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here-for-jaskier · 3 years

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Jaskier (the bard named after a flower)

Read it on AO3

Jaskier means buttercup. Familiar was the small, stubborn plant found along roadsides and in meadows. As if dressed up, it shone in a bright yellow between the pale daisies or the puny grasses. Before the young bard, who followed him out of a tavern to the end of the world and had just that name, Geralt had not paid any attention to them.

It had taken Geralt some time to ask himself for the first time why his companion had chosen this name as his own. He had plucked off a single stalk because it had grown together with the wolf's bane. Wide-open was the chalice, gracefully formed from yellow curved leaves that shimmered in the sun while Geralt turned them in his hands. As the flower slipped from his fingers, slowly sailing to the ground, the question also disappeared from his mind again.

Not until on a night that stretched over their heads like a black cloth decorated with thousands and thousands of pearls that the witcher had managed to bring the question over his lips. For a split second, Jaskier's facial expression slipped away, but a blink of an eye later he smiled. A sad smile that resembled more a grimace and did not reach his cornflower-blue eyes.

"People remember it better," he had simply claimed, "Short and memorable. No one appreciates musicians with a long name."

They were loose words. Anyone would have been satisfied with that answer. The short twitch in Jaskier's hands, the way his fingers restlessly ran over the wide ring on his left hand, Geralt revealed that there was more behind it.

"But why Jaskier?", he checked once more, felt the heavy heartbeat next to him under the starry sky, intoxicated and full of uncertainty. The witcher did not receive an answer. Instead, Jaskier only reached for the opened bottle of wine, the sweet and sour taste which was still on their tongues and which wrapped their senses in cotton wool.

"More wine, Geralt?"

---

Geralt often thought back to that evening. Mostly of her conversation before that, of the jokes, of the smile Jaskier had given him and which covered him in daylight even in the darkest hours of the night. Only after his question did it fade away, as if dark clouds had slid in front of the sparkle in his iris. He had not succeeded in pushing these shadows aside that night. Only the next morning, when the sun climbed up the horizon sleepily, did Jaskier blink between his long brown lashes.

Their breakfast had consisted of leftovers from dinner and blueberries, whose sweet juice had welcomed the beautiful day as much as the birds' emerging chirping. As if he had dreamed of the strangely tense mood at night, Jaskier was awake and alert. Lively and loud as always, despite the alcohol.

Geralt couldn't remember every detail, but he knew he didn't want to see Jaskier's sad face again, the way his shoulders bent under the load like the leaves of a flower threatening to break under the weight.

But there were things that Geralt could not prevent. Every flower faded at some point. Slowly time robbed them of the color of their blooms, let them wither and eventually the wind would carry them away into nothingness. Forgotten and that after only too short a time. Jaskier would not fare any differently. During their time together Geralt had realized that the human body seemed fragile like glass. A simple cold, a wrong step, a wound could make him splinter and the shards would bore deep into Geralt's heart. Into his much too soft heart, which lay in Jaskiers fragile and mortal hands. Desperation devoured him over the weeks, the closer Jaskier came to him.

Until he knew no other way. That day on the mountain, far from civilization, between rocks and softly whispering grass, Jaskier had looked again like the flower whose name he carried. Like a flower that had been stepped on too often, suffered too much, and which at some point looked like the muddy ground with torn blooms and leafs. Every color had disappeared from Jaskier's face when Geralt's words hit him like kicks. The glow in his eyes went out, while tears rose in them. With a feeling as if a rope had been pulled around his chest, Geralt remembered the sound of Jaskier's last words, which he whispered muffled before turning away. Even his favorite instrument had been stolen from him by the witcher.

In return, Jaskier took Geralt's heart with him that day. If he had believed that he would not have to bear the pain if the bard disappeared from his life, Geralt had been mistaken. He felt empty and burnt out. Like a lump of coal whose energy had evaporated, the cold took over. He was incomplete, where he walked and stood. His thoughts hung on the bard, with the name of a flower, while Geralt did his daily duty without anyone waiting for him after the hunt or sharing his bed. Jaskier's scent, a mixture of pinewood and honey and something very own that belonged to him completely, evaporated from his things and his mind, was blown away, no matter how hard the witcher tried to keep him safe.

With every morning Geralt woke up alone and realized that it would go on like this for the rest of his days, he wanted to scream but he couldn't make a sound because he thought he was drowning in the cold of the loneliness that lay like dust on everything.

Until that day when their paths crossed again.Unspectacular, unexpected as if the cunning fate of Geralt wanted to play a trick that evening.Like the breeze on a warm summer day, the familiar voice welcomed him as he pushed open the door to the tavern and saw Jaskier.

He laughed, he sang. He didn't appreciate Geralt's agonizing hours not one look, while the blue eyes flashed across the room and followed the clapping and dancing of the crowd. Only his pulse told the witcher that his presence had not gone unnoticed. Meanwhile, his gaze rested on Jaskier, greedily grasping every detail as if the bard could vanish into thin air at any moment and disappear forever.At the same time, the shame was boiling in Geralt. For all the angry words resting on his chest and squeezing the air out of him like an ugly animal. Guilt weighed on him and the question if Jaskier wasn't better off without him, had more joy in a real-life without mutants, gnawed at his entrails.

But more burning was the desire under his skin. The longing for the bard, for his petty touches that brought butterflies to life in his stomach area. The desire to kiss him spread the wings in his heart suppressed everything and filled him with ease. There was nothing he wished for more than to run his tingling fingertips through his dark brown soft hair, to look into the blue eyes that were more intense than Geralt remembered and reminded him more than ever of fallen pieces of the sky.

He want Jaskier, at his side, as long as fate gave them and if he had to let him go, he wanted to hold his hand until that moment, knowing that never again would a flower attract his gaze like Jaskier.

All this was stronger than Geralt's cowardice. So his shaky legs followed the younger one, who had finished his performance and was heading for the back exit until suddenly they were facing each other.The blue doublet's fabric glittered in the dancing candlelight as Jaskier raised his head and tensed his shoulders as if preparing for a thunderous storm that was about to hit him at any moment.

"Jaskier..-", Geralt began, in a rough voice."What is it, Geralt?", Jaskier replied violently and crossed his arms in front of his chest. With this, he could not hide the trembling of his fingers.

"I..-", Geralt produced, indecisive as he could pronounce what he felt. How sorry he was could hardly be put into words, just as he felt. Ashamed, he lowered his head, fixed the worn-out floorboards on which various footprints were visible.

"Do you know why Jaskier suits me so well?", the bard asked out of nowhere. Abruptly Geralt looked up and when their eyes met, the fire cast soft shadows on the younger one's face. His eyes spoke of pain and shimmered moistly as he continued.

"Buttercups are useless," he said, almost spitting out the words, "You can tear them out as often as you want, but they always grow back where you don't need them."

The first tear made its way across his cheek, mysteriously reflecting the light before Jaskier wiped them away in anger."My parents were right, weren't they? It fits," he said bitterly, turning to leave. Without hesitation, Geralt grabbed his arm, held him tight.

Startled, Jaskier looked at him. More tears rolled, hanging on his lashes as he looked down, unable to look into the eyes that reminded him of splinters of amber."That's not true", Geralt croaked. His heart was beating up to his neck, "I need you."Doubt and shock were visible on Jaskier's face. He bit his lips for a moment when Geralt's hand was already in his neck.

Goosebumps trickled over his skin as he ran his fingers carefully through his unruly hair.

"Buttercups still glow at dusk", Geralt whispered, "They are poisonous and are therefore rarely eaten", he continued, with every word they came closer to each other.

"They do not displace, they do not grow over, they protect when they are close to other plants."With his thumb, Geralt wiped away the last tear, as timidly as if Jaskier could break under the touch.

"They can be found even in the darker swamps", Geralt said, while they stood there leaning forehead to forehead. Jaskier trembled all over his body, his fingers clawing into Geralt's shirt. He became dizzy from the proximity and the scent that enveloped him. He breathed in deeply.

"They give light and hope," he whispered. Warm, hectic breath brushed against his throat. For a second he sank into Jaskier's eyes of the deep shimmering blue that made him forget everything.

"And they are beautiful."With these words he bent over, his hand still on the bard's cheek, sealing her lips in a kiss.He tasted salty tears and hot embers, the surprise and all the colours of this world and every fibre in his body trembled. Carefully they breathed through his nose before Jaskier pulls him closer.His lips curled into a smile, the first in a long time, as a warmth spread through him as if someone had dipped him in hot water.

He only dared to breathe as they parted tentatively, hearts pounding, drunk with happiness. When Jaskier smiled at him, embarrassed and with a twinkle in his eyes, Geralt knew that spring had returned to his life. But what did he care about the other flowers?

He had found his. His only and favorite one.

#jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #fanfiction #geralt x dandelion #imagines #buttercups #behind jaskiers name #geralt is soft

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lostinmysticfalls · 4 years

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Faded Fantasy | Chapter 1

Pairing: Javier x Fem!Reader/OC, Javier x Helena (implied)

Summary: Javier hasn’t been the same since Medellin. Watching Helena go through hell after everything she did for him messed him up more than he imagined. He’s always had a habit of fucking away the pain and using sex as an escape. But this time he’s really spiraling, and the end is nowhere in sight.

Words: 2,497

Warnings: smut, alcohol, third-person POV, non canon compliant, emotional angst, consenting age-gap

A/N: This is gonna get dark and angsty because I refuse to believe that Javi was fine after what happened to Helena in 1x02. I have many, many feelings about those two, and this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Title comes from "My Favourite Faded Fantasy" by Damien Rice (if you haven't heard it, take a listen and prepare to be sad)

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 - Guilt

They weren’t all the same, even though Javier pretended like they were. The girls came and went freely, without strings attached, without commitment. But there was only one who had remained his constant. The one who he’d call up when he not only needed to relieve some stress but also when that pang of loneliness struck his chest late at night.

There really were no rules for his interactions with her. Javier could be sweet and lighthearted or crude and dominant, he could be anything he wanted with her. He never told her but he even enjoyed the way in which she'd stake her claim on him whenever they were together, even if it was only for a couple short hours. Helena was unconditional and loyal to the point of even risking her own life for him.

She had been unbreakable until that night.

In the deep confines of his mind he knew that she was important. That he cared about her more than any of the other girls. The way she used to laugh filled him with inexplicable warmth, and her ability to be careless and free filled him with a sense of wonderment he’d never really experienced with anyone else. She had a wild spirit that had remained pure despite the calamities and grim reality of the world around her.

Helena was his favorite faded fantasy. One that he could have held on to forever had he not been too afraid to connect on a deeper level—always recoiling whenever the walls he’d built around would start to crumble. One he could've fiercely protected had he just done a better job at pulling her out of the grasps of evil in time.

Javier couldn’t escape the thought of her.

Not even in his dreams.

She’s sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around her, completely shattered. Not a trace of the girl he’d interacted with just a few days prior.

The pain in his chest is excruciating, his throat constricting into a knot as the oxygen leaves his lungs.

“Helena.” He says, looking at her with sorrowful eyes, just a ghost of the man he used to be. The guilt eating at him like acid eroding his entrails.

Her head is down, her blank stare is focused on the ground but her mind is somewhere else. She is unresponsive, taking shallow breaths, her chest barely rising as she trembles.

“Helena, perdóname. Perdóname por no haber llegado a tiempo.” He begs her, apologizing for letting her walk into the devil’s den unprotected. For not getting there in time to save her.

Javier jolted awake, like a man gasping for air as he's drowning.

Sweat having dampened the sheets he’d been sleeping on, his heart racing like he'd just been sprinting up a flight of stairs. He was stuck in that period of time right after a nightmare, when your body is too deep in shock to even move. When all your senses are trying to realign themselves while your mind slowly adjusts to reality again.

The minutes passed, his breathing gradually stabilizing.

Once the feelings of dread had subsided, he rolled over on the bed, reaching for the box of cigarettes on his nightstand. He lit one, then a second, and a third, until the sun started to come up and slowly began brightening his bedroom.

Afraid to fall back asleep for fear of seeing her again.

* * * * *

It was late at night when the young woman tending the bar saw Javier walking in. The look on his face said he'd had a tough day at the office and the badge attached to the front of his jeans was practically screaming, get the fuck away from me. A people repellent if she’d ever seen one.

She smiled to herself, checking the shelf for the bottle of his favorite spirit. Javier had been there plenty of times before for her to know he liked his whiskey neat. Truth be told, she’d had her eye on him for a while. He was older, handsome and charming, and she was a weakling for his moody attitude and enigmatic smile. It didn’t take much for it to always pull her under. Not to mention, the low vibrations of his captivating voice made her center contract and quiver in inexplicable ways every time he spoke.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the first day she met him and she had decided tonight would be the night she’d muster up the courage to do more than just make brief mentions of the weather.

Her gaze panned over him as he took a seat on the barstool, both elbows on the flat surface of the long wooden bar.

“Good evening, Agent Peña.” She said, suggestively leaning toward him, the neckline of her shirt allowing a peek at her cleavage. “Rough day?”

Javier sighed. “Day, week, month… you name it.”

Her laugh was melodic. “I think I got what you need." She winked. "Whiskey? Neat?”

He nodded, rubbing his hand over his mouth and mustache as if impatient. Taking a note of how short her skirt was when she turned around and reached for the bottle on the top shelf.

His brown eyes focused on her task, watching as she poured the reddish brown liquid into the glass. Her smile was brighter than usual, bedroom eyes peering at him behind her long eyelashes. Pushing the drink in his direction, she casually brushed her hand over his as he went to grab the glass.

Javier took a sip, expecting her to walk away but to his surprise, she stuck around.

“You ever drink with the customers?” He asked, compelled to make small talk.

She grinned. “Sometimes, when they buy.”

He gestured to the bottle. “I wouldn’t mind a drinking partner tonight.” He took a cigarette out of his inside pocket and placed it between his lips.

It didn’t take much for her to oblige. She needed the liquid courage anyway if her plan to get him alone was going to come to fruition.

Three drinks later and they had both loosened up quite a bit. Openly flirting with each other as they talked about trivial things and she expressed her gratitude for his hard work.

“You know, it’s not every day you get to meet a real life hero.” She said, touching his hand and letting it linger. Her fingers moving over his knuckles playfully. “Everyone in this bar should be paying for your drinks.”

Javier cleared his throat, his whole demeanor changing, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced as he knitted his eyebrows together. “I’m not a fucking hero.” He scoffed. “Not even close.”

It hadn’t been true for Helena. If he hadn’t put her in that situation she’d still be there and not tucked away in some convent in the middle of nowhere. He would probably be with her in that moment if things hadn’t gone awry. Instead, he was there, trying to drown his sorrows in whiskey and cigarettes. And yeah, maybe some pussy too.

“Well, I find you to be a very impressive man.” She admitted. “I really admire your courage and everything you and your team are doing for this country.”

His eyes trailed over her features. She had to have been at least a decade younger than him but there was no denying that she was very attractive. Did she look like her? Not in the slightest, but her interest in him kept him hooked. He had left the station with the intention of doing more than just having a drink but this hadn’t been the way he imagined the night going. Not that he was disappointed.

“I just wish there was something I could do to show my appreciation.” She bit her lip, caressing his arm over the long sleeves of his jacket.

The alcohol had certainly done its job at obliterating all inhibitions.

Javier grabbed her wrist, gently wrapping his fingers around it. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.” She said, glancing at his slightly parted lips. “I’m serving alcohol behind a bar, aren’t I?”

He looked her up and down, the hum of his voice making her shiver. “You look like a nice girl.”

She laughed. “I am a nice girl. But even nice girls do bad things every now and then.” The way Javier’s eyes grew darker with devious intent made her center throb and ache with want. “Do you like bad girls, Agent Peña?”

He smiled, looking away for a minute to think about what she was implying. If it wasn’t her that night, it’d be someone else. Javier was tired of the grief. He needed to feel something other than pain and numbness, and she had practically fallen on his lap without him even trying.

She checked her watch. “Behind those doors,” she pointed to the tall double doors in the back of the bar, “Is an employee bathroom.” Her smile widened as she started to walk away. “I’ll be taking my break in ten minutes when the other bartender starts her shift.”

He watched as she went to tend to other awaiting customers, meanwhile finishing the last of his drink in peace. When he was done, he took out his wallet, leaving a few bills on the bar before checking to make sure he still had a condom stashed in there somewhere.

* * * * *

Her lips were ravenous, kissing him desperately as she rubbed herself on him and ran her hands across his chest. The bathroom was filthy and uncomfortable, definitely not made for two bodies to move about at the same time. The light fixture on the wall was barely holding on, its yellow glow bouncing off the rusted mirror and dirty sink. Javier kept bumping into the wall, every time he tried to maneuver around her.

“I have fifteen minutes.” She said, pushing him against the door and immediately undoing his pants. Only pulling them down to his thighs, just enough to have access to him.

Javier gaped at her as she took him in her hand. His dick wasn’t hard enough yet, something that was a bit unusual for him but that he’d attributed to the excessive amount of stress he was under and his lack of sleep.

“I’m not quite ready—”

“That’s okay.” She purred as she went down on him. “I like to feel it grow in my mouth.”

That admission alone made his cock twitch. With a lick of her lips, she began sucking him off. Enjoying the way his limp dick increased in size every time she took him in, and loving the way it hardened against the roof of her mouth with each twirl of her scorching tongue. The heat and suction of her mouth making it stiffen until his blood vessels were pounding against her lips.

The slurping noises she was making were driving him mad. She licked him from his base all the way to his tip, sucking on his head as one hand gripped him and jerked him off. Her other hand playing with his rigid balls while she devoured every inch of him.

“I want you to fuck my mouth.” She said, looking up at him with lustful eyes.

Javier didn't hesitate. He put his hands on her head, holding her still as he began thrusting his hips into her. Her hot, wet crevice felt so good he began pounding into it with more force. Over and over. His mind was finally occupied with something other than remorse and he willfully lost himself in the new feeling with each passing second.

It wasn’t until he looked down at her again and heard the sounds of her gagging that he finally stopped. Realizing that maybe he was being a little rougher than she’d wanted.

She sucked his cock a few more times and then wiped her mouth, getting up from the floor and leaning back against the sink.

Pulling up her skirt she moaned. “You want this?”

Javier licked his lips. “Yes.” He muttered, yanking down her underwear.

The sink space was barely big enough for her to recline against it, she used it mainly to steady to herself as she lifted up one leg and propped it against the wall next to her.

He quickly slapped on the rubber, gliding his tip along her wet slit before delving between her entrance and filling her up. With one aggressive tug he pulled her shirt and bra down, the neckline stretching until her breasts were spilling out of it.

“Fuck.” She muttered. “You feel so fucking good.”

Javier slammed into her, a hand grabbing one tit, not worrying about starting out slow or getting her warmed up first. He wanted to fuck her hard and senseless to the point of oblivion. Her hands clung to his shoulders, the bathroom mirror fogging up from their heavy breathing as the minutes ticked by.

Her little moans started to get out of hand, increasing in volume the longer he pound into her.

“I’m gonna come.” She whimpered.

“Shhh.” He said, putting a finger up to her lips. “Calladita.” Reminding her to keep quiet.

He crashed into her again, his tip continuously making contact with her sweet spot until it was too much for her to handle. Moments later, his actions inevitably triggered her unraveling. Javier put his hand over her mouth in order to stifle her cries as she came undone.

He didn’t last much longer after that. When he was ready to finish, he pulled out of her.

Something possessed him to pull off the condom, wanting the end to be as messy and dirty as the place in which he’d decided to fuck her. With one firm grip on his cock, he began pumping it furiously, reaching his climax in a matter of seconds. The ribbons of hot come spurt out of him, shooting all over the sink and splattering on the foggy mirror as he let out a few muffled grunts.

They both cleaned up fairly quickly, not saying much to each other after they were done.

She haphazardly wiped the mirror down and splashed water on the sink before smoothing out her clothes and hastily fixing her hair.

“I’ll see you around?” Her voice was hushed as she opened the door, preparing to go back out to continue her shift.

Javier pursed his lips and gave her a weak nod.

They both knew it wouldn’t happen.

She smiled, knowing very well that this was a one-time, meaningless thing. She’d always been a sucker for his type. Men with too many issues to pursue anything serious but who knew exactly how to please a woman. It was nothing knew to her, she was used to the quick goodbyes and she didn't mind them.

As for Javier, he had already made up his mind the moment he agreed to the hookup, and there was no way in hell he’d be showing his face around there after that night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you so much for reading! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Please, let me know if you enjoyed this first chapter and I will do my best to update soon :) Tag list is open.

#pedro pascal #javier peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #narcos netflix #javi x reader #javier x oc #javier x helena #fanfiction #this is not the reader insert chapter fic i posted about before #that one is completely different #but this idea would not let me go so here i am on my bullshit again

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raindrop-on-a-spiderweb · 5 years

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When God Wasn't Watching

As requested, an AU if Patience had been a young teenager when she started her crusade--and everyone stayed their canoncal age.

***

15-year-old Patience Winslow stepped onto the train platform and into the rest of her life.

She looked around at the towering skyscrapers, mouth agape. She had never seen a building higher than the town hall in Greenhaven, and just looking at the tops of the steel behemoths made her dizzy. Someone stumbled into her and shouted a "Watch it, kid!" As her first introduction to Garland City life.

She stumbled to the side and checked her pocket. The wads of money she had stolen from Uncle Jim, a banker, were still there. They would only last her a couple pf days, but a couple of days was all she needed. Once she accomplished her goal, she did not intend on living on this earth anymore. She would be with her mommy and daddy. She would have avenged them, and they would be so proud of her, and the would be together forever, away from the cold house and the cold stares of her aunt and uncle and the cold laughs from her classmates and the cold, cold nights she cried herself to sleep. She would be warm again. She would be loved.

Patience set out onto the cobblestone streets, money safely wadded in her pocket, and looked for a pawnshop.

***

The handle of the gun was cold in her hand. She practiced flicking off the safety and firing it behind a junkyard until the security guard told her to leave.

She spent a chunk of her money at a hotel and consulted her meager newspaper records. One thing she was sure of was that Leonardo legally owned a nightcub called the Harp. She had seen its opening in a blurb in the paper. Her plan was simple. Fatal, but simple. But even the prospect of it made her sick to her stomach. Several times she wanted to back out, buy a ticket back to Greenhaven. But go where? Back to her aunt and uncle, who despised her? Back to loneliness and isolation and the yawning, indifferent chasm of her life?

She had made her bed and she was going to lie in it.

***

Little Italy scared her. The chaotic movement, the clamor of different languages, the bellows of the street vendors--they all unnerved her. She blended in well--with her schoolgirl uniform and hair in twin braids, she passed well as any of the littay of other girls coming back from Catholic School, lingering at Ice Cream parlors to meet their friends. Except Patience's intentions were much more sinister.

A butcher tossed a bucket full of slop and entrails into the sewer, and some splattered on her mary janes. She wrinkled her nose and jumped onto the sidewalk.

She took turn after turn, even as the day turned into evening and as the population of the street turned more and more into shady adults instead of the clash of old and young. She was starting to believe she had become lost when the spangled neon lights of the Harp came into view.

It was a popular nightclub, with burlesques every night and a bar reputed to be the best in Garland City--according to the review she had read in the paper. She knew they wouldn't let her in the front door, so she slipped down the alley. A dumpster full of stained napkins, broken glass, and vile pieces of discarded reeking trash from the backstage of the burlesque lay against the back of the nightclub. She tried the heavy metal door leading into the back of the club. No luck.

The girl retraced her steps, feeling her way along the building. She tried the edges of the windows, shoving upward with the heels of her hands, and finally, one slid open a crack.

Patience pulled it up and scrambled Through the window. She was a small girl even for her age and had to pull herself up before she tumbled over the window sill. She collapsed on the ground in a heap, breathing heavily. She appeared to be in some sort of storage room, with cases of whisky stacked against the wall, as well as other alcohols she could not name.

She tried the door and it slid open. The hallway was quiet they appeared to be well stocked for the night. Keeping to the shadows, she crept down the hallway.

The lights and laughter echoed from one end. She wondered where he would be--as a big-shot nightclub owner, would he be living it up on the floor or doing whatever nightclub owners did in the office? She took a chance and slunk down the hallway, away from the racket and nearer to the back of the club.

A janitor clomped by, nearly missing her, and she flattened herself against the wall. The metal of the gun was cold against her breast, the handle knocking against her ribcage every time she moved. Her sweat was so slick she was worried that it would slide down her shirt and clatter on the floor.

She peeked down another passage--this one was lined with chattering women and half-open doors leading to what looked like dressing rooms, so she went down the opposite one. It was empty except for a single room at the back of the hall, with light peeking out from the bottom of it. She reached into her blouse and gripped her gun, and moved forward.

***

Patience stood there, unwilling or unsure what to do, then heard a voice. That smooth, distant purr made every hair on her body raise, then sent her mind into such a fury she burst through the door and aimed her gun.

A man was standing with his back to the door, a receiver held against his curly blond head. As he turned around his eyes sparked with a distant surprise but then went back to the sea blue impassiveness that she had seen only once before but remembered as clear as day. He slowly put the receiver down.

"And you are?" He said politely.

The barrel was trembling in her grip. "I--I'm--" Her brain was failing her. "I'm--don't you know who I am? You killed my parents!"

"Child," he said quietly. Then, "Sweetheart. You must have made a mistake."

Her head was pulsing. Her adrenaline was rushing. "I haven't. I know who you are. I saw you. I saw you pull the trigger--"

His eyes were dark, gentle and sympathetic. "Listen. Little one. I have never murdered anyone in my life. I own this nightclub. I inherited it from my father. Whatever you went through--sweetheart, I'm so sorry, it has nothing to do with me. Please put the gun down." He held out his hand, the light glinting off his gold rings.

Her eyes were filling up with tears. She wanted to pull the trigger. She wanted to so bad. But his voice was so gentle. So honest.

Her brain sparked a distant apprehension, just the faintest shadow, and her barrel lowered a notch.

***

Before she knew it, she was facedown on the sofa, face pressed against the red velvet. There was a crushing weight on top of her, and her arms were pinned behind her back by a hand.

She was abruptly flipped over to face a cool, composed visage, eyes cold as chips of ice. With one hand he pinned her arms down, with the other he held her revolver, barrel aimed right between her eyes. "Tell me who sent you." His voice as cold and detached as if he were reporting the weather through a radio. "The di Scarpettas? Was it Cardinale?"

Patience blinked. The reality of her situation had yet to catch up to her. "No one. I did. I'm here to murder you. You murdered my parents!" She began to struggle, but his crushing grip stilled her.

"Child, didn't your parents ever tell you not to lie?" He cocked the barrel.

"No!" She snarled back, the terror creeping down her spine and yet the fury eclipsing that. She yanked her arms. "Let go! I'll kill you! I'll kill--"

He was staring down at her, looking contemplative. Something about her seemed to convince him. His eyes were opaque, red mouth an impassive line.

"Beautiful," he said softly.

She blinked as he ran a finger down the tear tracks on her cheeks, and hovered around the edge of her pale, angry green eyes, trying desperately not to give out to fear. He ran his fingernail around her eyes, rubbing the tears off and staring intently, perversely into her pupils.

"You would have been her age," he said.

He shifted on top of her, and suddenly his crushing weight was on her chest, and she smelled something flowery, like her aunt's perfume cabinet. Patience's whole body was trembling against his, her anger finally giving way to fear, and when he spoke his next words, a thrill of pure terror shot through her body.

"My father preferred younger girls," he whispered in her ear. "Said he liked how they wiggled and screamed. Said it made them tighter."

His lukewarm breath against her ear, the wet lave of his tongue on her skin, and his finger beneath the skirt of her pinafore made vomit heave in her throat, and she began to struggle, began to wail, fighting with all her might please if I can just get out I'll run I'll jump through the window of the storage room I'll leave Garland City I'll never come back--

She felt a smile curl against the nape of her neck. "Don't be scared, dolcezza. I'll be gentle."

***

The room was a haze of black and red, the the black lacquer of the floor, the black glint of the typewriter, the red softness of the sofa, and the burning, wet, stinging red of--

She looked down between her legs. Blood had began to seep through the dark green threads of her skirt. The place between her legs was a mass of red and pain, cut open by a knife--or whatever he has used, but it felt like a knife, a knife of flesh and veins that left her insides throbbing and smeared.

He was talking to another man in soft Italian. The other man was tall and rough-looking with a five o'clock shadow and thick brown hair, wearing a trenchcoat. He kept glancing over to her worriedly. "Leonardo, è solo una ragazza."

"Non è successo niente, Giuseppe," was Borghese's smooth reply.

The door slammed open. "What's going on? I heard the commotion. Are you all right, Leo?" barked another man, shorter, with black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His gaze slid over her, and the cold, hostile look he shot her made her spine stiffe.

Every cell of her body was screaming at her, the pain and fear and agony all coming together in a sort of disbelief. All she could do was stare blankly at the widening pool of blood between her thighs that betrayed her torn insides.

They were speaking louder, still in Italian, and she only startes when Leonardo put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Patience," she said automatically. "Winslow."

"What's a beautiful little girl like you doing out here? Surely we can call someone to come and get you?"

Patience looked at his kind face blankly. She thought of her aunt and uncle. She shook her head.

"Oh, dear," he said, but his smile was widening. "Poor thing. Dolce ragazzina."

More words. She wasn't sure what the men were saying now, whether they were speaking English or Italian. Her mind was as blank as a pane of glass. She was retreating into a space only she knew, a space where she didn't have to feel or think, a space where she didn't have to hurt, just feel comfortably numb.

A hand gently gripping her arm led her out of the room and down the hallway. If she had been in a more conscious state of mind she would have noticed that the door to the store room was open and she could have made a break for it. But instead she let herself be led to a limo, the back door opening into smooth leather seats.

The seats felt good against her legs but when she sat down, she erupted in pain again. Her insides throbbed. The bloodstain was the size of a silver dollar now.

Borghese slid down next to her, the man with the glasses next to him. He slammed the door. The man driving was the man in the trench coat. She sensed a tenseness from him that didn't let up, even after he gunned the engine and set off down the street.

The other man was still eying her coldly. It didn't make sense. She was hurt, couldn't he see that? Why was he still staring at her with his resentful, mistrustful black eyes? Why--

Borghese had leaned down to her. She was pressed against the driver's door, hunched over, and his entire body brushed hers as he leaned down.

"Have you had your monthlies yet?" He asked quietly, so quietly that she wasn't sure anyone else could hear. They certainly acted as if they didn't.

She nodded once. Her period had come for the first time last year, in the school showers, to the mockery and derision of the other girls.

"We're going to have to pay very, very close attention to your monthlies over the next few weeks."

She stared at him in a childish sort of confusion. His profile was elegant, handsome, like the movie stars in the theater posters she had crushed on. High cheekbones, blue eyes and a voice like cream.

"If you miss one of your monthlies, do you know what will happen? Do you know what will happen to your body? You'll grow a baby, right here." He pressed a finger just above her skirt, on her midriff.

The thought of having a baby was so alien to her it suddenly awaked a sort of consciousness. She started into reality. She looked into his eyes.

His voice was no longer like cream. It was like spoiled milk. "I'm going to teach you a lot about the human body over these few days. Especially about the reproductive system. We'll learn a lot together, oh we will, and I'll be honored to be your teacher."

The car idled at a stoplight, and her fingers scrabbled for the door handle. She caught it and fell backwards, skidding onto the concrete, scrambling up, legs bleeding, and running.

She dodged car after car, sometimes being missed by an inch. The beeps and curses echoed behind her as she stumbled onto the sidewalk.

Her legs were scraped, her breaths coming in high, winded gasps as she went out in a full-put sprint down the street. There were signs hung in an unfamiliar language, shady men in broad-brimmed hats and suspenders lining the street. Immodestly dressed women flitted between them, garish makeup caking their face. The crossroads were a confusing jungle of storefronts, chairs, shouting men, and potholed streets.

She was so distracted, so panicked, she crashed into someone and sprawled on the ground. The heels of her hands scraped the sidewalk where she wrenched them out to break her fall.

A drunken, red-rimmed gaze stared down at her. "Hey, kid. What's the matter?"

Patience tried to struggle up, lost her balance by the jolt of pain between her legs, and collapsed again. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know who these people were. She was suddenly, completely alone, and even as the man dragged her upright, she heard that silky voice that had come to signal her doom. "There you are, sweetheart. Don't wander away again, now."

Patience caught her feet and stumbled away. "Don't come near me!" She screamed, grabbing the attention of everyone on the street. She wrapped her arms around the man's waist. "Don't let him take me," she sobbed. His waist was lean yet muscular under her arms, and reminded her of her father. That thought made her cling closer.

The drunk man beside her was dark-haired, in a sleeveless shirt more suited to a laborer than the shabby suits most men on the street wore. His face was angular and pitted with scars that resembled the ones of her classmate Joey White, who'd had smalllpox as a child and had been the merciless victim of teasing for it. "Back off, Leo Angelino. I don't think this kid wants anything to do with you."

Borghese was standing in the sidewalk, flanked by his two men. In his neatly tucked suit and tie, he looked more professional than everyone on the street combined. "Salvatore, the child stole something from me. This is none of your business. Let me deal with her and I will let her go."

If Salvatore was just being contentious, it changed as he looked down at her. She wasn't sure whether his gaze had found the spot of blood on her skirt, or whether her generally ruffled appearance roused something in him.

"This ain't your fuckin street. Get out of here before I make you get out." People were moving to arm him at each side, people from his group of friends and from across the street. This was not Leonardo Borghese's territory, and by his body language, he knew it. His face was a mask as he stepped back. "Well. Have a lovely night out, Sal."

As they retreated, Salvatore's body was stiff as he saw them off, a venomous look on his face. When the crowd dispersed, he looked down at Patience, and his face softened. "Hey, kid. Are you all right? What did he--"

He wasn't able to finish his sentence as Patience had flung herself away from him and began running again, desperate to get as far away as possible from this hellish place and these hellish people, from everything--ignoring the indignant yelling, the confused looks after her.

Patience collapsed in a tenement neighborhood somewhere, too exhausted to continue. She felt her pocket and realized that her money was gone--it had to have fallen out during the chase. She had nothing now, no home, no gun, no money.

Nothing but a burning, aching pain between her legs that wouldn't go away.

#bonus chapter

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