angle. Filavandrel reaches up to cover the witcher’s hand where it rests against his jaw and cheek, kissing back until his mind catches up with his lips— and then kissing some more after that, because how often do opportunities like this come along?

The witcher is the first to break away although he doesn’t go very far, clever smirk and sharp beard teasing Filavandrel’s skin still. He murmurs, obviously amused, “Convinced yet?”

Filavandrel is about to answer before he remembers their situation, and then abruptly remembers why the witcher even kissed him in the first place. Grasping the witcher’s palm, he turns just in time to see the unwanted man, now flushed dark with jealousy, scoff and fold his arms. Filavandrel grins, briefly revelling in their victory, and then squeaks a moment later when the grin is kissed right off his lips.

He surfaces a moment later, only because he thinks it wouldn’t be fair to himself to interrupt a kiss with someone this perfectly handsome. Filavandrel glances over at his would-be suitor but discovers that the man has left. He huffs, amused and amazed and more than a little aroused. “Damn. I think I owe you a drink, witcher.”

“We should probably stay for a few,” the witcher suggests. “Just in case he comes back.”

Filavandrel raises an eyebrow at the obvious proposition, and also the ploy for more alcohol. “... You’re a bit of a scoundrel, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one that picked me for your lover, elf,” teases the witcher. “And I’m a scoundrel through and through, I’ll have you know.”

Rolling his eyes despite the frisson of excitement in his heart, Filavandrel signals the barkeep for two more drinks. He ends up committing to a hundred more years.

[chasneedsamoustache]

Francesca : -puts Fil’s hand on her stomach -

Filavandrel : uhhhh

Francesca: it’s your baby Fil

Filavandrel: uhhhh

Francesca: You’re the father of my child

Filavandrel : uhhh pretty sure I’m gay though

Francesca: it’s still your baby.

Filavandrel : Ves what’s happening ??

Vesemir : this is why you stay away from witches husband mine

Filavandrel : b-but the baby?

Vesemir: it’s yours

Francesca: OF COURSE IT IS !FRINGY I TOLD YOU THIS WOULDN’T WORK !

Filavandrel: Vesemir I’m scared

Vesemir: don’t worry I’ve raised plenty of sons, you’ll be fine

Filavandrel looking at Francesca frowning and being patted on the head by Fringilla : yeah that’s not what scares me

[lambden]

congrats on the milestone! <3 this is not surprising but i'm asking for vesemir/fil and "listening to the other’s heartbeat" :D

(canon era (NOTW in my mind but not specified), no warnings!)

Vesemir knows something is wrong before Filavandrel even exits the bath, but not for any reason that he could freely admit. The partition in their room blocks out only the small area with the basin. It does little to prevent him from watching the wildly flickering candlelight that sneaks above the divider, and it doesn’t block out the sounds of the elf bathing. And even though neither of them has uttered a word in at least an hour, and even though Filavandrel is taking care to keep quiet with no excessive splashing or stomping around, Vesemir can hear everything.

He can’t remember the exact day he started keeping track of his companion’s heartbeat. Perhaps it was around when he started to think of the elf as his companion, no longer just an acquaintance. Or when Filavandrel had first seen him unclothed and his pulse had spiked like he’d missed a step. But he’s been casually listening for so long that now it’s impeding his sleep schedule; he can’t drift off into even meditation while Fil is breathing hard and fast in the other room, his pulse a gallop.

The elf rounds the barrier between them and Vesemir doesn’t bother with any pretense that he’s been sleeping, instead pushing himself up onto his elbows to brazenly stare. You could never tell that the elf was in any sort of state from his appearance; he looks good, his blonde hair hanging dark and wet over his shoulder, feet bare against the floor and his loose underclothes practically hanging off his hips and back. In any other situation Vesemir would make some joke about coming to bed that would certainly garner an eyeroll. But the pleasant scent of soap is undercut by his racing pulse, and even if his taciturn face doesn’t reveal a thing, Vesemir worries.

So he pushes aside the blankets, ushering the elf forward. Filavandrel’s eyes flicker— not towards Vesemir’s body, but to the bare bedroom floor. “I took the liberty of rolling up your poor excuse for a cot,” the witcher breaks the silence, assuming the same brash tone as always. It doesn’t bring a scowl but instead a strange twitch to Filavandrel’s expression, cementing Vesemir’s concerns. “We’re in the city, and I, for one, intend to take advantage of the soft, warm, real bed. C’mon, Fil, come lie down!”

Filavandrel hesitates but finally crosses the room to do just that. His beautiful, unearthly eyes stay open wide as he slides into the space beside Vesemir, adjusting the pillow how he likes it. Vesemir easily moves to accommodate him, even lifting his arm out of the way to give the elf his own side of the bed. Filavandrel turns to watch him, face as neutral as usual. But his heart—

“Are you alright?” Before Vesemir even means to speak the words leave him, low and belying far too much concern. “Your… I can hear how fast your heart is racing. If something’s wrong, if you want to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk,” Filavandrel interrupts. Vesemir nods uncertainly, expecting that to be the end of their awkward conversation, but the elf has other ideas.

He crowds into Vesemir’s space, perhaps intent on reclaiming more room for himself; but that can’t be it, because even when Vesemir backs up Filavandrel follows. His newly clean hands move up and Vesemir thinks maybe Filavandrel is asking if they could share body heat, perhaps a very manly snuggle. He wouldn’t be opposed to that if that’s what his friend needs to calm down.

Then Filavandrel presses even closer, heart threatening to beat right out of its cavity and impose upon Vesemir’s. His lips are slightly parted in a way that no human could see, and the witcher abruptly realizes what a colossal idiot he’s been to not have expected this all along. He winds his arm back under the elf’s head so as to return the kiss before Filavandrel can even deliver the first one, smiling softly into it. He should have guessed.

[lambden]

Would you be interested into writing "I won't bite. Unless you're into that sort of thing." for Filavandrel/Vesemir? Thank you! Ledgea!!

M, 1.4K, Merman AU with your daily recommended serving of nipple play

The rolling waves lap at Vesemir’s bare shins, their spray not quite reaching up to his shorts but making a good attempt. He doesn’t mind— the midday sun has left him feeling uncomfortably hot, and the cool water is a balm.

Perhaps that’s why his bizarre and fascinating companion keeps disappearing underneath the water like a duck bobbing for food, his tailfins flicking up above the surface and sending the occasional splash Vesemir’s way. Vesemir watches in delight, carefully observing the body distorted by the water.

He used to think that Filavandrel wasn’t able to stand breathing air for too long since he rarely obeys the rules of human physiology. The truth is much stranger, as the man has both gills and lungs connected to the complex map of capillaries in his chest. Vesemir always treasures their time together, deeply grateful for the close proximity to a creature he would otherwise never get the chance to study.

And that isn’t the only reason he treasures all their moments spent together. When Filavandrel resurfaces, his silky long blond hair soaked dark and sticking to his neck and shoulders, he doesn’t hesitate before sidling into the space between Vesemir’s knees. Vesemir chuckles but tries to reach behind him to hold onto the dock somehow— his tempestuous lover could very easily pull him into the water if he felt like it.

Thankfully Filavandrel doesn’t pull him off the pier, just drawing him close so that he can nuzzle at his neck. Vesemir allows the contact, privately delighted every time the merman makes a show of strength like this. His iridescent, scaly arms don’t tremble as he holds himself up on the dock, nor does his tail thrash about to try to support his own weight. According to Filavandrel he’s one of the smallest mermen in this sea; a thought that drives Vesemir crazy if he thinks about it for too long. Are there really other, bigger mermaids? What would their tails look like— would they gleam the same or would their fins be rough and jagged from battle? Do merfolk get into many battles? Perhaps they’re territorial over coral reefs, or maybe different schools bond together to fight off drowners.

“What are you thinking about,” breathes Filavandrel against his throat, dragging the tip of a fang over the unbroken skin there with the last consonant of ‘about.’ A reminder of his monstrous nature, or perhaps a threat to pay attention.

The man smells like salt and the spray that mists the brow and lip of everyone who’s ever helmed a boat. Vesemir’s cock suddenly pounds with desire in his too-tiny shorts, all his blood rushing south. He regrets nothing. With a teasing edge to his voice, he muses, “Other mermen.”

Filavandrel growls, low and guttural and inhuman, before raising one hand to do something very stupid and funny and very, very human. Just as Vesemir instinctively moves to hold the merman up by his waist so he doesn’t slide back into the water, Filavandrel reaches forward and twists his nipple. Judging by the shock on his face when Vesemir winces and swears, he hadn’t actually known the effect that would have on the witcher.

“I’m sorry,” Filavandrel quickly offers, but Vesemir shakes his head, groaning as the pinched place begins to smart. After a moment the sensation fades and he breathes easier, fixing his lover with a stern glare. Filavandrel still looks apologetic, but there’s a new, curious light in his eyes too. He had looked just like this when they’d first figured out how exactly a witcher and merman could fuck, and the memory sends another jolt of desire along Vesemir’s length. He adjusts his position as best he can without letting go of the merman’s bare waist. Filavandrel continues, haltingly, “Are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Vesemir assures him. “They can take a beating.”

And that was entirely the wrong thing to say— or the right one, depending on how you see it— as Filavandrel pouts thoughtfully, drawing his lip to one side. The expression reveals his sharp fangs again, and despite himself, Vesemir shudders. The merman reaches to touch his chest again, this time prodding more gently at the little bud and then tracing circles around his areola. When he rolls a nipple between his fingers Vesemir’s breath hitches, and it makes Filavandrel glance up into his eyes sharply. But instead of pausing his ministrations, Filavandrel just raises his other hand so that he can toy with both of Vesemir’s nipples as he speaks. “Funny. We don’t have these.”

Vesemir had noticed that, although he hadn’t been sure if there was a biological reason or if merfolk simply lacked nipples because their offspring weren’t mammals. He had nonsensically daydreamt once of rubbing Filavandrel’s chest until his nipples made an appearance the same way his genitals do, but he should have guessed that would be out of the question in reality. He hums, enjoying the dull pressure building up as Filavandrel experimentally touches him. “I guess that’s because they wouldn’t serve any function.”

But instead of agreeing or correcting him, Filavandrel frowns. “What are they used for?”

“Oh.” Vesemir hesitates. “Well, it’s how mother mammals nurse their young. The babies latch on and feed from them— but don’t get any funny ideas, I’m not lactating and you can’t make me!” He’s fairly certain that if anyone could magically get him to lactate, it would be this eight foot long magical fishperson. But he also has no desire to find out, so he quickly adds, “They’re sensitive, too. That’s why I like wearing soft shirts under my armour.”

Filavandrel stares right at his nipple as he twists the bud between his fingertips. His clawed hands paired with his sharp, intent gaze should be setting off all kinds of warning bells inside Vesemir’s head. Instead, he thinks he might come inside his shorts— especially when Filavandrel ducks down to experimentally lick Vesemir’s nipple, tongue darting out to taste the bud before swirling over the entire areola.

Trying hard to keep his breathing steady, Vesemir tilts his head back and stares up at the sky, where seagulls swoop far above them in the clouds. It helps for about two seconds, then Filavandrel’s lips close around his nipple and he remembers teeth, teeth, very sharp teeth, and he lets go of his lover’s hips, dropping him unceremoniously back into the water.

Filavandrel laughs the whole way down, and when he bobs back up he’s still got a big fiendish grin on his face. “You were close, weren’t you,” he accuses, thrilled. “Have you ever had an orgasm just from someone touching your chest?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Vesemir admits, folding his legs shut instead of succumbing the way he wants to. “I… I’d feel greedy! I don’t want to take advantage of your curiosity.”

Filavandrel honest-to-Gods scoffs at that, shooting Vesemir a look that makes it clear he’s not buying the bullshit. “Don’t start having proper manners now, human,” he hisses, flashing those fangs again. Vesemir shivers, but it isn’t a bad sort of fear… although he does think that his old master Deglan must be turning in his grave somewhere as Vesemir prepares to surrender his second most vulnerable part to a monster.

Except Filavandrel isn’t a monster, not really— if he wanted to drown or eat Vesemir he would have done so by now. The merman notices how the witcher has been nervously watching his fangs and he smiles, baring them fully. Vesemir gulps as Filavandrel says, “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“And you told me you weren’t a siren,” Vesemir huffs. He only lasts a few seconds more before relenting, spreading his legs again and preparing to ruin his shorts. That’s alright, there are dozens of good craftsmen across the Continent. How many chances like this is he going to get? “Okay. You may continue your exploration.”

Dry as ever but with a wide, pleased smirk on his face, Filavandrel mutters, “I’ll have to start a bestiary on you soon.” Before Vesemir can think of any quick remark to combat that, the merman climbs up onto the pier beside him, his tail glistening as it slides through the water, sending a shower of spray at the witcher’s feet. Vesemir hardly has time to laugh before Filavandrel is pressing him back against the hard, cold wood of the pier and descending upon his chest, taking his nipple back into his mouth.

All in all, it’s not the worst way to beat the heat.

[chasneedsamoustache]

I also can’t stop thinking about Filavandrel being in love with old man Vesemir just as much as always and them cuddling in a big chair by the fire in Kaer Morhen.

[lambden]

this doesn't come as a surprise but once more i come to ask for more vesemir/fil :D with hurth/comfort and “Look me in the eye; are you sure you’re alright?”

14. hurt/comfort + 3. "Look me in the eye; are you sure you're alright?" T, 990 words, set in NOTW era / no content warnings

Vesemir wakes up panting, drenched in sweat. As he struggles to regain his breath, his companion Filavandrel crosses their tiny room in a second. The elf puts a hand on Vesemir’s shoulder, climbing onto the bed next to him. It would be like something out of a perfect fantasy if only he wasn’t still shaking, fighting the last vestiges of his nightmare.

The blond takes Vesemir’s clenched fist in his other hand, running his fingers over the witcher’s knuckles until finally Vesemir relents and releases the blanket. Then Filavandrel squeezes their palms together, murmuring too softly for any human to make out, “Bad dream?”

Tomas still claws at his ankle, monstrous ichor still running down his skin from where he got stabbed. He’s pretty sure he got stabbed; in this dream, the silver had been as heavy as it once was. Just like how it had happened in reality, Deglan had sent them out into the treacherous swamp near Kaer Morhen. This time, not a single recruit had made it back to the fortress.

“What do you fucking think,” Vesemir whines. He doesn’t have the energy to be nice, and the elf must sense that because he pulls away. Vesemir clutches at his fading grip in an embarrassing and pathetic attempt at pulling him back onto the bed but it isn’t necessary, not when Filavandrel is only retreating to the table between their beds.

Vesemir kicks his ankle out under the covers and brushes off the remainder of his dreams. This is reality— he isn’t in the Red Swamp, but in a surprisingly roomy inn somewhere in Kaedwen. And he isn’t in the company of long-dead friends but of the elf Filavandrel, who he keeps running into at the least opportune moments. They’re making it work despite— or due to— the strangeness of their circumstances. Vesemir doesn’t give much of a fuck if the world is against him as long as he can make some coin to reach his dreams, and while the elf’s motivations are more idealistic and less greedy, he’s on a similar page regarding the perceptions of others.

Now that he’s fully awake he can fully regret wasting a night like this on a nightmare. He and Filavandrel had rented a spacious room and split a bottle of fine wine, but then Vesemir had drawn away, throwing out some excuse about wanting to enjoy the comfortable bed. Why had he said that, anyway? Nobody rents a room like this so that they can just get a good night’s sleep. Even the innkeep had looked incredulous when he and Filavandrel had requested a room with two beds.

The elf, unaware of Vesemir’s ogling, pours from the pitcher on the nightstand and hands a small cup to Vesemir. Vesemir downs it greedily only to be disappointed when water hits his tongue, but he hardly isn’t going to complain. He needs to regain the hydration he lost through sweat anyway, and— oh, fucking hell, had he been crying in his sleep? This is fucking humiliating. It’s been years since his trials.

“Does that help?” Filavandrel’s hands fidget around the rim of his own cup, and when he notices Vesemir watching him he gulps it down in an instant, replacing it on the table. Then he settles back down onto the bed, nervously toying with the thin sheet still covering Vesemir’s lower half. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“The water was great,” Vesemir assures him, only so that he can watch the elf preen. Filavandrel might be a devoted, determined hero but try as he might to hide it, he’s got a proud streak a mile wide. A man after Vesemir’s own heart. “You know what might help? Maybe you could stay here,” he suggests boldly, reaching to cover Filavandrel’s twitching hand with his own. “With me.”

Filavandrel jerks a thumb towards his own bed. “I am staying here with you, remember?”

“Right, but…” Vesemir tilts his chin up, baring his neck as if he’s inviting a vampire into his bed and not an elf. “You know. It might provide a welcome distraction.”

To his genuine shock, Filavandrel doesn’t leap on the offer immediately. He turns his palm in Vesemir’s and places his other hand on top. It feels as intimate as a kiss; Vesemir frowns. The elf admits, quietly, “I heard you moaning names in your sleep.”

Vesemir tries hard to hide his wince. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I wasn’t calling for you. Filavandrel’s quite the mouthful.”

He winks, but Fil is having none of it tonight. “Not that kind of moaning.” Suddenly Vesemir feels trapped between his hands and under his gaze, and he itches to throw the elf out of his room so that he might get some actual rest without any interrogation. “You were calling for someone named Tomas…?”

“An old acquaintance.” Vesemir tugs his hand free of the elf’s grip and Filavandrel doesn’t hang on, but he doesn’t move away either. The witcher’s skin crawls. “I don’t know! It was a fucking nightmare. I’m fine, Fil.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re alright,” the elf commands, haughty as a prince. But his words hit hard, and Vesemir swallows, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable he’s made himself. Deglan might hate this more than how freely and wantonly Vesemir wastes his coin from the Path. A witcher should meditate instead of sleeping, and he should force down any emotion that somehow managed to survive the Trials, and he should definitely not be making close friendships on the Path with people that could disappear at any second. Or worse, handsome immortal elves that could stick around forever.

“Do we have to talk about this,” sighs Vesemir. “Can’t you just fuck the nightmare out of me?”

“Maybe after,” Filavandrel teases, coming to sit beside him on the bed. “Who’s Tomas?”

“Fuck,” Vesemir closes his eyes. “Fuck. Fine! Get ready for a long story, blondie.”

[lambden]

as promised i come with my craving for more vesemir/fil and number 47 :D

i... straight up don't know what a drabble is and it's becoming a problem 😐 this is nearly 3k words and it's about filavandrel reuniting with vesemir after the second season! i hope you enjoy and thank you so much for the prompt, i think this song really works for them

CWs: discussion of canonical child death, season 2 spoilers, drinking/alcohol poisoning, a hint of FrinFran because I'm obsessed with them

Send me a ship and a number 1-100 and I’ll write a "drabble" based (loosely) on the corresponding song from my 2021 top 100 on Spotify.

Francesca finds him as he leaves, catching him in the act. She stalks up behind him and watches as he saddles his steed, and when he turns around and jumps at the sight of her, she does not blink. He supposes he got off lucky— she could have stabbed him in the back. He knows she’s capable of it now. Francesca stares, unimpressed, and Filavandrel turns back to his bags, pretending his hands aren’t trembling. “I didn’t hear you approach,” he offers, lamely.

“I didn’t let you hear me,” Francesca scoffs, as though she’s been blessed with divine power or trained as a spy. Well— the Nilfgaardians could have trained her as a spy. Filavandrel is sure he doesn’t know how else she could have spent all those hours in Fringilla’s office. “You really thought you could sneak away unnoticed?”

“I thought you would have been dead asleep after how hard you’ve been working,” he says, biting back how she’s been hard at work killing infants. But they both hear it anyway, the words lingering between them like chaos. Filavandrel pulls the ties of his bags shut, patting the mare’s neck to quiet her. Don’t be scared, dear creature. You aren’t a helpless, innocent child. Francesca wouldn’t possibly bring any harm to you.

For a woman who just suffered the worst tragedy anyone could bear and then turned around and inflicted that same grief onto others, Francesca’s voice is astonishingly level. “We still share a bed.” It sounds like a privilege he’s been given— Filavandrel restrains a snort. “I would expect you to tell me that you were leaving.”

“I’m leaving,” Filavandrel tells her, whipping around so he can face her properly. “I can’t abide by your actions any longer, and I suspect Ceinwen will leave soon too. That mage’s appearance doesn’t change a thing. Francesca, no one believes that you’re still following the will of Ithlinne!”

He expects her to spit fire— the elf just shrugs, gaze dull and dark. In this light, with this uncaring apathy shining through her features, it’s hard to imagine her as the leader of anything. It’s hard to remember why Filavandrel followed her for so long. Her voice is a deadpan as she says, “Then leave on foot. We need the horse.”

Once upon a time, King Filavandrel would never have dreamt of turning his back on his people. But he hasn’t ruled over the elves since Calanthe’s reign, and he finds it easy to turn his back on Francesca now. “Fine,” he says, just as dry. The flickering spark between them dies, stamped out under his boots as he turns away from the camp. Francesca offers him no parting words, only watching him go so that she might see what provisions he took with him.

The elves are the enemies of nearly everyone on the Continent now, and Filavandrel can’t begin to imagine anywhere that would be safe. He walks along the side of the road and leaves a large berth for any carriages to pass, wearing his hood up over his ears. There is little that he can do to disguise his other features but most humans lack the ability to tell elves apart. Really, they aren’t so different after all. Elves are still capable of horrors, and humans capable of kindnesses. Perhaps Francesca’s actions will have buried the only hope at redemption their people had. Filavandrel tries not to think about it, focusing on the gravel under his soles and the passing forest.

As his journey leads him into a collection of hovels that could nearly be called a village, an owl hoots overhead. It’s as good a reminder as any that evening will descend into night soon, and Filavandrel should try to find some refuge and rest. He’s still too close to the elven camp for comfort but his calves ache and his stomach growls, and finally he relents, heading into this town’s attempt at a tavern.

There are more rats than patrons inside, and without any bards or minstrels, every scrape and creak in the bar is amplified tenfold. But when Filavandrel approaches the barkeep asking for a meal he isn’t immediately turned away, so as far as he’s concerned, this tavern is a temple. He leans forward and laps up his stew and mead hungrily, only pausing to savour the meat on his tongue. He isn’t even sure what animal it might be— hopefully not rat, but he finds he doesn’t mind the ambiguity. Under Francesca’s rule every meal had been perfectly rationed, the animal shown the respect it was due but then portioned out to last months. Filavandrel doesn’t count his sips or spoonfuls. He isn’t travelling with his people anymore, so there’s no need to ensure that everyone else eats too. The benefits of being alone.

He’s sure he’ll feel awful about his desertion in the morning but for now he drinks until his head swims and his legs stop aching. The door to the tavern opens but Filavandrel doesn’t turn to check who it might be, keeping his back to the stranger and resting his elbows heavily on the table. He only looks up when the barkeep scorns the guest’s plea for service, slapping an empty mug down between them with no intention of filling it. “I’ve no need of a witcher,” the man behind the bar says.

The unbridled prejudice turns Filavandrel’s stomach but the thought of a witcher makes his heart unexpectedly soft. He remembers his relationship to a particular witcher, from the School of the Wolf— that must have been almost a hundred years ago. The witcher at the bar is older and shorter than his handsome friend, but the swords and armour are still the same as he remembers.

Before Filavandrel can think any better of it he’s stumbling across the room, pulling his hood close with one hand and offering his coinpurse with the other. “I’ll pay for him, and vouch for him,” he tells the bartender. The man squints distrustfully but readily accepts the pile of orens that Filavandrel dumps out next to the empty mug. He leaves to pour the witcher a beer, and Filavandrel turns to his mysterious beneficiary, nodding heavily. “I used to be friends with a witcher, long, long time ago. Big fella— a real asshole! Probably dead by now.”

But instead of thanking him for his kindness or asking him a question about his friend, the witcher stares at him, jaw slack. He’s older than any witcher Filavandrel has ever met, and his white hair is slicked back in the same style as that Wolf from Posada. But there’s an oddly sharp look in his amber eyes, and his grey beard is carefully shaped to frame his mouth and jaw similar to how Vesemir had worn it.

“... He isn’t, but he probably should be,” the witcher finally responds, eyebrows still raised high in shock. Filavandrel takes a step back, vision swimming and head spinning, and the witcher claps a hand on his shoulder to steady them both. “Is that really you, Fil?”

“Fuck,” Filavandrel says, and then abruptly loses his dinner all over Vesemir’s boots.

They don’t even stay for long enough to enjoy Vesemir’s hard-won ale. The night breeze outside has shifted into an unpleasant chill that sets Filavandrel’s nerves alight and makes him pull his cloak tighter around himself, but Vesemir hardly notices, retrieving a smooth stone from his pocket the second they exit the tavern. “How,” Filavandrel croaks, losing his buzz more and more by the second as he clutches at Vesemir for balance. Vesemir pays him little notice and a moment later the xenovox replies, and a rift opens before them. “How are you here? What are you— how?”

“I’m as surprised as you,” Vesemir says, pulling Filavandrel through the portal into another tavern. Or— not a tavern but a castle, with a ceiling in need of some major structural repair and a splintered tree breaking through the middle of the hall. Broken tables and chairs lie upended everywhere but Vesemir pays the scene no attention at all, arm still looped through Filavandrel’s. He nods to a woman who must be the queen of this place, a redheaded sorceress in a beautiful dress with a smattering of freckles across her kind, warm, concerned face. Before she can interject, Vesemir waves her off. “He’s fine, Triss. Just drunk and reeling— thank you for bringing us back.”

Another woman appears beside the first sorceress, wearing an even more devastatingly beautiful gown; Filavandrel is astonished when he realizes he knows her. It’s the prisoner that Francesca had held captive, the one with elven heritage. She looks equally shocked to recognize him but doesn’t comment on it now, eyebrow quirking as she turns to Vesemir. “So this is your idea of a relaxing night away from Kaer Morhen? Kidnapping the ex-ruler of the elves?”

Her tone is lightly teasing but her sentences make no sense— Filavandrel can’t even focus on the barb thrown his way, not when he’s still reeling over the first sentence. “Vesemir,” he presses, reaching to hold the witcher’s arm. Despite Vesemir’s advanced age, the muscles there are still taut as ever. Filavandrel ignores the feel of them with great determination, digging his fingertips in and insisting, “Is this Kaer Morhen? I heard it was destroyed after the attack.”

“This is what’s left of it,” Vesemir sighs. Even though he hardly looks the same, there’s a bitter, dry quality to his words that marks him as the same man he once was. But he’s so clearly grown, both mentally and physically, that Filavandrel wonders if he has any right to say that he knew Vesemir. The Vesemir beside him now, hardened by grief and a hundred years of experience, is staggeringly different.

Until he turns to Filavandrel with that same sparkle in his eye that he always had a century ago. “You need to sober up,” the witcher informs him sternly. “And I think I need a drink.”

In the old days Vesemir had always described this fortress as a loud, sprawling school filled with free-flowing ale and battle-hardened young witchers, eager to take a load off and relax for the winter. But in reality Kaer Morhen is so empty that their footsteps echo down every hall, and Filavandrel finds himself more on edge than he’d like to be. The tall, barren structure reminds him of the ransacked palace at Xin’trea. These hallowed halls, once rich with history and magic, now resemble a crypt.

He hastens to catch up with Vesemir, whose stride has not shortened even though Filavandrel swears his legs used to be longer. Mind still fuzzy from the alcohol and spurred on by an unexpected boldness at being in his old friend’s presence, Filavandrel blurts out, “You’ve changed.”

“As have you,” Vesemir says. He glances over his shoulder, offering his arm again— Filavandrel shakes his head. He can walk on his own. Just maybe not in a perfectly straight line. The witcher shrugs, and as he smiles Filavandrel can see the passage of time evidenced in the lines by his eyes. Then he picks up the pace again, and Filavandrel follows, wincing a little less at every resounding footstep.

When they arrive at their destination Filavandrel gapes at the expanse before them, wondering if they built the fortress atop this particular mountain just to house this basin. The water is already steaming, no magic necessary. Filavandrel kneels beside a spring to examine some plants that broke loose from the stone floor around the water. Then Vesemir strips out of his armour and Filavandrel straightens and scoffs, folding his arms over his chest in a sudden rush of embarrassment. “Never mind. You haven’t changed at all.”

Vesemir laughs, loud and unencumbered, and the sound tugs at Filavandrel’s heartstrings. As the witcher skirts around the pools to retrieve a bottle of wine, the elf decides that he’ll be the one to bathe shamelessly for once. He strips methodically and when Vesemir turns around, Filavandrel is already sinking into the nearest hot spring, sighing loudly as he adjusts to the temperature.

This, of course, makes the witcher laugh again. Filavandrel glares crossly but Vesemir just smiles, shaking his head and staring with no small amount of fondness. “You used to be such a prude, is all,” he grins, every bit the same bastard that Filavandrel once loved. “You’d always look away whenever we shared a room and I was bathing.”

“Perhaps I was embarrassed for you,” Filavandrel lies boldly. “Elves and humans have very different standards of beauty, you know!”

“Is that so,” Vesemir teases, sitting down at the edge of the water. He’s still wearing his undergarments but his shirt has been discarded along with the rest of his armour. As much as Filavandrel hates to admit it, Vesemir looks better than ever. The scarred, grizzled look really works for him. He must have been through so much in this past century: so much that he now keeps sorceresses on retainer to portal him to a secluded tavern to drink away his pain, apparently. “Are you telling me you like that I’ve grown out my hair?”

“You look like Geralt,” Filavandrel says, watching Vesemir closely.

He doesn’t expect the witcher to smile and gently nod. “Actually, he looks like me. The Trials gave him his yellow eyes and white hair but he only started styling it like that after I did. So don’t listen if he tells you any shit otherwise!”

“You have children now,” Filavandrel realizes aloud, and when Vesemir doesn’t immediately reject the accusation he turns the thought over in his mind, considering it. He thinks abruptly and sourly of the Vesemir who hesitated to spare a mutated elven child, and struggles to reconcile that with the clear paternal love shining through the man now. “Young witchers, you… you trained them. Raised them. I never thought you would do something like that.”

“I never thought I would either,” Vesemir says, swinging his feet in the water. The childish action makes him look decades younger, but the effect is quickly undone when he reaches to uncork the wine in one practiced motion. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

They certainly do, but the thought of telling Vesemir about Francesca and Fringilla and all the years of shit he’s been through sobers Filavandrel immediately. He frowns, palms floating on the surface of the hot water. “I can’t… Some of the things I’ve done, and helped do… I’m not sure you’ll want to hear them.”

The witcher takes a long drink from the bottle before answering, and when he does his tone is heavy and low. “I understand. And I understand the choices you made back then, too. I didn’t, not for years, but I… I’m worried about the preservation of my culture too.” Vesemir drinks again, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand. He shakes his head, avoiding Filavandrel’s searching gaze.

Filavandrel gets up from the wall of the pool, floating closer to the witcher. “I abandoned my people,” he confesses, fingers curling around the shelf of the spring. Vesemir finally looks down at him, face weary with grief and understanding but not one iota of judgement. “I couldn’t take it, and so I left. You would be right to judge me for that.”

“No,” Vesemir sets the bottle down firmly. “I’m glad you left, or else we wouldn’t have run into each other. You’re always welcome here, no matter how much time has passed or what has happened between us. You’re my friend, Fil,” and his words are kind and caring but his gaze burns hotter than the steaming spring water as it bores into the elf.

Surprisingly, Filavandrel finds that he believes Vesemir without a shred of doubt. “You have changed.”

“I know you liked my old beard better,” teases the witcher.

Without quite meaning to, Filavandrel admits, “I like this one. It frames your mouth.”

The man inhales a deep breath of air, shaking his head. “Fil,” he echoes, and Filavandrel’s face warms at the nickname he hasn’t heard in a century. “When you say things like that, it makes me feel young again. It makes me want to make rash decisions like hopping into bed with the king of the elves.”

Filavandrel clutches the stone edge of the pool so tightly his fingertips ache, leaning up towards Vesemir like a siren in a painting. He corrects, lamely, “Ex-king of the elves.”

“Good. Then I won’t catch any flak for it.” There’s a laugh twinkling in Vesemir’s eyes as he projects his intent but Filavandrel beats him to it, rising up out of the water to kiss the witcher soundly. Their mouths meet and everything is perfect, just like how Filavandrel had dreamed of it when they were young, and he can’t believe they waited so fucking long to do this.

His fingers weave into Vesemir’s long hair and before the witcher can react, Filavandrel, giggling against his mouth, pulls him down into the hot spring. Vesemir splutters through their next kiss, then tries to swear through their next one, and then neither of them talk very much at all.

[lambden]

also I’m going to start tagging that ship as vesefil i think! (credit to @feedingmyinsomnia for the cute portmanteau!) other options suggested were filemir and velandrel, but as @faetxlity rightfully pointed out, filemir sounds like a PVC adhesive 😭 so vesefil it is! i’ll go back and retag all my old fics later today for ease of access

[chasneedsamoustache]

Vesefil forever 😭😭😭😭

[lambden]

for the songs i'll go with 33 and more vesemir/fil because there can't be enough for our small rarepair :D

... I suppose the nature of song memes is that every so often you have to write a drabble based on a sketch comedy song about three men enjoying their morning coffee after fucking all night long. Also here's some Luka/Filavandrel/Vesemir with an emphasis on the first two, I hope it's still to your liking! <3

Send me a ship and a number 1-100 and I’ll write a drabble based (loosely) on the corresponding song from my 2021 top 100 on Spotify.

Luka hardly opens his eyes as he pads around Vesemir’s kitchen in bright orange socks, tight briefs, and somebody else’s shirt. He’s thankful for all the times he’s crashed here and the wealth of experience those countless sleepovers have given him when he can locate and start the coffee machine with ease. Its beeping is too quiet to be heard in the bedroom but Luka winces at the sound anyway, only relaxing when coffee begins dripping down through the filter. He closes his eyes fully, leaning against the counter and letting the drip lull him back into unconsciousness. He’s so sleepy he thinks he could pass out right here if given the chance— but then the other two bastards would certainly mock him for sleeping standing up.

Speak of the devil, and he appears; Luka turns with a smile that only fades slightly when he sees Filavandrel walking into the kitchen. He’s always felt awkward around his best friend’s boyfriend, especially since he and Vesemir have a history of falling into bed together. He supposes he doesn’t need to feel awkward anymore. Not when Filavandrel had gasped his name so deliciously last night.

He tries to come up with some clever pick-up line or barb about their evening together, but looking at the blond, Luka is surprised to find that Filavandrel is strangely cute in the morning. His long hair is tied up in a messy, loose bun that hovers close to his right ear— it must have been pushed in the night as he laid his head on the pillows between Vesemir and Luka. Luka remembers expecting Filavandrel to complain about the lack of space but the standoffish man had been the one to drag them both in and snuggle them to sleep. There’s still an imprint of where the sheets had been rumpled against his chest, and the pink lines by his collarbone will certainly fade soon so Luka revels in them while he can.

Filavandrel pulls a face and yanks up the collar of his shirt as though Luka had been ogling his cleavage. Laughable for so many reasons; firstly, Vesemir has the best tits of all of them, so there’s nothing to even ogle. Secondly, that’s Vesemir’s work shirt, and it’s too big for the guy anyway, and if he doesn’t want to be stared at then he should probably wear his own clothes. And thirdly, yes, fine, Luka had been ogling him, but his brain isn’t even online yet.

The coffee machine dings. Filavandrel says, about as haughty as someone can sound while wearing fuzzy green slippers, “That’s my shirt.”

“Huh,” Luka squints down at the shirt he’s got on, trying to read the slogan upside down. He can’t parse it but he’s sure it has some important political message. He shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “I guess you’re right.”

“We’re too old to wake up wearing each other’s clothing,” Filavandrel scolds him, moving into the narrow space between Luka and the kitchen island. He nearly bumps into the countertop but stops himself just short, rocking onto his tiptoes to open the cupboards instead. His shirt— Vesemir’s shirt— rides up as he does, treating Luka to a glimpse of his bare lower back. Filavandrel grabs two mugs reflexively and then pauses, reaching for a third.

Mouth suddenly very dry, Luka points out, “You’re wearing Vesemir’s clothing.”

“I couldn’t tell whose it was in the dark,” hisses the blond. Luka loves how quick he is to anger. He can’t resist sliding up behind Filavandrel and moving his cold hands up along the man’s spine, laughing when he jumps. The frisson of fury is still simmering in his voice but he sounds a little breathier as he says, “Fuck, you’re insatiable!”

“I’m not the one who was begging last night,” Luka teases, hands slipping around to rest on Filavandrel’s sharp hipbones. He mouths at the side of the man’s neck, reveling in the way Filavandrel arches beneath him. “I thought you’d never let us go to bed, you were so eager for it.”

“I could have gone all night,” Filavandrel sniffs. Then, with the hint of a smile as Luka kisses his shoulder, “But that big lughead needs his beauty sleep.”

“’Course he does,” Luka laughs. Filavandrel starts to turn in his arms but before the blond can return his kisses Luka snatches his hands away, reaching for one of the mugs labelled with a map of some fictional fantasy country. “Hey, hey, coffee first!”

Filavandrel rolls his eyes but nods, still smiling distractedly as he reaches for the mug. The sun rises outside the kitchen window and a warmth spreads through Luka’s chest entirely unrelated to the coffee as he watches Filavandrel. Maybe last night’s misadventure wasn’t such a terrible impulse decision after all.

[chasneedsamoustache]

‘Vesemir and his ancestral dick’

@clevermonkey93 (‘I don’t know if it’s the coffee or the martini’)