artistsfuneral

After the Duel 🗡️

You can't see it, but you can feel it

john who uses his size and height difference to keep you in your place.

whether it’s in the middle of an argument and things start getting so heated that you head for the bedroom door, but unfortunately for you he gets there before you. all he does is just stand there and stare at you with a twinkling in his eyes knowing that he was an immovable object in your life.

or when you’re both in the kitchen and you seem to be in his way instead of asking you to move like a normal person he’ll just pick you up and place you to the side without saying a single word.

and then there’s the times when you’re laying in bed together and he doesn’t want you to get up so he just rests the dead weight off his arm and leg across your body and laughs as he watches you struggle to sit up.

and you can’t forget when you’re fucking and he has you lifted in his arms as he bounces you up and down his cock. showing you his sheer strength and reminding you the kind off man he is ruthless, relentless and powerful on and off the field.

or when he has you in a mating press and he’s plowing down into you, hands clasped to the underside of your knees with his lips pressed against yours swallowing all your lewd moans and watching as the base of his cock gets creamier leave a white ring of pleasure.

"My period was late and I panicked, I thought I was pregnant."

Kate pointedly does not look up from her book, she will not be dragged into a stupid conversation. She has work for that.

"Then I remembered that we're lesbians."

Kate may, however, breathe a sigh of relief that Sarah was capable of remembering such a thing.

"And that I'm 52 and it was menopause."

🌿✨.

With a loud crash and a bang, Lambert comes running down the hallway like young bison that’s being chased by bees. He throws the door to Vesemir’s room open with just as much grace and elegance, knocking over a stack of books through sheer, unintentional force. He’s looking a bit crazy, eyes wide, face flushed, his chest visibly moving up and down with each panting breath. 

Vesemir, who is entirely too used to the younger wolves’ dramatic episodes, doesn’t bother looking up from the book he’s reading. Doesn’t react at all when Lambert darts forward and places his hands left and right of the book that’s lying on his lap, pointedly invading his personal space. “Vesemir, what the fuck!?” The youngest wolf demands to know way too loudly. 

Not deeming it a question that warrants an immediate answer, Vesemir turns the page of his book and continues reading. “Vesemir!” Lambert’s voice grows even louder, his fingers digging into the man’s thighs. “Your birthday was a few days ago!?” 

Lambert’s voice cracks, as if that simple fact has somehow unearthed his entire world view. The old wolf slowly blinks at the page in front of him before letting out a long sigh and putting the book to the side. “Yes, Lambert, it was. You sound surprised.” 

“Because I didn’t know!” 

Vesemir sends him a deadpan look. “Pup, as far as I am aware my birthday has been on the same day for my entire life. It is neither a surprise, nor has it ever before mattered to you.” He watches quietly as Lambert’s face falls and the young man’s eyes dart away.  

“Well, it should have mattered. Especially this one,” he mumbles guiltily and suddenly it dawns on Vesemir. Before he can react, the older witcher has taken hold of Lambert’s thighs and successfully pulled him onto his lap. “If I had known,” he drawls out full of mirth, “that all it took for you to care about my birthday, was a little bit of kissing, I might have done it years ago.” 

Heat rises into Lambert’s cheeks, flushes them oh so prettily. Not quite used to their new dynamic yet, Lambert squirms on his lap, trying to find a place for his hands before taking hold of Vesemir’s sweather. A dark chuckle rumbles through Vesemir’s body. “’s not fair,” the young wolf protests quietly. 

“Hmh, and how is it not fair, sweet pup?” 

Lambert the absolute sweetheart is staring at his own hands as he answers. His scent; nervous and embarrassed, drifts through the air and does nothing to hide the pup's feelings. “It’s different now. I want to- Wanted to do something nice, because-  because-” 

“Because you’re Daddy’s good little boy?” 

Lambert falls against his chest, hides his burning face in the crook of Vesemir’s neck and silently nods. “Oh well,” Vesemir hums as his fingers dig into the softness of his ass, “guess we will just have to find a way for you to make it up to me, right sweetheart?” 

You see, fresh out of Oxenfurt he needed somebody to sing about, a hero that was worth his tales! He had to be strong, of course, with a good heart, but not social enough for people to expect him at parties and events. If he were to fight monsters, save princesses and travel with bards, he needed to be just fantastical enough to be believable. And everyone knew that Witchers existed, people just preferred to avoid them. There were enough rumors about them that it wouldn't be suspicious if a few things here and there didn't match up. Geralt, with his white hair and pitch black armor was mysterious, his tales made maidens swoon and his appearance was easily enough replicated with a bit of.... stage magic.

Jaskier was great at playing the wistful friend, who dreamily sang about Geralt's heroics, who defended his honor and joked and laughed about him like the good man he was.

Everything went great. For years Jaskier earned coin, traveled the world under Geralt's protection, met people and sang songs of heroics and heartbreak like he had always dreamed. Everything. Went. Great.