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.”
When the king brands us p i r a t e s, he doesn’t mean to make us adversaries. He doesn’t mean to make us criminals. He means to make us m o n s t e r s. For that’s the only way his god-fearing, tax-paying subjects can make sense of men who keep what is theirs and fear no one. When I say there’s a war coming, I don’t mean with the Scarborough, I don’t mean with King George or England. Civilization is coming, and it means to e x t e r m i n a t e us. (insp)
I love fonts and typography, so i wanted to make a series, where I post and provide you with links to my personal favourite fonts.
Please note that not all of them are free, I tried to find free download links for you, but I can’t always provide them!
I’m starting with my sans serif faves!
downloads:
caviar dreams // dolce vita light // avenir next // poppins (you can download it from google) // geosans light // boysen light // shree devanagari 714 // helvetica neue ultralight
BLACKSAILSSOURCE is a new blog dedicated to bringing you the content of the STARZ television series, Black Sails, which is set twenty years prior to the events of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. We track #blacksailssource and #blacksailsedit. We are also looking for new members to create original content and help keep the blog active. So, if this is something you are interested in, please go here, fill out the form below and submit it to us. If you have been accepted, you will hear back from us within a week.
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"even a mob guy likes to have some fun once in a while without scheming and killing"
• one of my favourite excerpts:
he’s all dolled up, lacy see-through shirt, unbuttoned halfway through his chest, the tightest leather pants he owns, some black eyeliner to deepen the blue of his eyes, longish hair slightly messed up, and jaskier knows how hot he looks as he walks into this fancy gentleman’s club, all eyes on him as he makes his way through the masses of boring old white guys in suits until he reaches geralt
