Damn, this cannot be happening, can it? For the umpteenth time, he presses his full weight against the smooth wood, however, there is no effect. At all. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Cursing inwardly, Jaskier slumps against the soft fabric behind him with a heavy sigh. In the course of his many escapades, he has had to hide naked inside a wardrobe before - from slightly suspicious to mad murderous husbands, or wives for that matter - and sometimes he had to climb out of windows and escape across the roofs with his pants barely on, but never has he found himself in a pickle like this. Or rather in a tight spot like this, for it definitely feels uncomfortably crowded inside the wardrobe although it is a pretty big one. This is due to the one of the two dire problems he is facing, Jaskier suspects. It is completely dark and he cannot see a thing, but he is almost certain that he is not alone in the wardrobe. Carefully and as soundlessly as possible, he gropes around a bit more. And shudders. Yes, there is definitely another man hiding between what must be frilly dresses, a man as naked as he himself. The stranger's bare skin feels a lot colder than his own, though, and the man does not move nor make a sound. Is he unconscious? Or, gods forbid, dead? Hell, having to share this cramped place with another person is bad enough, but a dead or possibly dying one? Bile rises to Jaskier's mouth. He swallows hard, his thoughts spinning. It all would not be quite as bad if there was not dire problem number two. And it is not, as many might believe, the issue of getting out of the girl's bedroom unnoticed, no. He would not give a rats arse about the fact that it is a sunny late morning but flee through the window in a rush, no matter how many neighbours or random people in the streets might spot him while making a run for it. Unfortunately, though, he cannot do it. For the wardrobe is locked and does not open. He has tried everything already that can be tried without making much noise, but nothing has worked. The damn door stubbornly refuses to budge.
All of a sudden, a horrible thought crosses the bard's mind. What if the other man is dead indeed and died here locked inside the wardrobe? Of dehydration, or lack of air, or of an all-encompassing, stifling, heart-stopping fear? Shit, he should not have gone with the gorgeous young girl after he had finished his usual performance at the tavern. But how was he supposed to withstand a beauty like this with her very low, risqué neck line that revealed a perfect pair of big, scrumptious tits, with her voluptuous curves, her sensuous lips. She was a true admirer of his art, too, and claimed her husband would be away on business for a couple of days at the least. It was an opportunity he could not miss. The night with her had been everything he could have dreamt of in the sexual department, too. Only the untimely and unfortunate return of the husband was a drop of bitterness spoiling the otherwise very enjoyable party. Well, considering the presence of not only one but two naked men in her wardrobe, the husband's jealous fit that he witnessed from the perceived safety of his hiding place does not appear to be totally unwarranted, Jaskier has to admit. Judging by the very revealing noises he overheard after the cuckolded man's furious shouting, the couple must have had lots of angry sex afterward. Then they left chuckling and laughing in perfect concord, obviously having thoroughly made up again. To Jaskier's chagrin, the girl must have, equally thoroughly, forgotten about him and his fellow sufferer inside her wardrobe.
At the very moment, Jaskier can hear the faint sounds of the couple talking and laughing amicably, probably from the kitchen where they are having a nice, late breakfast together. At the thought of food, his tummy starts to rumble despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if he never gets out of here again? Will he slowly decay, his flesh rotting from his bones until nothing but the skeleton is left? Or will he dry up and shrivel like a mummy? For just one night of lust and sin? Is this his punishment? No, he, the famous bard and poet, cannot die naked inside a fucking wardrobe!
Not caring anymore about whether the jealous husband will hear him or not, Jaskier first bangs his fists against the wardrobe door, then throws his entire weight at it. The man will not kill him on sight, will he?
However, nobody comes, no matter how much noise he makes, nor does the door open. Hell and damnation, what a nightmare! Or is it, perhaps, a dream indeed, a very bad and vivid one, and not actually happening in real life? On the other hand, the emptiness in his stomach and the tightness in his chest from the slowly decreasing amount of oxygen inside the wardrobe do feel horribly real. He pinches his cheek to make sure. Ouch, damn, it hurt. Definitely not a dream. He groans, then bangs his head against the door repeatedly. To no effect at all other than that he will probably sport a big, black and blue lump on his forehead come tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
He must have spent hours locked inside the fucking wardrobe already, cursing his shit luck, himself, and the continent in general. Dusk has surely fallen by now and Jaskier has not heard a single sound from inside the house in ages, besides his own occasional attempts at breaking the bloody door open. His hands, his shoulders, even his head hurt from hitting the unyielding wood. Perhaps he is only imagining it, but it is as if, by now, there is a peculiar smell coming off the other guy who has still not shown a single sign of life. Has he begun to rot? Right next to him? Jaskier shudders at the thought. Will there be flies and wriggling, white maggots next? Yikes, where is his bloody Witcher when he needs him?
Suddenly, he can hear muffled screams and curses from downstairs and the sounds of - fighting? Only a short moment later, the door to his room creaks open.
"Jaskier, you in there?"
Think of the devil. Jaskier would recognise the voice anywhere.
"Geralt!" he cries, his heart leaping with joy. His White Wolf is here to rescue him! If he did not feel so shitty, had more space and not a decaying corpse right next to him, he would dance a jig right here and now.
The Witcher forces the wardrobe door open with the help of his sword. Knowing his bard intimately well, it does not at all catch Geralt by surprise when a very naked, but, fortunately, alive and seemingly unhurt Jaskier comes tumbling out of it.
"Melitele's tits," he sighs, flinging his arms around his white-haired friend, "never in my life have I been happier to see your ugly mug, Geralt."
"Shut up and get dressed, bard," Geralt orders, freeing himself from his friend's embrace with a smile. "And then let's get the hell out of here. The two bloody corpses downstairs won't look too good if we're caught at the crime scene. The bailiff might not believe the harmless couple next door actually was a pair of—"
"Man-eating monsters?" Jaskier asks, his eyes growing wide. After having travelled with a Witcher for so many years, he should have known better than to let himself be lured into a deadly trap by a siren or succubus or bruxa or whatever creature the gorgeous, but now certainly very dead girl must have been.
"A pair of pervert cannibals."
"A pair of what?" Jaskier's eyes grow even bigger. "You mean, they were humans? Who wanted to eat me?" Aghast - and still very naked - he stares at Geralt and the blood-dripping sword in his hands.
"Often enough, humans are the worst monsters," the Witcher mutters darkly, throwing a shirt and pants at the bard. "At least that's what decades of experience have taught me. You were really lucky I found you in time, Jask."
Jaskier shudders at the thought of what might have happened if Geralt had not rescued him from his dark and narrow prison. But, of course, his old friend is right, they need to get out of here, and fast. While he gets dressed as quickly as he can, Geralt inspects the suspicious piece of furniture more closely.
"Poor bastard, too late for him," he says when the body of Jaskier's silent companion falls out of the wardrobe. He does not need to feel for a pulse. The man must have died at least a day ago, most likely from dehydration. "As skinny as he is, he wouldn't even have made a good meal."
Jaskier does not look at the corpse. Swiftly, he puts on his boots. Then, unusually quiet for his talkative self, he climbs out through the window. He just wants to get away from here, never to return. This was definitely the worst escapade of his life. Not for all the tits in the world does he wish to experience anything like it again. Ever. Maybe he should just stay with grumpy old Geralt ...
Shit, looks like this bloody wardrobe business might - very effectively - have quenched his thirst for sexual adventure. At least for a little while.