Work Text:
There were two guards questioning Jaskier: a handsome, violent one and a smarter one who had been unfortunately visited with smallpox in his youth. Still, he wouldn't be that bad looking if not for all the shouting.
"Where did the witch go? What are you up to?"
Second interrogation today. He hated his life sometimes. "I don't know," Jaskier said.
The violent guard slapped him across the face. His nose started bleeding again and the cut inside his mouth reopened. Fuck everything, honestly.
The smarter guard looked him up and down shrewdly. "You've had a bad day, bard. Who else was asking you questions?"
Jaskier spat out blood. "Oh, that was nothing. He had a disagreement with my wife."
The smarter guard shook his head. "Put him away, soften him up," he told the violent guard. "We'll try again tomorrow."
The violent guard put Jaskier in the cell. Jaskier sat and concentrated on not bleeding. He held his nose until it clotted, breathing carefully. Thank Melitele he wasn't burned too badly.
What a truly shit day. Bottom of the barrel. Jaskier leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
He opened his eyes immediately when the door opened again. He started to stand, but froze with his feet underneath him; several large men filed into the cell. They all smirked at Jaskier, looking him up and down.
"What did this fancy lad do?" the ugliest man asked. All the men were frankly ugly, but this one had a broken zigzag nose enhancing his natural bad looks.
"Peeping Tom," the guard said. That was such a lie. Jaskier wasn't picked up for public morals, he was picked up for his proximity to a suspicious magic user.
"A peeper!" the ugliest man roared. "What were you trying to see, fancy lad?"
"Oh," Jaskier said, "just a misunderstanding, really, the charges will never hold." Who were these people calling him a lad, anyway? He was thirty-nine last birthday. True, his skin was very good and his eyes were especially bright, but he was no child.
"Peeping into a whorehouse. Two men were in there with a woman," the guard said.
Fuck.
The guard wasn't so stupid, was he?
Fuck.
"Peeping at men with a woman! Well, well, well," the ugliest man said. His ugly friends tutted behind him.
"It really wasn't like that," Jaskier said, straightening up slowly.
The ugliest man stopped him by placing a hand on the wall over his head before he could stand all the way up. Jaskier sidled away and found another man leaning against the wall beside him. Shit. He couldn't get into a corner to protect his back. He was going to get the absolute hell kicked out of him.
As he was trying to decide on a response--sing? Tell a joke? Curl into a ball? Try to fight?--the ugliest man opened his trousers and used the piss bucket.
Jaskier made the mistake of glancing toward the movement. The man noticed. "You like looking at that, fancy lad?" he asked, sending a spear of ice down Jaskier's throat to his stomach. "Want to help me shake?"
"I'm sure you can handle that yourself," Jaskier said. Despite his best efforts, his voice broke on the last word. He swallowed.
The man shook. He grinned at Jaskier as he put his cock away. "Guard!" he shouted, turning. "Where's our dinner?"
"Dinner? You want to be fed?" the guard said. He brought a bucket of water and a dipper and a plate of bread, though.
The other men in the cell grabbed the food. They didn't offer him any. That was fine. He didn't want any.
Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck said his brain, instinct spinning in sickening circles. There were no windows, the door was locked, the cell was very small for so many men. Very small, many men. Four men. Five with him. Very ugly, apart from him. Very scarred. He pressed his back to the wall and focused on his breathing.
His nose was still mostly clogged with blood, he thought as the rest of his brain swirled with panic. He rubbed under his nostrils, peeling off gummy half-dried blood. If his mouth was blocked--
shit shit shit shit shit shit shit
The ugliest man held up the dipper. Jaskier jerked back and stared. "Wash your pretty face?" the man said.
"Ah, no, I'm fine, thanks really!"
"Go on," the man said.
His heart hammered in his throat. What kind of trap was this?
"Go on," the man repeated, his voice dropping.
Fuck. Jaskier took the dipper. He drank, carefully. It was just water. The cuts inside his mouth stung and he tasted blood.
The man was staring at him. All the men were staring at him. Jaskier offered the dipper back.
"Wash your face," another man growled. Jaskier's heart kicked up another notch.
He had a lace-edged handkerchief in his pocket. Geralt had twitted him about it for half a day's walk, once. The lace, as if one needed lace to wipe your nose. The fine fabric--why was it so soft just for snot? Geralt had closed one nostril with his finger and blown his nose at Jaskier's feet, which let Jaskier call him a brute and a boor for the rest of the day. Gods, but they had fun.
Jaskier dipped the cuff of his shirt in the water and wiped at his face. Some dirt came off, some blood. The rough wood of the dipper pressed against his sore, scorched fingers. His hand was shaking. He was going to drop it.
The blond ugly man closed his hand around Jaskier's fist, calming the shakes. "Are you scared, fancy lad?" he asked. He sounded almost gentle.
"Just tired," Jaskier said. The blond man's grip was slowly squeezing his fist. His sore fingers screeched silently with pain.
"But it's not even dark," the blond man said.
"There's the whole night to go," the other blond man said.
Panic shattered brightly inside him. Now he was beyond fear, entering the terribly calm, sharp realm of survival. "Right," Jaskier said. Was he blinking? He wasn't sure he could even blink. Would they shove him down? If they shoved him down, he would roll with it. He knew how to fall.
When the blond man moved, Jaskier offered no resistance at all. He let himself be moved, let the man take the dipper from his hand and put it back in the water bucket. All the men turned away from him. One pulled out a pair of dice and some smooth sticks.
Wait, what? He stared at the dice, uncomprehending.
The men threw dice, betting with the sticks. Jaskier blinked at the dice. Five and two. Three and six. Double five. Three and one. He felt cold. The blood was drawing back from his hands and feet.
Dice. Two and four. Six and five. Three and four. One and one. The men cheered. Jaskier looked around, not understanding.
The other men clapped the second blond man on the shoulders. He looked at Jaskier. "I win," he said, and stood.
Jaskier slammed back against the wall. He snapped out of his blank stillness and shook his head.
"I choose what song you're going to sing us!" the man said.
Fucking gods. Fucking bastards. Like cats playing with a crippled mouse. "Oh, ah. Well. I don't perform for free," Jaskier said, which was when the ugliest man shot out his hand and grabbed Jaskier's jaw.
His vision narrowed to the ugliest man's eyes. "Sing," the man said.
"Queen Calanthe's Sword," the other man said.
Of course he knew the song. It was filthy. Good late night bar song. He usually changed some lyrics based on his actual knowledge of what the woman looked like. He often implied that he'd known the queen much better than he did. She was dead, so who cared?
Jaskier couldn't open his mouth and sing to save his life. He tried, but his mouth was sticky with blood. He swallowed hard, swallowed again, and tried once more. "Queen Calanthe wields a slender sword--"
The other man grinned and clapped his hands. "The blade is short, the pommel broad!" he joined in.
"She stabs and stabs the bright pink target--"
"The king of Skellige stands outside!" the man howled. That wasn't the right verse; Jaskier started to sing the correct line, but corrected quickly to follow the other.
The chorus: "Clash, clash, with Queen Calanthe! She's a mighty lion queen!" echoed around the little cell. The ugliest man had shifted his grasp from Jaskier's jaw to a light hold on his throat. He nodded along with the chorus.
"Clash, clash--" Jaskier started. He cut off as the ugliest man slid his thumb into the hinge of Jaskier's mouth, behind his teeth.
"Hmm. Good teeth on you," the ugliest man said. The others sang the next, filthier verse, then stopped and quarreled over what the last line was. It was "the king of Skellige stands outside" but as they had just sung that, one stated the correct line was the end of the third verse and the other said it was the end of the first verse. Then the first argued that it was the correct line and the other switched to a line from another song entirely.
Jaskier tasted bitter dirt from the thumb in his mouth. He tried to move his tongue away from the thumb, but that just made him more aware of the intrusion.
The two blond men started fighting over the verses of the song. The fourth, dark-haired man shook his head. Jaskier's lips throbbed against his teeth.
"The best cocksuckers," the ugliest man said, "have no teeth at all. You ever tried that?"
He seemed to want an answer. "Ngo," Jaskier managed around the intruding thumb.
"Looking a bit loose. Someone hit you." The ugliest man shoved his fingers into Jaskier's mouth.
"No!" Jaskier cried out, strangled and incoherent around the man's hand. Fuck, fuck! He could feel his teeth moving in their sockets. He didn't want to lose his teeth! His cheek would cave in without his teeth!
The man brought up his other hand to open Jaskier's mouth further. Jaskier shouted wordlessly and shoved himself free of the man, skidding further back along the wall. He took a breath, pressing his tongue against his teeth; the man moved toward him and Jaskier, panicked, shouted, "I'm already a good cocksucker!"
Silence.
Jaskier caught his breath while he could, gulping down air. His eyes flicked from man to man.
They closed on him.
He was on his knees with a hand in his hair, strands catching on the man's calluses with pinpricks of pain. He tried to relax his jaw and tried to breathe; he tried not to taste; he tried not to feel. He let his head be moved back and forth. He couldn't smell due to the blood in his nostrils. He sucked a tiny, narrow thread of air into his lungs--and then the clot came free and he breathed blood and choked.
He ripped his hair free and sputtered and choked. He leaned over and spat chunks of blood on the stone floor. He coughed his throat clear, eyes streaming, nose bleeding again, and then the ugliest man wrenched his head up again. "Not so good so far," he said.
Jaskier just panted for air. His eyes were blurry with the tears he couldn't stop. His heart hammered in his chest. Gods, he didn't want to die like this. Not like this.
The ugliest man shoved his cock in Jaskier's mouth again, not so deep. Just the tip. He could do that, he could lick. He could--no, he couldn't pretend. He could remember what he had done the last time he was with someone he liked. Tongue the head and taste bitter, foul fluid. Pull back and breathe. Push the cock into his cheek to make a pretty picture. Stroke the foreskin up and down.
"That's more like it," the ugliest man said.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. He couldn't die this way. He gasped air down his throat and swallowed blood and bitterness. He couldn't think about disease. Oh, fuck, he couldn't think about anything but disease. Scorching tears slid down his cheeks, one by one, not from sorrow or outrage but just from the reactions of his body to so much abuse. He wished he could stop.
No, he needed to save all his wishes--fuck, what wouldn't he give for a genie--fuck, fuck, he needed to save all his wishes for air when the man grabbed his head in both hands and thrust against the back of his throat. He gagged, which the man seemed to enjoy. His nose was clogged and his mouth was stuffed. He was going to die on this asshole's cock.
The man spurted against the back of his throat, then let go. Jaskier reeled away, landing on hands and knees, coughing and spitting. He heaved huge breaths like sobs. He sobbed.
"What a fucking mess," the ugliest man said. Jaskier shook and bled without answering. His eyes were screwed closed but tears still dripped from his lashes, blood from his nose, spit and bitter come from his mouth.
Melitele, Melitele, he couldn't die like this. He couldn't die this way. Have some mercy, he prayed desperately, and then he was hauled back up by the second man.
*
He lived. His face felt red, bruised, and swollen as the last man used his mouth. His scalp hurt from all the hands yanking on his hair. His jaw was bright with the strain of opening so wide for so long. The taste in on his tongue was unspeakable. But Melitele had answered him and one nostril had reopened: he could breathe, even if he whistled and snorted sometimes. He could breathe.
And this last man could not fucking finish. Jaskier was frigging him as hard as he could, was sucking and licking like a lover, was giving real thought to shoving a finger up the man's filthy arse just to make it end.
Just stop, just finish already, he cursed internally. Finally, finally, the man shoved his forehead back, grasped his own cock, and spurted onto Jaskier's collar and chest with a groan.
Revolting.
Jaskier sagged back and massaged his jaw back into place. He swiped his cuff over his face. His eyes wouldn't stop watering, his breath was ragged in his chest, but he refused to admit that he was crying. He wouldn't cry because of these disgusting men.
The ugliest man was looking him up and down. "Cocksucking skills mediocre," he said, and Jaskier felt a stab of absurd offense. "How's your arse?"
Jaskier lunged for the barred door. He glared at the guard and yelled: "How the fuck are you going to question me after I'm dead?"
Someone grabbed his coat. He was still fully dressed, which seemed absurd. Someone grabbed his boot. Someone grabbed his trousers and started pulling them down. Jaskier clung to the bars with both hands and kicked and fought and scrambled.
One boot was pulled off, then the other. Jaskier held onto the bars. He refused to look. He refused to acknowledge the hand in the back of his trousers, dragging them down his skinny hips. He tried to spread his legs to stop the drag. The seams threatened to give.
Someone kicked him in the stomach and he fell with a gasping grunt. His hips were pulled up into the air, his head shoved down against the floor. He pressed his palms to the bars and tried to expand his ribs and breathe. His spasming stomach muscles wouldn't let him.
He would not fucking die like this. He refused. He couldn't. This couldn't be how it happened.
He felt a cock against his arse. He felt knuckles knocking against his arsehole as whoever it was frigged himself hard enough to try penetration. No oil, not even spit. This was going to hurt like hell. This was going to rip him apart like paper.
He thought about the one time Geralt had fucked him. Usually they went the other way around, if they did anything so complicated. Geralt was a simple man who liked a simple suck against a tree under the judgmental eyes of his horse.
It had been high summer and they both decided to wash all their clothes, including the ones they had on. They had lounged by the stream, curtained by drying shirts spread out on low, soft pine branches. Jaskier had pillowed his head on Geralt's naked thigh and played with the silver curls of his pubic hair as they dried. Geralt, in his turn, began by rubbing his thumb in circles on Jaskier's bum, then worked his fingers one by one inside him.
When Geralt started on the fourth finger, Jaskier begged him to please, please fuck him before he lost his mind. Geralt kissed his inner thigh, gathered up his knees in both elbows and fucked him luxuriously on the summer grass.
So he had that. He would always have that, even after these brutes fucked his colon inside out. Shit, shit, he could feel someone's cock like a dry branch prying him open. It hurt, it fucking hurt, and that was when he finally started screaming.
He held onto the bars. Every inch of him recoiled from the hands pulling his arse apart and the cock sawing him open. He pressed his head against the metal and screamed, screamed, screamed into the stone floor.
In university, he'd learned how to scream without hurting his voice. It was recreational then. A fun trick, maybe useful on the stage. He could emulate a banshee in a song or provide a bit of drama in a play. The training, absurdly, held. He was saving his voice as he made as much noise as he humanly could.
The guard kicked the bars. "Shut up!"
Jaskier couldn't have shut up to save his life. Someone stuck their hand over his mouth and Jaskier bit the rough fingers with the full force of his panic.
"What the fuck is going on in here? They can hear him at the fucking river!" Someone banged on the bars of the door. "Get off! Get off! Hell and mud, Ihor, I just told you to soften him up!"
"He's soft!" the other guard protested.
Jaskier collapsed on the floor as the grasping hands let him go. His arse throbbed, his ribs throbbed, his face throbbed. He clung to the ground and sucked in air.
"There is a lake of fucking blood, you fucking idiot! You lot get back. Ihor, get him out."
The door opened. Someone grabbed his wrists and dragged him across the floor. He was shut into another cell. His boots were tossed in after him.
Jaskier blinked at the stone floor. He rolled onto his side, tentatively, and pulled his trousers up. He smelled mouse. Well, better than filthy fucking rapist. He was alone in this cell.
"Do you have actual shit for brains? Do you? Fucking gods above. Give him your dinner."
"What? No!"
"So HELP me, give him your dinner before I use you for a mop--"
The stupider guard--Ihor, apparently--grudgingly shoved a plate into the cell. Jaskier looked around, saw water, and crawled over to get a drink and rinse out his mouth. Cursing and banging further down the building suggested the filthy fucking rapists were going elsewhere. Hopefully they got stabbed to death, or were eaten by wolves, or had their intestines sucked up like noodles by a graveyard ghoul.
When he felt halfway human, Jaskier pulled his boots back on and straightened his shirt. He took out his lace handkerchief--somehow still in his pocket--and washed the blood and tears and dirt from his face. He tested his nose--not broken, not currently bleeding--and ran his tongue over his teeth, which were all still present.
There was clotted blood in his mouth. Jaskier gathered it on his tongue, rolled it with spit and things he refused to think about, and spat a massive gob onto the floor outside the cell.
Ihor glared at him.
Jaskier glared back. "You never answered him," Jaskier said.
"What?"
"Do you have actual shit for brains?"
"Shut the fuck up, fancy boy," Ihor said.
"Better folk than you have tried and failed to make me shut up," Jaskier said. "Kings. Sorceresses. Priests. It never worked. Tends to quite spectacularly fail."
"Shut up, cocksucker!"
"In Oxenfurt is a tiny little man, with a tiny little stick in his tiny little hand," Jaskier started singing.
Ihor beat on the cell bars with his baton, scowling.
*
A few days later, Geralt left Ihor in a soft heap in the corridor. Served him right. No ear for music. Jaskier lifted Ihor's purse and belt knife on the way out.
*
"Are you all right?" Geralt asked once they were out of the city. "You smell like blood."
"Oh, a little battered, a little bruised," Jaskier said. "One hell of a nosebleed. I've been worse. It's amazing how unpersuasive violence is, really."
"Hm," Geralt said, looking him over.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones but only words can hurt me. A fist in the face is unpleasant, but have you ever had a bad review? It lingers, Geralt, long after the bruises have faded."
*
His nightmares were full of grasping hands wreathed in flame. He woke up clutching the pillow, breathing hard.
But he sat up, shook it off, and took a long swig of the medicinal whisky ("it cures what ails you," Geralt's brother witcher said). He shuddered as the burn of the weird liquor replaced the phantom burn of flame. "I fucking won," he whispered to the darkness.
He was alive. He fucking won.
He went back to sleep.
the end.