#vesefil

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.”

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.”

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.

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.