#Pero tovar x you

[chronically-ghosted]

iron and charcoal

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: pero tovar x f!reader word count: 6.9K summary: Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –  Her. He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.  OR Pero falls hard for a princess and doesn’t know what to do with himself on your wedding night. warnings: angst, brief classism/xenophobia two very stubborn people, pero experiences one Human Emotion and cannot fully process it, arranged marriage, yearning, smut LIKE WOW, soft!pero that i broke my own heart with a/n: Thank you so much to @perotovar for this request: "congrats on your milestone, my love! so happy for you <33 i'm sending a little astrology 💫 + pero & #6 on the fluffy list OR #1 on the smutty list (whichever is speaking to you), because i wanna see your take on him 👀” – of course I chose the slutty one, just for you 😉 I’m actually pretty proud of this one - please consider reblogging if you like it too!

*the image in the header is for aesthetic purposes only and does not reflect the appearance of the reader*

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Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sometimes before battle, the clatter inside Pero’s head goes silent. It listens. It waits. 

Other times, it roars. Memories of family, of dead amigos, of mujeres he fucked – they all buck and scratch for a chance to blaze across his mind like a dust storm kicked up by an unbroken mustang. 

He doesn’t know which one he prefers or which one will win out. They both have their uses, necessary states of mind to survive whatever is barreling towards him – an ax, a monster out of legend, some other drunken mercenary he intentionally pissed off. It’s an unconscious decision, yet one that has served him well so far. He wouldn’t be alive today if some deep, primal part of him knew what he needed to live through another battle. 

And yet, his own trunk knocking against his hips as he climbed the sickly ostentatious stone steps to the top of the parapet, the handles starting to pinch his fingers, the barest – nearly invisible – tremor in his knees, he cannot fathom, for the life of him, why that singular phrase from his abuela played in his head like water swirling around and around a cenote. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

His inner voice, taking on a myriad of forms, of sounds and voices, never quite standing still, the one companion he could always rely on. 

Maybe it was warning him. Dust yourself off, boy, you know exactly how this was going to end. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

He feels sweat escape from the nape of curls at his neck, his cheeks warm and chest hot. Two more flights, he can manage two more flights. 

His abuela also liked to tell him something else: if hell doesn’t get him, his pride certainly will. 

It’s certainly what got him into this ridiculous farce in the first place. Because he can’t alchemize whatever is in his gut into vocalized syllables, he instead has to climb a truly incalculable amount of stairs, while carrying a ragged, torn trunk that weighs as much as his armor. 

Because he can’t form the right words, any words, about what he carries lodged beneath his breastbone for her. What draws him up and up and up and up because it’s lighter than hope, makes him lighter than air, and yet it clogs him up, chokes him out all the same. His pride, his vanity, cuts through it, through her – enough to keep him tongueless and dry but not enough to offer this lightness in his chest to her, for her. He can’t take the light out of him or else he fears what he will truly become.

So, he walks, he goes around and around on unforgiving stone steps until finally there is a door. He thinks about waiting, to catch his breath, but he knows he will just as easily turn around and go back the way he came, trunk still heavy and knocking against his hips, and that pride will be the death of him. So he keeps going, opens the handle, and makes abrupt eye contact with the two guards outside her door. They seem uninterested and unamused in his sweaty, stilted breathing, but by his less-than-royal attire, they easily clock him as one of their own; a man who fights to make his way in the world. The one on the left nods jerkily at him. 

What they see him as, what he will always be, is nearly the reason he kicks that fucking trunk all the way back down. Instead, he nods back, shoulders rounded, eyes down. 

“The princesa - the princess - is requesting the last of her things, to be b-brought up from the stables –,” he clears his throat, “drop this off for her and –,”

“Can’t let you in. King’s orders.�� The one on the right sees him as something else – a foreigner first and foremost, their similar stations in life irrelevant. His bright blue eyes rove over Pero’s dark skin, dark hair, jagged scar, distaste and disgust smearing his already ugly features. But he had been dealing with men like these all his life.

“Bueno, you can explain to the King himself why his daughter’s belongings were lost and disregarded. I hear she’s very fond of the Italian prints at the bottom of this . . .”

The guards glance at each other, calculating way above their paygrade. Pero jostles the trunk as if to show he is not above throwing it out the window. 

“Fine.” The second one snaps. “Drop it inside and come back immediately.”

He drops his head, a good little foreign boy. “Gracias, señor.” 

The heavy wooden door opens beneath the iron lock and the instant he is through, he bolts it behind him. Waits to see if the guards notice. They don’t. Perfectamente – all the time in the world. 

All in the time in the world – for what? 

To fail? Again?

He stows the trunk in front of the door, extra time, a few seconds maybe – as if she wouldn’t just tell him to get out the instant she laid eyes on him. Only time will tell. 

Out of the atrium, another door, this one set deep into the wall. A last line of defense. He knocks, once, then twice, then waits. El orgullo chokes him again but fuck it, he’s come this far. He knocks again, knocks something in his chest free and, with it, spill the words:

“Princesa? It’s me. I –,” it throttles him, “princesa, can you open the door?” 

Silence. His heart sits, buried in that trunk. Then –

“It’s unlocked, Pero.” 

His heart in his throat, he opens the door to presumably what will be your marriage bed. And yet, by the state of things, you could have been moving out of it. Trunks and bags stack high against the far wall – those fucking trunks he made such a scene over because the unnecessary weight would slow them all down remain untouched, arranged as they had been when they had been first brought in. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, his thumb absently pressing into the callus of his other hand as he glanced around. It is a beautiful room – tall windows, etched in scarlet drapes, to match the scarlet curtains around the bed. With gold thread and impossibly detailed paintings of the countryside, it is fit for a princess, a some-day queen. This is where someone with royal blood deserved to be, not in the back of a hot carriage for weeks on end, surrounded by dirty, loud, rough men. 

And yet, with your hair down, expansive gown from the ball tonight replaced with a simple cotton dress, you could not have been more out of place. Pero’s heart lurches briefly, moisture seeping from his mouth, as he realizes this is the same dress he bought you when the two of you had been accidentally separated by the caravan and your previous dress had been ruined in the mud. He had no idea you still kept it, much less wore it ever again. 

But if anyone asked him, you look more beautiful in this than any silk or velvet. 

Instead of unpacking, settling into your new home and eventual role as wife, you sit hunched over at the intricately carved mahogany desk, eagle feather quill scratching against parchment. You finish with a flourish and look over your shoulder at him, your eyes annoyingly unreadable. 

“Yes?”

A stupid brute some may call him, but he wasn’t entirely without awareness. Observation of your customs and what you considered inappropriate only encouraged him: if you really didn’t want him here, you would never have let him see you in this state.

But it’s hard to remember that under your icy stare. 

“Y-your things, Princesa. The last from the caravan.”

Your eyes slide over him, to the trunk in the shadows of the atrium. He can tell from a single glance that you know as well as he that trunk is not yours, that no one told him to come here with it, and yet he did it all the same. Something flashes over your eyes but it’s gone by the time you meet his gaze again. 

“Thank you. I am, as always, indebted to you.” 

He hates your words, but warmth spreads in his gut at the way you say it. That’s how it’s always been between you and him – saying one thing but meaning another. He’d never appreciated a sharp mind like yours until he realized you wield it as he wields a sharp sword. 

There are many things he’d never even dreamed of before he met you.

“Then, this means you’re leaving, I suppose.” You draw your sword against him. The metal flashes in your eyes as you stand, one hand against the curved tip of your chair. A bronze halo rims your outline, the fire behind you burning bright and hot. He knows if he touched your shoulder, your neck, your skin would be wonderfully warm. 

He wets his lips. “Si. Our contract with your father is done.” 

You drop his gaze, your lips tightening for a minute, your fingers running through the carvings of wood on the chair. “Even with William in his state? Would it not be better for him to stay and recover? The journey home is –,” you pause, as though someone had thrown a hand over your mouth, “– the journey back east is long.” 

All the longer without you.

“William, he is not an idle man. Two days of bedrest is often all he can take.” 

You grin, in spite of this thing circling you both. “Unless he finds the nun attending to him beautiful.

“He finds them all beautiful.” 

Your smile expands wide across your bright face when you find him smiling at you too. 

This – if this is to be his last memory of you (his heart wrenches at the thought) – this is the you he wants imprinted on his soul: smiling and glowing by firelight. 

But as quickly as it came, that grin that warms him down to his bones, fades. In an instant, your eyes grow soft, your mouth twisted, jaw tight.

“Where will you go?” you ask, in the quietest voice you’d ever addressed him with. 

It pains him, physically aches within him, to hear the distress in your voice. He hasn’t even thought about the next contract, the next royal cabrón who intends to yank him all across God’s green earth to perform a task he can’t be fucked to take on himself. How can he possibly answer you? Nowhere, without you. To rot in a dark hole in the ground? Off a cliff? What answer would provide you or him any sort of satisfaction?

“Wherever the coin goes,” he says and the words scrape his tongue like bile. That ache in his chest spiraling rapidly, deep into his gut – like a poisoned limb he cannot amputate – he does the same thing he always does when he’s hurt: he makes others hurt until they leave him alone. “You do not have to worry, princesa, your new husband will keep you in such comfort you will never wonder where the coin comes from.”

He must be a truly sick man, for the knife-sharp glare you throw at him only knots arousal around the base of his spine. It tugs on something attached directly to his groin which, in turn, yanks the next words out of his mouth.

“He looked especially happy with you in his arms on the dance floor tonight.”

The icy shards in your eyes go brittle and crack. His heart races; he’s overplayed his hand. 

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

You shake your head, eyes bright and searing through him. “No. It was only the King’s Knights there in attendance.” 

Your hand trailing off the edge of the chair, you take a step forward and he feels his weight shift back onto his heels. But he remains firm. 

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

“To return the last of your things, princesa. What else is there?”

You flinch, as if he had raised his voice to you. What else is there indeed?

“Not even to . . .  say goodbye? Sixteen weeks on the road is an awfully long time to be around someone, only for them to . . . leave so soon.”

He locks his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you wish for me to tell you goodbye, princesa?” 

There’s something painfully sad about the way you smile at him. “I wish for whatever would make you happiest.” 

Anger roars within him, hungry and hot, like a burn from a white flame. Why can’t you just admit it? Why do you avoid it time and time again? He knows he hasn’t misread anything you’ve sent his way, so why? Why are you so vested in torturing him this way? 

“Coin makes me happy and, now that I have it, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

There, that hurts you too, just as he meant it.

“Then leave.” They could make ice fortresses out of the strength of your bone-cold stare. “If you have nothing else to say, then take your goddamn trunk and get out of my sight.” 

The flame scorches him, ripping him apart and in his anger, making him cruel.

He bows to you.

“I imagine you will be very happy with your new husband, ranita.”

The term slips from his lips before he can stop it, but his throat and cheeks blister so badly, he physically can’t open his mouth to correct his mistake. Instead, he turns and strides towards the door.

He thinks he hears a gasp from behind him, a sharp sound like breaking glass – small, tinkling, tragic. It spears him through his chest, pierces his heart. 

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

Of course he has something to say – words in English and Spanish and broken dialects gathered like poisonous lichen all churning in the boiling cauldron of his mind, but nothing will suffice – nothing reflects or compares to the grief he is already feeling, the despair, the anguish that has settled into all the fleshy joints in his body. Not his pride, but this, saying goodbye to you, this is what actually will kill him.

Every word imaginable crawls up his throat and rages in his mouth, presses up against his teeth, begging for something, anything to be let out, to be free, to tell you that he cannot fucking live without you–

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.” 

The fire crackles in the silence, a wicked god pleased at the display of carnage.

“What did you say?”

A dull thud echoes from where he drops his forehead against the wood of the door, all anger flooding out of his system. Do you have any idea the power you hold over him? One request, one tremor in your voice and his knees all but buckle at your altar. 

Fuck it. 

He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but he’d never expected to be so exposed, so flayed like this.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his throat as dry as sand. “Do not . . . marry him. Please.” 

The vision of your great warrior slumped against the door frame, his neck bent, shoulders curled up to his ears has your already pounding heart leaping forward into a gallop. He is defeated, laid low. You watch his guts all but pool out on your hearth. 

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel. 

Your soldier, your man of iron and charcoal, goes blurry in your eyes.

“And what would you have me do, Pero?” Your plea is damp, malleable at the edges. You press your hand flat against your chest, near your throat, as if you could pull the grief lodged there with your fingers. “I have been engaged to this man before I was even born. How can I stop this?” 

“Fight.” The word snarls against his bare teeth. He turns, his eyes liquid ink, and suddenly he has you by the shoulders. His thumbs nervously skitter around the curve of your shoulder, gaze just as unsteady and unfocused as it wavers between your hands, your earlobe, your neck. "Where is my brave girl who fights for what she wants, hm? Fight – for me, please.”

Fight, he asks – but in spite of him or because of him?

You lay your hands on the silver shine of his breastplate, watch as they rise and fall with his steady flow of breath. How many nights had you woken up against that shine, in the crook of his arm for warmth, or protection? You didn’t cherish it at the time because you never knew when it would be your last. 

“Why won’t you fight, princesa?” His voice is low, strained, the groan of a wagon wheel before it breaks. You meet his gaze and the exposed look on his face, softening every line on his mouth and around his eyes, nearly sends you into hysterics. You swallow the tears, swallow the hook in your throat as your fingers curl around the clasps of his cape. 

"Because if I don't fight then I can't lose.” His fingers slip from your shoulders, to your elbows, to your waist. You inhale and the scents of warm leather, oil, and ash flood your mouth. The tip of your nose is inches from the scruff of beard against his cheek, the ruddy brown of his sun-drenched skin. He has curled you into him and this, you do not fight either. His massive palms map your back, against your skin, but without any urgency or control. “If I can’t lose, that means I don’t lose you. You'll just be . . . gone."

That last word is a lie. It hangs in the air like a sweltering humid rain and you both know you’re lying. He has you wrapped up in his arms, you didn’t stop him even for a second, and you are all too aware that it would take some great, insidious alchemy to ever truly tear him out of you. 

You stare at his silver collar, defiant against the waves you had managed to shackle down until this very moment: a wave of hopeless crashes into you, a wave of heartbreak, a wave of helpless that fills your eyes to the point of spilling with that very same salt water.

He touches your cheek delicately, fingers rough with callouses, and the floodgates break open with a sob. 

“Preciosa,” he rumbles softly against your hairline, “hush. You break my heart with your tears.” 

“Do not mock me, Tovar. Not now.” you sniff, trying to turn your face but his wide hands catch you around the cheeks.

“You are beyond mocking. I’d show you my heavy heart but I do not wish that weight on anyone.” The snag of his rough thumbs against your cheek draws your watery gaze to him. His mouth is a flat line, barred against whatever climbs his throat, but his eyes move like mercury across your nose, your eyelashes, the arch of your cheek. Your fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, a grounding agent against the waves that threaten to pull you under. 

“Pero, I –,”

“I have fought you, tooth and nail, for days without end. Every favor, every breath, you have forced them from me. I fight my own mind when I sleep at night. Sueños, always of the same woman.” He smears away the tears with his thumbs, gently, sweetly, before pressing his lips to your wet flesh by his knuckle. He inhales deeply, eyes closed, mouth hovering stationary above the skin of your cheek. “You fight me every step of the way . . . and I am so tired of fighting.” 

For all your struggling, for all your tearing and clawing and snarling against the blooming in your chest, nothing is as easy as it is to turn your head and press your lips to his. 

The brush of his bristled mustache against your upper lip. His warm, rough palms holding you steady. His lips soft and hot. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him.

There is nothing like, and nothing will ever be like, finally kissing Pero Tovar. 

All it takes is the movement of his hands from your cheeks to your lower back, the light trace of his tongue against your lips, and the yearning you’d been smothering for weeks now roars to life. His hands squeeze your hips and you can suddenly barely breathe. 

“Pero–,” the noise in the shape of his name that escapes you is near a whine, begging. He nips at your lips, hand firmly at the cup of your jaw, mouth now rough and insistent, and your fingers claw up his neck, wrapping themselves in his dark curls. You tug, nails scratching his scalp, and he groans into your mouth as if you’d just kneed him in the gut.

A thread-bare gasp of your name from his lips splits you from him, then his hand on your hip and the back of your neck pushing you backwards gives you enough air to breathe – to think.

"Your husband will know you're not a virgin,” Pero warns, breathing hard and fast, his eyes like black flints, “if we go on." 

You curl your fingers around his neck, dragging your mouth near his jaw, the soft skin at the edge of his ear.

"Then he will also know my heart is not his either.” You ask everything of him with this. His armor blocks his warm body from you – you want to sink inside his hard shell. “If you’ll have it.”

He is not himself, half-human with an inhuman want, with the snarl that leaves him. 

“Don’t make such promises, dulzura –,” A threat, a dog forced to expose its underbelly, fear radiating like the pain from a broken bone. Your fingers dig into the buckles of his cape, steadying you against a sudden terrible awareness that bloomed, purple-bruised. 

“Unless you don’t want –,” 

The desk rattles when your hips break against it, the force of his kiss enough to topple over your inkwell, spill rolls of parchment to the floor. The wood groans under your weight when he gathers the thick swell of your thighs in his hands, heaves you onto the flat surface, and spreads your knees around his waist. He is as hard as the iron on his chest. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

A frantic sigh of relief, a groan shared between two pairs of lips, seeking skin and warmth and other hungry places. 

He drags you onto his chest, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the rings of his armor digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth covering yours in wet pulls, and he stands up right, as though you weighed less than his sword. 

A stumble, and he spreads you out on the velvet covers of your marriage bed, his hands imprinting on your hips, your knees, the supple meat of your calves. The touch of him on your bare skin feels like the licks of flames, the smoke of arousal blurring your awareness and dragging your eyelids half-closed. On his heels at the edge of the bed, the flint shards of his eyes drift over the bones of your ankles, the bend of your knee, your heaving chest, hair in snarls around your neck and caught behind your back, and finally to your cunt, hidden by the folds of your dress. 

Velvet hums as you slide your ankles to the curve of your ass, widening your legs, parting your knees. His lips part open, dark want etching every line of his face. You feel the wet linen of your dress cling to your achy cunt. He swallows, unbuckling his cape one latch at a time, his eyes nowhere else. The metal clatters as it falls to the floor.

Piece by piece, the chinks in his armor fall away. Piece by piece, he is revealed to you. Your hands rise up, up your thighs to your knees, your thumbs rubbing soft circles. He watches, never tears his gaze away from your sticky hole, his nimble fingers working away the buckles and knots with practiced precision. You can see it in his eyes – memories of bedrolls by firelight, of such a deep painful, yearning ache, separated only by thin tarp, they are a physical weight beside you in this marriage bed. 

You see them because they’re there for you too. You see them because you've been here a dozen times, on your back, legs spread wide, your hands circling but never dipping, waiting. Wanting. For him. 

His bare chest is warm, the wings of his ribs expanding around short, half-drawn breaths, as he crawls up into your pliant mouth. The kisses are slow, like before, with a crackle of heat just beyond them, his hips slipping into the cradle of your thighs, the wet warmth of you separated by the thin linen of your dress. He sucks the tendon below your ear, a whine slipping out of your mouth, fingers spreading over the harsh planes of his back, and his cock bobs against your thigh. 

Pero is bare and warm and entirely yours. All man beneath the sweltering armor. 

“Amorcita,” he drips into your ear, kisses smeared against your collarbone, your mouth, your earlobe, “amorcita, amorcita . . . ranita, let me take you.” 

He starts to use teeth, a harder nip behind his kisses, when he dips down to your chest. A wide palm with stocky fingers grasps at your breast and it’s a startling sensation for you both. 

“Soft,” he moans before licking up under the supple curve of your breast, mouthing at what his tongue missed. He slips your erect nipple into his mouth and twists it between his teeth. “Sweet,” he murmurs with your nipple firmly between his lips. 

This is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You deliriously thank the gods that he hadn’t touched you like this on the road; you would have kept him, your own wild animal, in bed without rest for days on end.

Pero plucks just as aggressively at your other breast, the spit-wet nipple that preoccupied his mouth verging on purple and aching. He cups you from the outside this time, squeezing and massaging, ringing your nipple with his tongue until your back bows and you let out a whine that has his eyes flickering up to you, the scent of wounded prey filling his nostrils. 

That whine of pleasure elongates into a whimper: “please.”

“Tranquila, ranita.” His touch is softer around your bruised tits, but he keeps one hand bagging the weight of your breast while the other slips beneath your skirt.

The pads of his fingers brush your creamy cunt and with a yelp, you grab him by the wrist, your eyes open with a familiar emotion he draws out of you: rage.

“Pero Tovar, if you value your life you will take me under the covers and put your —,”

He chuckles, his cheek against yours, nose rimming the velvet hairs on the ridges of your ear. The vibrations liquify the tension in your bones, loosening your grip. Your eyes flutter, slick obviously running down his fingers. “Ranita, I don’t think you know how you want to end that sentence..”

His words roll like honey over the heat of your skin. It makes your skin tremble. Your grip tightens on his wrist and you roll your hips, your swollen clit finally relieved by the pressure of his palm. 

“Oh, oh, Pero—,” 

With a grunt, he shuffled closer, elbow by your shoulder and he cups your entire wet cunt in his hand, pushing the heel of his palm flatter against you. You cry out, a sparkling kind of pleasure radiating out from where his hand rests. You buck your hips faster, complete release flickering through your outstretched hand. 

“Can you come like this?” You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you barrel towards escape, and you feel him shudder next to you. You are intimately aware that he’s rubbing his cock on the crease of your hip bone but that only drags you faster towards the light. “Then come, ranita, come and I’ll fuck you.” 

The wet, curling heat growing between your legs descends, then in a bright snap, explodes across your body. 

“Fuck!” You tear open your eyes to find them damp, Pero’s massive hand cupping your cheek towards him, his stallion eyes dark as his fingers drag on the soaked material of your dress, your hips slowing. 

“Amorcita, breathe.” The words are torn from his chest, all cock-suredness gone from his frantic gaze. You gulp in air, the weight of his body over yours grounding and smothering you all at once. He pulls his hand away from you, rides it up your thigh to your waist, looking for something to hold onto. He strokes his thumb once against your overheated skin and you’re wriggling up out of your dress. 

“Help,” you hiss and his fingers nearly tear the fabric off you.

With a few undone buttons, you shiver out of your dress, the slick-drenched spots catching on your warm skin. He flings it behind him, near the fireplace. 

He takes you barely beneath the thick covers before you welcome him back to the heat of your open legs. 

But instead of reeling back and plunging his aching cock into you, he takes the time to kiss you. To praise you in all the ways he fears his mouth will end up short. He kisses you, grateful, reverent – wonderful to be swallowed by but also a distraction.

When he lifts your knees by his waist, your hips automatically tilt towards him and for the first time, you feel his red, sore cock between your tacky lips. The dual sensation nearly drags you over the rack of delectably delicious pleasure, as does his worn, broken groan in your ear. 

“More, please, don’t stop.” You cry against the bristles of his beard, his hand dropping between your sweat-slick bodies, finding yours already there to guide him. The press of him spreads you open, filling you one sinking notch at a time. The sensation of your pink, dripping walls moving to take more of him in has you arching up into his chest, nails dragging into his back. His dry lips stifle the moans escaping from your mouth. 

Pero takes both of your hands in his, dragging them above your head, his fingers locking your palms together as his hips roll forward. “Cálmate, amorcita, cálmate,” he murmurs between distracted presses of his mouth against your chin, your cheek, his breathing heavy and stunted. You writhe, pinned open by his hips and his hands, his cock filling you all too slowly and not fast enough. 

With the last few inches, you take him completely, your cunt throbbing, heart pounding, intoxicated by the sensation of being so maddeningly full. Pero drapes over you, his head tucked into your neck, forearms straining with the tension of gripping your hands tightly. 

“Santa madre . . .” He is not a warrior right now. He is but a man, cunt-drunk and heaving. 

His name is pushed out of the bottom of your lungs with the first swing of his hips. You cling to him, knees at his ribs, unwilling to let even an inch of space between your bodies. But this becomes increasingly difficult as his thrusts gain speed. His flushed lips stain a sticky line against your jaw, down to your throat, and he releases your hands, the oak of the bed creaking beneath the force of him drilling down into you, he props himself up on his palms, his shoulders bent and curled over you, biceps straining, hairline damp, eyelids fluttering. The scar on his cheek is flushed pink.

“Look, amorcita, look how well you take me.”

His words tear you from your nebulous high, the grit of them forcing your head down to the obscene squelch beneath the sheets. The thatch of rough curls over his groin is drenched in slick, his thick cock soaked to the point of shine as it drives into you again and again. The heavy draft of breath the sight steals from him, the tap of his cock against a place so deep you didn’t know your body possessed, draws the spooling bliss as tight as a wire. 

Your trembling thighs squeeze him tighter, that hot pressure rendering you speechless, except for the most pathetic whine. Please, Pero, please, you think, you mutter, you whisper, your body rocking damp against the sheets. 

With a sudden snarl, he takes the chunk of your hair at the base of your head flat in his fists and tugs. A shoot of bright pain sparks bliss down to your tight and bruised nipples, and you cry out again. 

“Stop fighting, puedo sentir cuanto la quieres. Let me have it.” It is the following word that splits you open like lighting carving apart a tree. “Please.”

The wail that you release is the rush of gooseflesh over your skin alchemized into audible sound. Heat radiates through you, sucking the air from your lungs, your vision going blurry, then black as you clamp your eyes shut against the rush, the final release, that curls you into his arms. His warm, flushed arms, shaking with strain. A final wobbly thrust or two and his elbows are buckling, sweat-drenched chest pressing into your own.

Distantly, you are aware of the warm, slick drip down your thighs, his cock pulsing the last drops into your cum-flecked cunt, and the dangers this sort of intimacy poses. You can’t gather enough breath, enough sense to settle the spinning room, to worry or even care. 

Your his, and he is yours. That is all that will ever matter. 

The crackle of wood burning is the only other sound than your ragged breaths, the silent roll of sweat from sticky hot skins into the bedsheets. The stone walls of the castle’s room entomb you together for a brief stretch of infinity.

Pero moves and you think he’s going to back out of you, but instead, he merely adjusts, his head fully on your chest, thick fingers clutching your bruised waist, the shift of his cock pushing more of his release out of your oversensitive cunt. But you’ll take overstimulation over his absence every time. You run your fingers through his damp curls and he hums. 

“I’m sorry,” he huffs into your humid skin. “I’m sorry I let my pride keep us apart for so long.” 

You grin lazily to the ceiling, your breath settling as affection takes its place in your chest. 

“You were not the only one blinded by vanity.” 

“But I’m not blind. Not anymore.” He lifts his head, eyes as dark as your spilled inkwell. “I am never letting you go.” 

You smile at him, fingers soft against the back of his neck. “I don’t plan on wandering away.” 

His oil-black gaze drops to your lips and he leans forward to take your mouth against his. Gentle, but with the promise of more. 

“Mi ranita,” he purrs to break the kiss. 

“You call me that all the time, Pero. What does it mean?”

At that, a nearly shy expression crosses his face. He shakes his head, shifting onto his elbows to lift off you. “I can’t tell you. It will ruin your good mood.” 

You gasp, offended, and you grab him by the ear and twist. He chuckles through a grimace. “You will tell me what that means, Pero Tovar, if you value your appendages.” 

“Órale, princesa, retract your claws and I will tell you.” 

You release your grip and settle against your pillow. Grinning bashfully, he kisses your neck briefly.

“Remember that I love you after I tell you this.” 

Your heart nearly stops, the absence of a steady beat nearly drawing tears to your eyes but you hold firm. You breathe deeply against the fluttering in your stomach and pin him with your glare. Of course, this is how he would profess his love to you – when he’s trying to get out of trouble. 

“Tell me, Tovar!”

He chuckles again and preemptively picks up your hands. He kisses the inside of your palms, settling himself between your thighs. 

“It means little frog.” Your mouth falls open in a gasp and you struggle to yank your hands back from him, hissing like a tea kettle, but he uses his weight to press down on you. He nips at your nose. “I call you that because when you’re upset with me, much like you are now, you puff up like a bullfrog, your cheeks like this–,”

He rounds his cheeks full of air, crossing his eyes, and you simply cannot take the slight anymore. You push roughly against his gut, the breath trapped in his mouth escaping in a hot puff, and you twist him onto his back. He lets you, of course, his bold, full laughter rendering him defenseless. His body shakes beneath you, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open wide as he laughs and laughs and laughs. You take him by the wrists and push his limp hands over his head, pinning him as he had you. You pinch his chin with your teeth, your messy cunt over his stomach, as his laughter subsides. 

“Have you had your fun yet?” 

“Barely,” he chuckles, turning his big nose against your cheek and inhaling. He hums.

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

Pero opens his eyes, sober as death rattle. He takes you in, not in a hungry, all-consuming way, but in a look that speaks of awe and rapture.

“You are everything to me.”

You sigh, releasing his hands and curling into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, your eyes on the roaring fire. His thumbs rub your shoulder blades, trace the lines of your spine.

“You’re so very lucky I love you too.” 

His wandering against the expanse of your back stills, just for a moment, before his fingers slide into your hair, around the nape of your neck, holding you to him with the intention of keeping you there forever.

“I know, ranita, I know.” 

He watches you sleep as the sky lightens beyond the tall windows on the opposite side of the bedroom. The dying fire traces your edges in gold, settling heat in the curve of your lips. 

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

There’s more terrible things to come, he knows that. The plan the two of you concocted in the early morning hours will be dangerous, deadly even. But dying together instead of living apart would be much more tolerable, you told him earlier that night, your hand on his chest. 

He would kill if you asked. He would kill, even if you didn’t, to keep you safe and by his side. You’ve proven yourself capable of living a life away from this spectacular opulence, but it pains him to know he will never be able to give you anything nearly as lovely as the velvet dresses in the closet, the gold jewelry in your trunks. 

Instead, all he has to offer is himself. His strength, his hands, his heart. It’s his own fear that tells him that’s not enough, because you remind him again and again that’s more than you ever wanted. 

He traces the curve of your cheek with the hovering pad of his finger, brushing your hair away from your face. How he ended up so lucky with your love, he’ll never know, but he will spend the rest of his days proving that he’s earned it. 

You stir in your sleep, sensing him above you, and he hates to steal even a few minutes of blissful sleep from you, knowing the endless nights that are coming. When he steals you away from all that you’ve ever known. 

The sleepy grumble in your throat resembles his name as he curls around you, but your eyes remain gently closed. He pulls you against him, the air that leaves your mouth and sits between your chest and his something he covets with his whole heart. 

I love you and I’m disgustingly lucky and I love you. 

He is a man made of dust, serving men made of silver. He is a man of dust, loving a woman made of gold.

El orgullo? No, Abuela, his ranita will get him first, last, and every time.

+

Translations:

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. - This rhyme is typically said to children when they have just hurt themselves. The parent (or grandparent) usually rubs the part that is sore and sings this little tune. Literally translates to: "heal, heal, little frog’s tail. If you don’t heal today, you will heal tomorrow."

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

Tranquila - quiet, as in "be quiet" or "relax"

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

puedo sentir cuanto la quieres - I can feel how much you want it/love it

Órale - okay, or an exclamation expressing approval or encouragement.

ranita - little frog, but you knew that already ;)

the rest are cognates (or familiar words) which you can probably guess the meaning of, but feel free to message me if you don't know!

[hellfire-state-of-mind]

i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands)

pairing: Pero Tovar x fem!reader

rating: E for Explicit

word count: 2.2k

warnings: 18+ content, fingering/hand job, unprotected piv, creampie, praise kink, brief talk of injury/treatment (reader gives him stitches), reader has no physical description besides breasts and feminine clothing, Tovar is able to lift reader

a/n: my submission for @iamasaddie's kinky may challenge! i was given the honor of writing Tovar with a praise kink 😤 i haven't written smut in a long time so please be gentle 🥲 extra special shoutouts to @frannyzooey and @joelscruff for hyping me up with the snippets i shared with them. feedback is always welcome, i was equal parts excited and scared to write this so i'd love to hear what y'all think 🙂

Tovar squirms again, making your hand slip and press harder on the wet rag you’re using to clean the sizeable gash along his right collarbone. He hisses slightly through his teeth before glancing down at you. You glare at him and huff once more.

“I told you to stop moving.”

Before he can respond, you hike up your skirt with your free hand and straddle his thighs. Tovar freezes completely upon your sudden movement, gripping the bench now supporting the both of you, his brows raised as you lock eyes.

“Now, hold still.”

You twist to the table next to you and pick up a sewing needle and thread, taking a moment to hold the needle in the flame of a lit candle to sterilize it before threading the eye. You don’t ask if he’s ready before beginning to stitch the wound.

Your stitches are slow but precise in the low candlelight. When you finish, you lean forward slightly to cut the thread with your teeth and secure the ends. It’s only when you pull away to set aside your tools that you notice Tovar’s breathing, or rather the lack of. He’s completely still as a statue, focused on a vague point off in the distance behind you.

“Did it really hurt that much?” You maneuver to try and catch his eyes but he veers away. You teasingly brush your fingertips down his muscular bicep. “I thought a big, tough mercenary like you could handle more than a few stitches without a fuss.”

Tovar clears his throat and his voice comes out lightly strained and breathy. “It is…not my wound that is the trouble.”

He shifts uncomfortably beneath you and you feel it. His full erection is pressed against your bare inner thigh. You can feel his weight and warmth just as he can feel yours. You bite back a smirk when he passes you a guilty glance.

“Forgive me, my dear. It has been a long time since I’ve felt a woman’s touch.”

You pause to consider your next move. You can’t deny your own attraction to the man, and you’ve been experiencing an extended dry spell of your own. It’s a miracle your own arousal hasn’t found its way to the front of his trousers where you’re still perched. Who knows how long he’ll stay here at the Wall? Who knows if he’ll even live to see another moonrise? What’s the harm in a little release?

You smirk and look up at him through your eyelashes. “Allow me to relieve your pain, then.”

You slide back on his thighs far enough to reach between the two of you and unfasten his pants. He grips your wrists with one thick, massive hand to stop you from going further.

“I cannot ask you to do that.” His voice and eyes are stern, intent on not crossing any unwanted boundaries.

You look back at him with sincerity. “You’re not asking me. I want to.”

“Querida-”

“No one ordered me to tend to your wound. I came because I wanted to. I wanted to help you,” you gently pry your hands from his grasp, “and I’m not leaving until I’ve finished helping you.”

Tovar’s expression is difficult to read. You can see the turmoil behind his eyes, so you try to make the decision easier for him. Shifting closer once more, you take his hand and guide it between your own legs. The corner of your mouth twitches up as his pupils dilate upon coming in contact with your soft, damp hairs. You press him further into your wetness, cupped fully in the palm of his hand now, and he breathes in sharply.

“If you truly want me to go-”

“No.” Tovar cuts you off quietly. You smile in satisfaction when you remove your hand but his does not budge. “But I will not indulge in what is not offered.”

Striking your final blow, you undo the strings closing the top of your tunic, shrugging the shoulders off and letting it fall around your waist. Your breasts are exposed, nipples peaking in the cool night air from the window beside you. Tovar’s eyes are ablaze now as he takes you in, using every last bit of his willpower to resist until you give the word.

“Is this offering enough?”

The breath is stolen straight from your lungs as Tovar plunges one thick finger inside you up to the knuckle, his other hand smoothing up your bare thigh to your ass cheek and grasping it. He tugs you close so your tits are pressed to his solid chest as he slowly pumps in and out of you.

Your hands fly to his shoulders to steady yourself, but you move them away just as quickly when you put pressure on his fresh stitches. Tovar only grunts softly, otherwise not acknowledging the slip. You instead find a handhold along his ribs, gripping him tightly as warmth begins to spread up into your belly. He nuzzles his nose into your cheek, breathing deep and focused as he eases a second finger inside and increases his speed. You gasp at the foreign stretch and claw at his sides.

Tovar’s hips buck into you at the pinch, and you’re reminded of your initial mission. One hand slips past his waistband and settles on his hip. You bow your head and spit into the other before reaching down his front to grasp his length. The two of you groan simultaneously at the new sensation. You start pumping him, matching the pace of his fingers.

Your motions soon falter, though, as Tovar curls his fingers to press into your sweet spot. Your head falls to the side and rests on his, unable to stay up on its own as the wave of euphoria builds and threatens to crest. You fight to maintain your own strokes as Tovar chuckles from deep in his chest into your ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, querida. So soft and warm, so tight.” He cuts himself off with a stronger groan as your hand on his hip circles back to the top of his ass, while the one wrapped around his cock slides down to cup his balls as well. “I know you’re close. Don’t fight it, bonita. Give it to me.”

 The wave comes crashing over you with his encouragement. You mouth drops open as you make no attempt to smother your cries. Tovar flexes as your hips rut against him.

“Very good. Let it out, let me hear you.”

Tovar continues his movements until you’ve completely come down from your high, though it begins to build again almost as soon as it dissipates. Finally, he removes his fingers, making a soft pop as your walls try to suck him back inside. He raises them to his lips and generously sucks off all your release from them, never once breaking eye contact. You feel a fresh gush of arousal drip down your thigh at the sight. You quickly fumble to pull down his trousers and free his raging cock. Tovar tilts his hips, tugging them down to his mid-thighs, but grasps you by the waist before you can impale yourself on him.

“I need you to say it first, mi amor. I simply cannot take what is not freely given.”

“Then take me,” you huff impatiently.

Tovar loosens his grip enough for you to rise onto your knees, notching the weeping head of his cock at your entrance. You lock eyes with him and take a deep, steadying breath before sinking down. You cry out in both pain and pleasure, the stretch more intense than his fingers especially after so long without. Tovar moans along with you, letting out a pained shout of his own as you take him all the way inside, settling onto his lap once more.

You nuzzle into his neck, inhaling his scent of sweat and a hint of gunpowder, your breath hot against his skin. You try rocking your hips to relieve some of the tension, but Tovar abruptly stands, slipping out but clutching you to him tightly. You whine at the loss, then gasp when you feel the coolness of the thin sheets adorning the simple bed in the opposite corner of the room.

Tovar settles above you, supporting most of his weight on his knees and forearms. His pelvis rests lightly between your spread legs, his hardness bobbing against your mound with every breath. The dark trail of hair leading up his abdomen tickles your stomach, and you take the opportunity to truly admire the specimen hovering above you. The rippling muscles in his back, littered with long-healed battle scars breaking up the smooth skin. His dark hair, cut short but curling slightly at the nape of his neck. You rake your fingers through it, pulling him close. Tovar rests his forehead against yours, lips parted, exchanging breath. His gaze is piercing but you feel yourself being pulled in rather than pushed away.

Tovar must feel the same as he leans down just enough that your lips brush, but not seal together. You whimper his name on the verge of desperation and he closes the gap. He immediately takes charge, his tongue invading your mouth, feeling and tasting every crevice. You buck into him once again and he rips away from you, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand splayed across your lower belly.

You want to scream in frustration. “Tovar, please!”

“Shh, I know, mi amor. I know what you need. And you’ve been so good for me, I promise I will give it to you.” He moves his hand away and guides his tip back inside, pressing in slowly until his hips are flush with yours. The two of you groan in sync again and you wrap your legs around him, locking him in. “But we must go slow. I would hate to finish too quickly and bring an end to such pleasure that has only just begun.”

With this, he captures your lips with his own once more. You two stay locked like this for a while, savoring each other’s taste and touch. Tovar’s hands explore your body as you did his, tracing bones and squeezing flesh. Only when you feel totally consumed by him does he retreat from you, leaving only his tip inside. Tilting your chin up to look at him, he sinks back in to the root. And again. And again. Your second high hits you without warning as he sets the perfect rhythm.

Tovar bites back a guttural moan as he feels you tighten around him. “Dios mio, mi amor. You’re taking me so well. I would stay just like this forever if I could, buried in this cunt.”

You feel as if you’re floating, evaporating into the air from his heat and force of his thrusts. Your pleasure reaches new heights as he cups the back of your knee and pushes it up to your chest, welcoming him impossibly deeper. Tovar’s intense gaze remains on your face as he fucks you, committing every sound and expression of bliss to his memory.

You feel the wave cresting again just as his hips begin to stutter but never lose their force. You try to call out his name, a warning of your impending release, but you only manage pleading cries of “please.”

He understands immediately, snaking his other arm underneath you and up to your shoulder, pulling you against him as he slams into you. His voice is just as desperate, strained from holding off his own release to wait for yours.

“That’s it, mi amor. Cum for me. Cum on my cock. I want it. I need it. I crave it.” His snarling in your ear tips the scales in your favors, sending you over the edge. Your legs tighten around him as your back arches off the mattress. Tovar takes one breast into his mouth, biting and sucking his mark onto you. He unlatches in time to smack his hips to yours once, twice, three more times. A roar erupts from him as his cock pulses, forcing out rope after rope of his cum to coat your walls, content to plant there and never escape.

He fills you to the brim, milky white droplets beginning to seep out from where your hole has sealed around him. When he’s finally spent, he lowers himself flush to you, arms curling around your back. The salty, heady scent of your activity surrounds the two of you as you each fight to regain your senses.

You card your fingers through his hair once more as Tovar turns his head to press his lips to your neck. Soft at first, then open and hungry, nipping at the skin to coax out another mark matching the one on your breast, tongue soothing the spot after each bite.

You hear his breath begin to deepen and slow, feel his heartbeat matching it. You know you shouldn’t allow yourself to fall asleep beneath him. But how could you rip yourself from his arms now?

As if sensing your thoughts, Tovar rests his head atop yours, gazing into your eyes once more, lids half-closed.

“Ay, mi amor. I have half a mind to steal you away with us. What kind of man would I be to leave behind such perfection?” He seals your lips together and, at the same time, your mind.

What’s the harm in being his forever?

[wardenparker]

Baked in Soulmates

Pero Tovar x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 14.5k Warnings: Fluff, random historical factoids, flirting, grumpy-sunshine dynamic, discussion of past lovers/lives, talking about sex, food/alcohol consumption, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex. Summary: After having a premonition about him many decades ago, Peor Tovar finally walks into your bakery and turns your world inside out. Notes: Inspired by and based upon The Smell of Fresh Bread - a Writer Wednesday that Keri did some time ago, which has long been one of my favorite Pero pieces ever. It's a great way to bring Spooktober to an end! 🧡 As always, I apologize for any errors I might have missed in proofreading.

It was a rare day that saw you sitting at the table in the staff sitting room with nothing to do, and today unfortunately was no exception. While the cook took her time with the menus and the pantry and fussing at the scullery maids, you put in the long and diligent hours of a baker all for the benefit of this one great house.

It worked well for you, or at least it had in the past, to come into a large house like this and cook here for as many years as you can remain inconspicuous before finding an excuse to move on. It's easier that way. There are fewer explanations to give.

At least in this house there are more like you.

Kneading the dough for buns that will be studded with dried fruit and candied peel to be slathered with butter at tea, you hum quietly to yourself and focus on the rhythm of the work. Baking has been your steady companion through every lifetime you've lived and every country you've passed through, keeping you steady even when your magic became erratic or the treacherous uphill march of immortality weighed too heavily on your shoulders. A soft hum and the steady pace of kneading dough will keep you moving forward. They always have before.

“Ohhhh they are wanting their tea early.” Sally comes bursting into the kitchen, flustered and annoyed. “They are wanting it at three instead of four.” She huffs as she rushes over to the large cabinet. “And the mister wants another cup of coffee now that he has let the last one get too cold.”

"And he'll not perish during the five minutes that it takes to make," you hum pleasantly, not looking up from your work. The young housemaid seems always to be in a tizzy and you're far too old at this point to get worked up about anything so generally small. "Tea at three is just fine. Everything will be ready in time."

“Are you sure?” She hates when they change things around, believing that the house should run like a clock and it shouldn’t change.

"I will work a little faster, that is all." And there may be a dash of magic in the teacakes if necessary, just to make sure they rise in time. The family need never know.

“You are magical.” She heaves a sigh of relief, always put at ease by your unflappability. “It is always when he decides to come home.”

“If I had a shilling for every time a man made plans needlessly complicated, I would be rich as Croesus,” you hum, almost dismissively, but laugh to put Sally at ease. The fact is, you are fairly rich. But the wealth accumulated over centuries of immortality must be carefully parceled out. “There is no need to get worked up just because the master is in a tizzy.”

“You are right.” She sighs again and rolls her shoulders as she waits for the pot to boil. “As you usually are.”

“With age comes wisdom, my dear.” Though you look no older than thirty, the young housemaid has no idea how much wisdom you truly have.

“I suppose that is true.” She huffs slightly and starts to set up the sugar and milk for the coffee.

Down the hall, the servants’ door opens, letting in a gust of autumn wind that carries the scent of crisp leaves and the apple trees in the garden. It wafts in the scent of the wood fire from the next room over and picking up the muted notes of lingering from the cup of tea you had made for yourself which is now growing cold on the work table nearby.

It also carries, somehow, the crisp, atmospheric smell of stardust.

And within seconds your mind is engulfed with entirely another scene altogether.

Cardamom, cinnamon and rosemary scent the air along with the yeasty smell of fresh bread. A man opens the door. Dark, scarred with eyes that are brooding and seemingly holding a thousand years worth of secrets. Even in the unfamiliar and very informal dress, his stance is one of a solider. This is a man who has seen war and is on guard from unseen enemies lurking around every corner. Dark hair, short and practical, is unstyled and accompanied by facial hair that is not in fashion during this time. “Buenas—”

An entirely different, sharp and acidic, unpleasant smell pulls you from the vision. In just a moment you've gone from standing at your work table to lying on the stone floor of the kitchen, with Sally wailing and fretting in the background and the caretaker kneeling over you with a stern frown painted on his face.

Smelling salts have been useful for centuries, but that does not mean the smell of them has improved any.

"I'm alright." Your voice is hoarse though, and weak, and the man looks less than impressed. Under the cover of Sally's wails, you are able to murmur the truth to the warlock surveying you for injury. "It was a vision. I'm alright."

“A vision?” He frowns and helps you sit up. “Do you need to go to your room to write it down?” He asks quietly.

"I ought to." You nod, scrubbing your temples with your fingers and feeling them sticky against your skin. "But the dough..." That dough needs to be finished kneading and rested if tea is going to be served early today.

“I can finish it.” You have shown him how many times and he knows how important it is to write down specifics while they are fresh in your mind.

"Cover it in the bowl and put it by the stove when you're done?" It's no small thing to offer to finish your chore for you, and you're grateful for the kindness. "I'll just go and freshen up," you say a little louder, hoping to quell some of Sally's vocal worrying with reassurance.

Helping you to your feet, he snorts and waves Sally away. “Take the coffee where it belongs.” He orders, even though he had no authority in the house, he is tired of listening to her caterwauling.

“Thank you.” Touching his arm gently, you give the man a nod. “I’ll be back in a few moments.”

Smirking slightly, he sweeps his cap off his head and bows. “Anything for you, my lady.” He intones playfully and winks at you before turning to take an extra apron off the hook and wash his hands.

******

Life in that house was good. The family was reasonably kind, they paid as well as they could, and the company you had kept then was amiable. The caretaker had been kind enough and gentle enough that when he had confessed love for you, you had gone to his arms and to his bed for more years than you had expected. But as always, you had needed to move on.

Sometime in the early 1950s you had made it back to America for the second time, and found work in a bakery in the North End of the city run by an Italian family. The focaccia you made there was different than the type the cobbler's wife in Rome had taught you to make, but only out of necessity. That cobbler's wife and that Rome were nearly six hundred years gone by then.

Here, you told the family employing you that you were a widow and supplied stories of the caretaker whenever pressed for details of your late husband. They assumed that he had died in the war. You did not contradict them.

And then one day the scent of warm spices and a new vision of the dark man with his scared eye came to you, and you learned his name.

Pero Tovar.

******

The bell above the door tinkles, letting you know that someone has come in. A necessity when you are so often in the back with your ovens. “Buenas Dias.” Pero has learned that manners are necessary in this time, if you want to have people not refuse your coin. Even if it is a small plastic card. “I need a loaf of whatever smells so good.” He grunts, slapping his card down on the counter, belly rumbling.

The visions had not many sense for many years. Of course the familiarity of a bakery was something you could understand. A customer. A sale. But the little rectangle in his hand did not begin to make sense until plastic and credit cards became realities. But all the visions of your past had eventually come true, so the faith you have in your magic had brought you to today. To the loaves of bread leaving your oven and being set lovingly on wire racks. The lingering, mingling smells of cardamom, cinnamon, rosemary, and yeast mixing with autumn air and your customary tea.

To the man walking through the door of your shop.

The loaf you had handed him in your second vision was what most bakers called artisan now. An old world thing with wheat germ and oats and none of the processed white flour that was most popular in the modern world. This was bread that smelled of dirt-floored cottages and honey – more precious than gold – being stored in clay pots and bargained over. This bread smells of home, and through your vision you had felt the same would be true for him.

So you took it from your racks and savored the scent, placing it on a trencher with jam and butter, and handed it to him to enjoy. When he tried to pay, you only gently refused. "For you, Pero Tovar, there is no charge." You tell him, enjoying a private smile and his shock all at once. "Eat and remember."

“How do you know my name?” Pero had been drawn here by the smells of the past. The scent of time forgotten. Pulling from him the core memories that have almost been forgotten until they are recalled. Sitting unused and dusty like a book on an abandoned library shelf. In the time he came from, books were more rare than gold, now people carelessly toss them aside when they don’t care for the words written inside them.

"I have known your name for a long time." You can't say just how long. Not yet. There are still many things to learn about the man from your visions. "Sit," you encourage, nudging the plate toward him again. "Remember. Enjoy."

He doesn’t question you, he doesn’t attack you. Despite this time’s view on weapons, Pero still does not walk around unarmed. He could have a knife at your throat in an instant. Instead, he sits at a small table and tears apart the bread with his hands like he would have when he was on his first set of years.

It is a satisfying sight, you have to admit that much. Raw enthusiasm is in short supply in this modern age. To see someone devour the food that you prepare is an enormous part of why you have continued to bake century after century. In continues to be a challenge to feed all of the hungry people in the world, but you do your part. And this one man is included in that number.

For more than a century, this man's face has held a place in your mind, so you stop at his table to put a cup of coffee at his place as well. Let him enjoy himself, you think, and offer him a smile when you put down the mug.

Pero pauses, glancing up at you and then back down at the steaming cup of coffee. “Gracias.” He murmurs after a moment and picks it up. It doesn’t appear to have all the sweet creams and syrups that they have in this era and for some reason, he’s disappointed by that. Although it would be more than what he had drank when he was riding towards the East and selling his sword.

"Come back after sunset," you tell him, and walk away again to greet the new customers who have come through the door.

He frowns at the comment, wondering what he will need to come back for. How you know his name, he had checked his credit card. The name is on the back, so you didn’t get it from there. He is suspicious, but that just means he will come back.

******

It’s not that your shop strictly closes at sunset, but as the proprietor and only employee, you have the luxury of making your day what you like. From sunrise to sunset you sell breads and sweets and coffee and tea to your customers, and luxuriate in the ability to do as you please. If someone upsets you or is rude? You can simply turn them away. If they are kind and lovely? They can have their treats for free. The only person keeping track is you.

Tonight, like every night, you bundle up your unsold things to be picked up by the young lady who works for the village, and she distributes them amongst the poor and the hungry at night as she makes sure that each and every one has a roof over their head and a warm place to sleep. This, you have already decided, is the person from this life you will be leaving a great deal of money to when you must disappear and move on. You always choose one, and this time it will be her.

It is in this state, humming yourself as you load up paper bags with bread at the end of the day, that Pero Tovar finds you once more.

This time, the bell does not alert you to his presence, he had manage to slip inside without disturbing it. “How do you know my name?” He asks, watching as you look up from your task.

“Good evening, Señor Tovar,” you murmur politely, undisturbed and unperturbed when you look up.

It makes him frown even more when you aren’t surprised by his presence. “You seem to know me, but I would remember meeting you.”

“Would you?” That is what surprises you, and you look up to find him watching you carefully.

He doesn’t know what game you are playing, but he is starting to get frustrated. “Who are you?” He demands again.

You supply your first name easily enough, and finish depositing the bread loaves and sweets into bags. Everything except the small white cardboard box on your counter. That is marked with his name and tied up in string. “I’m like you are.” You tell him calmly.

He highly doubts that. “A bastard?” He snorts, purposefully misunderstanding. “You seem too sweet for that.”

“Actually?” You chuckle a little. “Yes. I am. But I meant that I am older than I look. As you are.”

"I'm thirty-eight." At least that's what it says on his driver's license. This lifetime at least. "Do you think you know me from somewhere?" He demands, wondering what you are playing at.

“I would sooner believe you to be five hundred and thirty-eight.” Your visions never specified too much about him, but the aura of magic he held around him had some of the same hallmarks as yours. Namely, enchantments and immortality. “We have never met, but I have seen you before.”

His jaw tightens and Pero growls dangerously, stepping closer to you. "You are mad, witch." He hisses, shaken to his very core that you might know of his plight even though he much older than your claim.

“Perhaps.” You actually laugh a little. “But at least you are right about one thing. I am a witch.”

That confuses him, making him furrow his brow together and frown. Looking around the kitchen to see if there something to explain all of this.

“Come and sit down.” That feels like the right thing to do, and you motion to one of the tables close by. “If you would like me to, I will tell you what I know.”

He watches you for a moment, gauging you before he moves over to the table and pulls out a chair and sits.

"You know that magic is real." Coming to sit down with him, you bring two cups of coffee to give you both something to do with your hands. He had frowned at his cup earlier when you set it down, so this time you had added a touch of caramel and vanilla to the hot steamed milk to see if he liked that better. "We have both been touched by it in different ways. But both of us have been given immortality. Whether that is a blessing or a curse depends on the day."

“How old are you?” He demands after a moment, leaning over and staring at you with an intensity that would make a mere mortal uneasy.

"That would be a rude question to ask a lady in any century, but fortunately for you it is a moot point." An amused smile curls your lips as you sit back and sip your coffee. "I do not know. When I was born they did not keep track of birthdays so studiously."

“What is the earliest century you remember?” He asks instead, aware that it is only because of his own parents he had been aware of his age before his trip to the Wall.

Thinking back as much as you can, you sip your coffee in silent thought for long moments before finally being able to answer. "I remember the news that Charlamagne had been crowned emperor." You tell him. "I was a child, and a messenger came to our village. But life went on as usual, unaffected by the change in man who supposedly ruled us."

“How did you come to live this long then?” You are older than he is, but a good four hundred years. His eyes are wide and curious, never meeting another than has been cursed with walking the earth without end.

"I tended to a dying witch," you tell him, sitting forward again at the table with your cup in your hands. "She was very powerful. The woman who taught us all and who raised us up to the goddess. It was an honor to tend to her even in her painful last moments. And she blessed each of us with a gift. The other girls were older than me. One she wished eternal kindness on, that she and her family would always be good to each other. To the other she gave an endless curiosity of spirit. That girl died within the year from eating things she should not, which I do not think was the intention of the gift." You shrug slightly, having thought of these other girls so often that it no longer brings you sadness to think of them so long ago. "When it came time to give me a blessing, she was in the throes of more pain, and she wished to the goddess that I should never know the pain of death that she endured in that moment."

“So you never find the peace of eternal slumber.” Pero leans back, still confused as to how you could have known about him. His own existence is a curiosity that he has never been able to explain despite the theories. Witches no longer hold the same fear that they might have centuries ago. He has seen too many gods and people fall through the ages.

“I understand it is possible.” But you shrug your shoulders. “But it would require enchanted items that seem to no longer exist.”

Pero nods. “So how do you know about me?” He asks. “Have you been watching me?” He thought he had been more careful. It was hard to cover his tracks with the scar on his face, but he had used prosthetics a few of the lives he has lived and explains the scarring away as the boons of war. He had tried hard to keep from being photographed, but now it was impossible.

"No." You sip your coffee again and nudge his cup toward him, encouraging him to do the same. "I have visions. And I had some of you."

“Visions?” In his entire life, Pero Tovar has never had a vision. He has memories, often coming to him while he sleeps in the form of dreams - or nightmares, but never visions. He picks up the cup and examines it for a moment before taking a sip and his eyes light up in delight at the sweetness.

Sweet things for this man, apparently. That will be easy enough to achieve. "My senses tingle. Smells become more acute and I can hear the songs in the wind. Then my mind's eye fogs over and I see..." Describing this is easier now, since the advent of new technologies. "As though I were watching a film, made from my own point of view. I see the future."

“So you saw me walk into your shop.” Pero reasons. “Any knowing my name?”

"The older I get, the more intense my visions are," you explain. "Centuries ago, they were more frequent and far less detailed. Now? I will rarely have more than one every few decades. But they are much more intense. More detailed. They instill knowledge in me instead of simply showing me an image."

Pero cannot say that he would envy a gift like that. It would put him on edge more than he normally is. “Why would you have visions of me?” He questions that part, taking another sip of his coffee.

“That,” you tell him, having the last sip of your coffee. “Is what I do not know.”

Your answer simultaneously makes him unease and relaxes him at the same time. Unsure of why he believes you, but he does. “I don’t know why I still walk the earth.” He admits quietly. “I had long believed it to be because of the Tao Tei, but no one else from those battles still roam.”

“Tao Tei?” The term isn’t one you’re familiar with, which is surprising. You’re familiar with quite a lot.

He looks out the window the modern streets and huffs to himself slightly. “Demons, aliens, monsters.” He shakes his head. “I still don’t know exactly what they are, but they were ferocious.”

“So they were creatures.” At that, you nod again and lean forward on the table. “That is most likely why I have not heard of them. Unless you can eat them or milk them I have had little interest. My many lifetimes have been spent mostly in a bustling kitchen.”

"They were in the far East. The Nameless order worked hard to keep word of them from spreading." Pero explains. "It is not like now. The word traveled so much slower than now."

“I miss it,” you admit without shame. “Things are so fleeting these days.”

"Some days I would have talked to no one but my horse.” Pero snorts, “now having a horse is rare.”

“I do like my bicycle.” That makes you grin. The bicycle you had bought while living in Boston in the 1950s is vintage now, but you learned to repair and care for it yourself. The basket on the front was long ago replaced with one of your own making as well. “But horses are wonderful companions.”

"So you have just been waiting for me to show up?" He asks, still trying to wrap his head around the idea that you know him. Even if this is the first real conversation you have had.

“More or less.” You agree. “Since 1909. Or really, since I bought this shop. I walked in the front door here about ten years ago and realized it was the bakery from the visions, so I got a job here and bought it when the previous owners decided to retire.”

He nods and looks around. “Looks like it is a nice place to live one of the many lives we experience.” He compliments. “Have you always been a baker?”

"Most of the time." He is entirely right. The two of you have lived countless lifetimes. Endless choices of where to go and who to be. But you have mostly kept to what makes you happy. "In different parts of the world, in different ways, and always learning new things. Have you always been a warrior?"

“Always.” He nods. “Although it is harder to do these days.” He admits. “Private security is more about using technology now than brute skill.”

"I imagine your sword is in far less demand these days." In fact you can't think of a single way he could use it outside of sport and discipline, which is a shame. A talented swordsman is a gloriously indulgent sight to watch. "Have you tried any of the new martial arts?"

He sighs, “all of them.” He admits. “But the MMA shit is boring.”

"Pobrecito," you tease, chuckling a little at his dismay. "You should fight fires, then. Use your strength and immortality for something valiant. Just to try it out."

“Fires.” He snorts and shakes his head. “I will scare the little girls hiding under their beds while the wallpaper burns.”

"Or inspire beautiful women to open their legs in gratitude." Standing from the table, you take the two empty coffee cups and round the nearby counter to rinse them and set them in the dishwasher.

“I have not taken a wife in many years.” Pero admits, looking down at his hands. “I do not wish to bury another.”

"Surely that does not mean you cannot enjoy a warm bed from time to time?" When you reemerge from behind the counter, you sit down again, sensing that there is plenty more talk to be had. "The last time I married was 1810, but that has not kept me from pleasure."

He chuckles. “I did not say that.” You have a modern take for one so old, but he doesn’t mind that. “It is hard to not feel dirty.” He snorts. “They are all so young.”

"Well that is true enough." And well worth sharing a laugh over. For there are very few in the world as old as the two of you. "There is not much to be done about an equal age, though. The community of immortals in the world is quite small, and always on the move. For reasons you understand all too well."

“Community?” Pero frowns, his head jerking up and he looks at you in confusion. “There are more?”

"I have met thirteen others, over the centuries." You tell him, nodding. "Mostly witches or warlocks, but also some who were enchanted at random, like you were. Mostly we acknowledge each other, share a few stories, and then go our separate ways."

“You are the first I have met.” Pero tells you. “I have always believed I was alone.” It had been a lonely existence, but he had felt like it was his punishment, or reward, for what happened at that wall. Although he could never explain why William lived out his life as expected and died an old man.

"There are many theories. About what could eventually kill us, or what can weaken us." Theories that you had been over time and time again with the few other immortals that you had come across. "Apparently it is possible for us to die. But...not easy."

“You mean being stabbed, blown up, crashing, or drowning would not do it?” He asks sarcastically, ticking off the ways he should have died many times over. He had come out with little more than a scratch.

"Apparently." Your head cocks to one side, wondering how he will take this. "It is more like a fairy story. Where true love restores us to our mortality."

Pero chuckles. “I have loved many times, bruja.” He reminds you. “Yet there is still no grey in my hair or beard.”

"True love." You correct him. "Not just love. I have loved more times than I can count. Endless, depths of the oceans of love. But supposedly the truest love our hearts can feel...that is what is supposed to do it."

Pero frowns, digesting your words and trying to understand them. “You are speaking of soulmates.” He murmurs. “Those do not exist.”

"Until today, you believed you were the lone immortal in the world." The reminder is stark, but not unkind. "Who is to say soulmates do not also exist?"

Pero sighs and nods, having to concede that fact. “You are right.” He grunts. “But if I had not found them in nine hundred years, then I fear I have none.” He smirks and huffs to himself. “My soul is long rotten.”

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not." There is really no way to know. No way to open up one's heart or soul and read the name written there in destiny's hand. "I suppose we can only wait and see."

He shakes his head and stands. “Then I guess that your vision has been fulfilled.” He feels oddly disheartened by that, but his face is set.

"Has it?" You do not rise from your seat, but watch him intently. "My vision could have had any of ten thousand meanings. But all I know is that we were destined to meet. I should hate for it to only be one time."

“Perhaps it will not be.” Pero nods to you and then glances at the door. “The darkness settles.” He reminds you. “You should go home, bruja.”

"Come again at closing time, if you would like to talk more." This time you do rise from the table. There are bags to gather and things to distribute to the needy. "I am always here. In this lifetime, anyway."

Pero nods and he’s unsure if he should offer to walk you home, but he reasons that you have been taking care of yourself for far longer than any other woman walking alone at night. “Gracias.” He murmurs before he disappears through the door as silently as he came.

“Buenas noches,” you murmur to his back, watching the swift and sleek way he retreats. Pero Tovar must have been an admirable opponent in his warring days.

*****

It takes an entire week for Pero to come back. He had been purposely avoiding that side of the village so he didn’t drop in. Doing research and trying to learn everything he can about you. Your digital footprint is good and the way you have set up your ‘lives’ is admirable. Now he wants to talk to you again.

His stealth is admirable, but you catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye as you wipe down the counters. The last guest has left for the night and the village girl has come and gone for the bags of leftovers already. “Good evening, Pero Tovar.”

He almost asks how you knew he was here, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer to you. “You have lived under the radar.” He says. “It was hard to find your trail at first.”

“But you have been successful now?” Finishing up your cleaning, you take your apron off and toss it in the small hamper you keep under the counter to accumulate washing. Every few days you take your towels and aprons home from the bakery to wash and dry at home. The ritual is soothing.

“As far back as 1841.” He admits. “The trail is harder to follow any farther back. Records are not as good from before as they are now.”

"1841..." You think back, trying to remember where you were an who you were then. "That was...Greece, wasn't it? Did you find employment records from the hotel?"

“Your marriage record.” Pero shakes his head. “But before then, it seems like you had just arrived from somewhere else.”

"From here," you tell him, smiling nostalgically. "From Spain. I was living in a fishing village on the Portuguese border. I met a Greek merchant who begged me to come away with him and..." Trailing off, you shrug your shoulders a little but never stop smiling. "It sounded like a grand, romantic adventure. Cristos was a good man, and I worked at a hotel in the islands for a long time."

Your voice takes on a soft, dreamy quality and for a moment, Pero is jealous of the Cristos you speak of. It must have been a grand romance. “I was in America during that time.”

"Oh?" You're interested in anything he is willing to share about himself. Unlike him, you did not go digging into his past. More hopeful that he would return to share with you when he was ready. "What did you do there?"

“Went west.” He had found the rough and Wild West fascinating and had enjoyed the hard journey. Remembering vividly blazing that trail to the East, so it was only fitting that he also went West.

"You were a cowboy." That image of him is actually fairly charming, morphing the smile on your lips slightly but not at all dimming it. "It must have been easy to blend in. With so many Spanish speakers all over the west back then."

“The language has changed so much over the years.” He snorts, knowing you are well aware of that fact. “There were a lot of Germans there too.”

"Did you sell your sword there as well?" It would have been guns by that point, far more often than swords, but your question is the same. Was he a warrior in that time too?

“Homesteader.” Pero shakes his head. “Started a ranch. But there was plenty of gunfights.”

"You actually settled down?" That surprises you, but you nod. It's impressive that a man so restless seems to have found moments of tranquility in this long life. "That must have been a welcome change."

“It was nice.” Pero frowns slightly, remembering the last wife he had taken. He had buried her on that ranch. Her and the baby who had also died in childbirth. “It wasn’t going to last though.”

"Not everything does," you say, but before you can stop yourself, you chuckle a little. "Except us."

“The only good thing is that I’ve not started aching like people complain about as they grow old.” Pero rolls his eyes. “Besides the normal middle-aged aches.”

You laugh again. "I count it as one of my truest blessings that I was given my immortality before the aches and pains set in."

“And that bone cracking doctor is amazing.” Pero groans, rolling his eyes slightly. “In my original time, he would have had all the riches in the world riding with a group.”

"A chiropractor?" Once again, your laugh rings through the shop. He is straight forward and honest, despite being suspicious and grumpy, and it makes you smile unexpectedly. "I would not have thought of that myself, but you're perfectly right."

He likes the sound of your laugh, his own grin quick and broad before his face slides back into that normally fearsome set. “I know I am.”

Letting your laughter linger in the air, you lean on the counter between you and consider him. The things you have wondered in the last week - and in the century before that - are running wild in your mind again. "I'm glad you came back."

“Not sure why.” He steps closer and tilts his head. “For you or for me.”

“Handsome and hungry,” you tell him with another laugh. “That’s my favorite kind of man.”

He lifts a brow, surprised that you would find him handsome. “Your bread is very good.” He admits. “I might have dreamed about it.”

“If you think my bread is good,” you hum, tucking a pleased smile into the corner of your mouth. “You should try my pastries.”

He glances towards the empty cases. “I will have to try them sometime.” He is hungry, but it seems like that has something that has never gone away despite the availability of food now compared to in the past.

“Or…” Noticing the expression on his lips and the hunger in his eyes, you tilt your head. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was going to find food and I ended up here.” He had been trying to avoid coming to you for another day, but his feet had other ideas.

“We could…eat together?”

He obviously hadn’t thought about that, but it doesn’t sound bad. Often he eat alone and it would be nice to have someone sitting across from him. Perhaps a beautiful woman would help others not be so wary of him.

“Tovar?” Brooding and silent seems to be his way, but you asked a question that deserves an answer.

“What?” He frowns in confusion and realizes that he has not answered you. “Sí.” He nods. “Yes. What do you want to eat?”

“Do you like seafood?” You had made friends with a family that runs a restaurant on the nearby cliff overlooking the ocean. It is beautiful and the food is stunning. “I know a place.”

“I like food.” Pero jokes dryly, smirking slightly when you grin.

“We can walk.” Motioning toward the door, you excuse yourself for just long enough to disappear, grab your purse, and reappear again.

Pero watches as you step outside the shop after him and carefully locks up. Silently guarding you even though he’s not needed in that capacity.

“Down to the cliffs.” You tell him, wondering if he is accompanying you out of curiosity or out of boredom. Either way, it’s at least nice to spend time with someone like you. “This way.” Almost as soon as you say it, you head out through the village streets toward the promise of a warm meal and a cold drink.

Pero isn’t familiar with the town, if he’s honest. He doesn’t explore much, but he watches as you confidently saunter off down the road.

The walk takes only a few minutes, but when you arrive it is to the comforting smells of fresh food and the warmth of friendly smiles. You ask to be seated outside, enjoying the last sunset and thanking the owner when she lights the candle on your table to ward off the nighttime despite there being plenty of other light sources nearby. Your table on the edge of the patio is away from the others, giving you privacy to talk, and you have a feeling the owner might have mistakenly believed you to be on a date this evening.

Pero chooses the seat that gives him the view of the patio and anyone approaching, but he’s not so unmannered that he doesn’t pull out your chair for you, even if he doesn’t wait for you to sit to walk around to his own.

“The women these days must think you’re very gallant.” Gallant and grumpy, you think to yourself, smiling again. That is surely how his latest conquests describe him.

He rolls his eyes and huffs as he sits down, watching the movement behind you before he picks up the napkin and drops it in his lap. “Don’t know.” He admits. “I never ask.”

“Not out for romantic companionship in this lifetime?” Even if it’s not marriage, having a companion is always possible.

"I've had one." Pero shrugs slightly. "She wanted kids and I cannot give them to her."

“Cannot or will not?” It is a bold question, you admit, but immortality does not take away a person’s ability to have children. Not as far as you know, anyway.

"It is the same answer." Pero shrugs. "I would not want to watch my child grow old and die. I could not bear it. Not after losing -" He sighs. "It is better that I not populate the earth."

“People like us…we lose everyone eventually.” That is an unavoidable truth, though also undesirable. “I’m sorry for the ones you lost.”

"You have lost others too." He points out, glancing at the waiter when he pours out wine and he lifts a brow. "Come here enough they know what you drink?" He asks you.

“Yes.” There is no shame in that, and you thank the waiter with a smile. “Do you know what you want to eat?” You ask Pero, though neither of you has looked at the menu very much.

"Food." He snorts, and looks around at the other tables as if he can just pick something from their plates that looks good. "What do you get?"

“Either the grilled octopus or the spicy bacalao.” Over the centuries you have tried almost every kind of food possible. Seafood dishes truly are some of your favourites, though. “Or scallops. Really, everything is good here.”

He grunts and nods. “Sounds good.” He does open the menu to read through the options. It’s amusing that when he was riding with William, he could not read, now he reads in multiple languages. Including Chinese. Knowing the language would have been helpful back then.

The waiter departs to give you time to decide, and when he returns a few minutes later you order your usual octopus and Pero opts for a prawns dish that sounded good to him. It leaves you alone together again at your table to look out over the ocean and you sigh happily at the comforting scent of salt air.

You like it here, that is obvious and Pero stares as you unabashedly, curious to your thoughts.

"What is it you want to ask me?" There must be something. You are no longer so insecure that you would be confused as to why a man would stare at you. There is nothing on your face. No food stuck in your teeth. He is simply curious.

“You do not feel it?” Pero asks finally, unable to refrain. “You seem so relaxed.”

"I do feel relaxed," you agree, smiling as the wind wraps around your shoulders. A hug from the earth that you happily appreciate. "People and places come and go, but the wind and the ocean? They are as permanent as we are."

Pero frowns and leans back, unable to understand why you would not feel it. He looks around and sighs before he picks up his wine glass.

"You pout when you don't get your way." The observation makes you hum in amusement. In some ways even this man with his hundreds of years is still very much a boy. "What ought I to be feeling, Tovar?"

“I do not pout.” He grumbles. “You really do not feel the vibration in the air? The pull?” He doesn’t understand it, but he does feel it. He’s drawn to you. “It feels like the air is dancing right now.” It makes him uneasy because the only time he’s ever felt that was when he was in danger but there is no danger here. Confusing him even more.

"Like...electricity." You nod slightly, but tilt your head slightly as you look at him. "I thought that was simply my magic. But if you can feel it too..." Truthfully, you had thought it was your magic's response to your intense attraction to him. But if he can feel it too, it must be much more than that.

“So you do feel it?” He leans in, eyes wide. “It is your magic then? You are that powerful? You pulled me to you?”

"If it is my magic..." Shifting forward in your seat slightly lets you talk a little more freely. Even at a table that is slightly isolated you have lived through too many witch hunts to simply go around shouting about magic. "Then it is doing something I have never felt before."

That makes him frown even more. If you don’t know what it is doing, he has no hope of having the question answered. “If?” He catches that. “What else could it be?”

"Are you sure you want the answer to that?" He will not believe you, you can predict that now. That the other thing you could liken this feeling to is one that was described to you three centuries ago by a couple in the islands of the Caribbean.

He rolls his eyes and purses his lips. “I wouldn’t have asked the question.” He reminds you.

"Fine then." You wave one hand as if to say he asked for it. "I have heard of this sensation once before. Centuries ago. From a pair of soulmates."

Brows pulling together, he takes his time to connect what you are saying. Then the dark orbs are blowing wide and he jerks back to look around quickly again. “You are saying—?”

"It is possible." Anything in the world is possible, after all. Long life has taught you that. "But I do not suggest we go testing the theory by getting into danger."

“What does danger have to do with soulmates?” He asks, frowning again.

"The chance that immortals bonding with their soulmates restores their mortality is...very high," you remind him quietly.

Clarity shines in his eyes and he leans back again. “But we don’t know if that’s what it is.” He hums, picking up his wine again. “We will not test it though.”

"Two meetings do not constitute a connection." And that is all you have had, despite the fact that your vision had stretched over decades and you had dreamt many times of those things your magic revealed to you. "But I agree. We will not test it."

“Soulmates.” He whispers, as if he is trying it on. He looks over at you again and licks his lips. “How would we know? For certain?”

"There are a few tests – magical ones – that could be tried." Their origins all seem dubious to you, or they require ingredients for potions that are unavailable in this new and modern world. They are less than ideal. "Or there is a more...primal test."

“Primal test?” He wonders if it is some kind of blood ceremony or something.

You smirk, hearing in his voice that he expects you to say something deeply mystical or esoteric. "We could have sex," you clarify, pronouncing every syllable.

You are enjoying teasing him. He can tell, but his body is too busy agreeing with your suggestion to care. “We could.” He growls, hands curling on the table as his entire being shifts into something much more dangerous.

"You are interested." It doesn't even need to be a question. His body language makes that clear, and your lips turn up in a smile all over again. "Good."

“You are a beautiful woman.” He reminds you bluntly. “I am old, not dead. My cock still stirs.”

"I'm very glad to hear it." Feeling more confident and looking forward to the night, you shift in your seat to sit a bit taller and survey the man before you unabashedly. "It would be a pity to waste such an enticing man."

It has been a long time since a woman has called him enticing. Instead of preening, like the young boys seem to do now, he lets you look your fill.

"Are you the sort of man who needs to be in your own space?" It is now a negotiation of sorts, but you are happy to be able to study him while you talk and wait for your dinner.

He huffs, amused by that idea, and shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had a space that I considered my own.” He points out. “We are both nomads.”

“True. But some people feel the need to exert control wherever possible.” Satisfied that he is not one of those men, you sit back again. “Think of it as asking ‘your place or mine’.”

“Your place.” He decides immediately. “If you want to kick me out, it’s easier.” He doesn’t also say that it will be later in the night and not safe for you to go home alone, not wanting to seem sexist.

“My place.” Your smile is crooked and calm, intrigued and anticipatory. “Good.”

He wonders why that is good, but he shrugs it off, his eyes shifting behind you to see the waiter bringing the food.

You give the waiter warm thanks when your plates are set down, and look back to Pero with interest as the two of you begin to eat. “Tell me a story,” you request, wanting to know more about the man now that you will be spending at least one night together. After all, he has never met anyone like you and you have never met anyone specifically like him. Who else could you share your life stories with in the same way?

Pero frowns slightly and decides that you should hear a story from his original lifeline. "There was this bastard I knew." He begins, the gruffness of his voice is belied by the glimmer of fond remembrance in his eyes. "William Garin. He was a pain in my ass. Getting me into scrapes and saving my ass on the battle field. But I saved his life more." He adds. "He heard about this mystical black powder the Chinese had. And he convinced me to go in search of it. The weapon of our dreams."

Garin is obviously not Spanish, nor is William, and the time spent as a warrior connects dots in your mind. Dots that most in this day and age would find unsavory, but you know better. Survival was harder back then. “You were mercenaries together?”

"Sí." He nods, happy that he does not have to explain every detail to you. "We had fought together for this lord and when he was done with us, we had managed to not kill each other, so we rode together."

“A friend you don’t wish to run through is exceptionally valuable when the sword is already in your hand.” Mercenaries were never long on friendships, as you recall. Which makes it doubly impressive that the men stayed together. “So you went to China together?”

"We collected a group of men." He continues, looking down at the wine and the water at his plate. "All of us desperate for the powder for our own selfish reasons, but we were foolish enough to believe that we could obtain it."

“Fools sometimes have great success,” you point out, sipping from your wine glass. “But I think your luck was not so good, judging from the expression on your face.”

"Twelve of us started out." He nods. "Two of us made it to the Wall."

“The Great Wall?” It is still great today and in nowhere near the splendorous condition that he must have seen it in then.

Pero nods. “Some were killed by bandits, some from disease.” He huffs. “One poor bastard broke his back when his horse fell on him.”

“An unfortunate fate for anyone, bannered soldier or freed lance.” You nod slightly, not wanting to make light of his brethren’s fate but knowing that happened to many.

“The last three died the night before we reached the wall.” He stares at his wine before he takes a large gulp of it. “Eaten by the Tao Tei, though we did not know that at the time. Ripped away from the fire in the blink of an eye while we were resting from running from bandits. Will and I survived together and he took the creatures hand when it had come for us.”

“What became of your brother?” It sounds like he was far more than simply a brother in arms. Pero is likely to have tracked his entire life and legacy.

“When we left the Wall, after the Tao Tei had been defeated, he left his heart behind.” Pero frowns slightly. “After three months, we turned back and he return to his general.”

It’s sweet, or perhaps bittersweet, but you off him a soft smile of understanding. Laced with curiosity, of course. “An unusual love, or an unusual general?” You ask gently.

“She was ferocious.” He chuckles, understanding your meaning and appreciating the tact. “She brought out a side of him I didn’t understand at the time.” He admits. “He was better because of her, the best version of himself.”

“That is what soulmates do, they say.” Satisfied that you haven’t offended him or the memory of his friend, you settle back into your meal. “Did you stay long with them?”

“Until their third child was born.” He hums. “It had become obvious to me that they were aging but for some reason I was not.” He frowns slightly. “I went to a monastery to search for answers and when I returned, my friend was on his deathbed, old and feeble.”

“You were there for his joys and returned to show him your love at the end.” That is honorable. Commendable, even. “That is more than many friends can say they have done.”

“He deserved it.” He shrugs as if it was not much. It was the least he could do in his mind after so many years. “After they were buried together, she had passed the year before, I started my path alone. Never meeting anyone like myself until now.”

"Perhaps it is a sign?" If he even believes in them. As likely as not, he thinks them child’s play.

“Perhaps.” He takes his wine and finishes the rest of it. “It has been a long time since I have seen any signs of anything beyond this existence.”

“I cannot claim to know anything of what lies beyond.” How could you? “But this life is valuable despite being infinite.”

“It is getting harder with technology.” He admits.

“Avoiding being photographed is difficult.” It is a hazard, if you’re honest, which is why you have stayed out of the big cities for decades. “I stay out of cities and tourist traps now. We have to be so careful.”

“Especially with my scar.” He gestures towards his face. “I have thought about surgery but who knows if it would work?”

You consider him carefully for a moment, letting a smirk turn up one corner of your lips. “It might be a pity to lose,” you tell him finally. “The effect is rather dashing.”

His brow lifts, the one affected by the scar and he hums. “You like a more….rugged appearance on a man, hermosa?”

“I do.” And you are old enough and have had enough lovers to know that you do have a preference. “It is not necessary, I would say. But certainly my preference.”

“Then I am pleasing to your eye?” He asks, smirking slightly. He might not be a vain man, but he does enjoy when a woman wants him.

Far be it from you to deny a truth, especially when it is one you have already confirmed. He has let you look your fill during this meal, after all. “I would not be taking you home with me if you were not,” you confirm, and let you smirk grow a little wider.

“Depended on how desperate you might be.” Pero jokes dryly. “Thought I do not believe you have had much trouble warming your bed over the centuries.”

“More than you might think,” you admit, but shrug. “I thank you for the compliment, though.”

“You are a beautiful woman.” He grunts. “Interesting too.”

“More compliments?” Your face blossoms into a teasing, playful grin. “Since I am sure you do not hand them out meaninglessly, I am even more glad.”

“Tell me about yourself.” He asks, wanting to know more about this witch who had known he was somehow coming into your life. “You ever been wrong with your visions?”

“In the early days.” You nod to that, willing to admit that you had needed much training to learn to wield your power effectively. “I have honed my skills. Learned how to tell when things are important. Listened to the way the visions sing to me. I have been wrong before, but not in many centuries.”

He nods. “And you knew that I would come to you, but not exactly when.”

“Because I do not presume to know everything from the visions anymore. Early on, we are so eager to know all. We cannot abide mystery. But now?” You wave one hand dismissively, picking up another forkful of your meal. “The universe will tell me what I am to know when it decides I am ready.”

“It is not like you do not possess the time.” He snorts, finding comfort in your ideology and he picks up his own fork. “Your bread is probably the best I have had in years.” He compliments. “I dreamed of it last night.”

“Is that all you dreamed of?” You doubt it, much to your own amusement, and are not ashamed of what your own dreams have consisted of since meeting the mercenary.

“No.” He admits easily, a ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “It was hardly decent.”

“Good.” The way your thighs clench in anticipation is no accident, but all he sees is the pleased expression on your face and perhaps the fire in your eyes. “Then it matched my own.”

“Then tell me what you want.” He demands. “I am sure you have expectations after being here so long and seeing how sex progresses.”

“We have both been here a very long time, Tovar,” you remind him with a wry chuckle. Your meal is finished and your wine as well, so you sit back in your seat and inhale the ocean breeze. “We will take pleasure in each other until we are exhausted, we will sleep curled in the same bed, and when we wake tomorrow we will indulge again if it pleases us to do so.”

“You are very sure of yourself.” He chuckles, not minding the idea of your evening at all. “It is a trait I admire in a woman.”

"If I was certain of myself, I would plan beyond tomorrow morning," you tell him, valuing honesty more than pretense in this moment. The meal is ending and the next steps you take together may change everything. That is what you are unsure of. "But I don't presume to know your mind. Only my own."

“You know it well.” Even though it would not be considered the newer custom of a date, Pero pulls out his wallet to pay for the meal you shared.

It's gentlemanly of him, and after hundreds of years walking this earth you have both accumulated fortune enough to always keep food in your bellies, so you simply thank him for the gesture. You will make him breakfast in the morning before he decides to be on his way, and that will be payment in kind. There is a sort of uncertainty in your bones about how this coupling will turn out – not because you doubt that you will find pleasure but because Tovar seems prone to run from anything he perceives as comfort.

Wiping his mouth one last time, Pero stands and he waits for you to get up as well. “Then let us go find our pleasure with each other.” He offers.

Your home, like everything else in this village, is close enough to walk to. There is no soft sweetness of hand holding or stolen looks, but instead a sort of comfort of knowing what is to come. He walks closer to the street, shielding you from anything that might splash or come too close. When you make it to your door, though, the air of anticipation seems to tighten around both of you and you suddenly become hyper aware of how close he is standing as you turn your key in the lock.

“You can change your mind.” It’s not that he is trying to get you to send him home, but he always prefers to know there is no doubts when he takes a woman to bed.

"I don't want to change my mind." You push open your front door and step back, letting him enter first if he wants to. "You can as well. If that is what you want."

“I would regret it for a thousand years if I left now.” Pero shakes his head and steps into your house.

"Considering we may well live that long, I would hate for you to live with that feeling." You step in behind him and close the door, deciding to throw the lock closed because he is a warrior of many lifetimes and will be on high alert if the house isn't secure.

He hums in approval, sure that after so many years walking this earth you can protect yourself, but no one openly invites the bear into their home. He looks around, finding your private space to be an extension of the bakery you run. Warm and inviting, although he recognizes the antiques that must be collections from your past lives.

"Look around if you like." Shedding your bag and jacket, you don't mind that the space is a little untidy and obviously lived in. This new fascination with making a home look as if no one lives in it is maddening. "Would you like another drink?"

"I am good." He declines as he start to poke around shamelessly. Picking up trinkets and examining them. If he had been the Pero from years ago, he would thinking of stealing from you. Now, he just admires them before setting them back down as he learns more about you from what you keep in your home.

"Do you have a favorite?" As he shuffles through the shelves and collections of keepsakes from your past lives, you smile softly to actually be able to share them with someone who understands.

“Why did you keep this?” The flower is dried, encased in resin and obviously of some importance to you.

"Because I promised the little girl that gave it to me that I would keep it forever." You tell him honestly, stepping into the living room to gaze on the dried wildflower bud. "When the plague came through the village we were in, almost everyone died. She could not have been more than ten years old, but I promised her I would nurse her parents while they died, and she gave me a flower in thanks before her grandmother took her and they fled the village together. The flower was for my kindness, and I took the promise that I made to her very seriously."

“Hopefully the girl had a good life.” It was doubtful, times were hard back then, but it was the best he could hope for anyone.

“Hopefully.” Not having been able to find her later on, you could not say for sure. But she was a sweet little girl and you liked to imagine she found happiness of some sort or other as a woman.

“Your home is very cozy.” The word sounds rough on his tongue, but you don’t seem to mind his gruffness.

"I see no reason not to surround myself with things that bring me joy." You extend your hand, wondering if he will take it and how that will finally feel. You have wondered about his touch for more than a hundred years. "That includes people."

Pero stares at your hand for a moment, then he reaches out. The scars on the back of his hands have faded over the millennia, but he can still see each one. He watches his fingers touch your palm and slide over your skin.

In modern times, they talk about electricity between people. Between a couple coming together. But in the centuries past that spark of new passion was always what happened before an all-consuming fire. The calluses on both of your hands seem to slide over each other with ease, letting your fingers lace together and making your breath catch in a way it hasn't in centuries.

And all at once desire seems to banish every other thought from your mind.

His eyes widen slightly, feeling tug deep in his belly, lighting a hunger in his loins that has long been dormant. Even though he had told himself he would let you control the pace of the night; he is dragging you close. Already obsessed with the next step that you would take. A kiss.

It’s as if you fuse together instantly, that kiss being the mere byproduct of your union into one being. Arms wrap around each other as fiercely tongues entwine, the kiss already deepened into something hungry and exploratory as soon as your lips met.

Once he’s tasted you, Pero is ravenous. Growling as he slides his tongue against yours and holds the back of your head, tilting you like the heroine in a romance novel. The need pouring through him into the flick of his tongue against yours and the groans he is feeding into you.

Every inch of your body is alight with need, and while the fingers of one hand sink into his hair to tug sharply as much as to keep him near, your other hand explores. His frame is even broader than you expected, shoulders and arms thick with corded muscle. You are pliant under every demand of his kiss, returning his moans with enthusiasm even as you start to blindly feel what lies ahead for your pleasure.

He does not know your little house, but he is learning your body. Caressing you with large, sweeping passes over your body. Listening for when your moans intensify. Wanting to memorize what brings you pleasure.

The little cottage only has one floor, though, making it easy to navigate blindly. You could not tear yourself from his embrace now even if you desired it — but the only thing you desire is to bring him with you as you slowly pull your intertwined bodies toward your bedroom.

He lets you guide him. Shuffling with you as you start to pull away. Not wanting there to be any space between you, he follows. Trusting you more than he has anyone in hundreds of years.

Out if the living room, across a small hallway, and through the doorway into your bedroom, you keep hold firm hold of him. Of the countless lovers you have had over the course of your overly-long life, none have set a fire in you that could compare to what you’re feeling right now — and the shocking thought that a soulmate might exist somewhere in the world for you narrows itself into an almost inevitable reality.

He’s never felt like this. Not even when he was a wet behind the ears whelp tumbling into bed with his first whore. The craving he has for you has burrowed under his skin and his fingers reach for the tie to your dress to strip it off your body.

Your hands work just as fast and thoroughly, pulling his sweater over his head despite having to part from him to do so. If you never breathe another breath that did not come from his mouth first, you would live another thousand happy years.

Modern clothing is both a gift and a curse. A gift because there is less of it, a curse because it was easier to just throw a woman’s skirts up and sink into her if she was not wearing drawers. Panties now are alluring but so restrictive. His fingers dig under the band and he shreds them in his haste to rid your body of the barrier between you.

If you felt any sort of restraint whatsoever, you might be amused by his eagerness, but it matches your own. It matches how frustrated you are to have to tear through the shirt under his sweater just to get to bare skin, then the belt and sticky zipper on his trousers to get to what you're craving. His cock is hard as stone – as desperately hard as you are wet – and you moan with a measure of uninhibited relief when you slip your hand inside his pants to discover he isn't wearing any sort of underwear. One less layer to have to tear off of him.

He would chuckle if he could breathe, but that is beyond him right now. Groaning when your fingers wrap around him, he bucks his hips forward and only takes his hands off you to strip down his pants and kick them off with his shoes.

Your bra is the last thing tossed aside, and you sigh into the feeling of his calloused hands kneading your flesh. He has made no mistake about appreciating a woman with curves, and in this moment you have never been more grateful for them. Any additional patch of skin for him to touch is worth praising.

"Beautiful." He growls, cupping and squeezing your tits, appreciating the lushness of your curves and the way you fit into his hands. It's as if you were created to slot into him perfectly.

“Enough to keep your hands full?” You huff a breathy laugh, already knowing the answer.

“You could be a little plumper.” Pero snorts, never denying a thicker figure is sexy. Back when he was younger; that meant you were well fed.

You grin, laughing with him, and tug him toward your bed without shame. “Then it is a good thing I am a baker.”

“Does that mean your cunt is sweet?” He teases, reaching out to brace his arms so he doesn’t collapse on you when you both fall into the bed. “Tastes like honey?”

“You’ll have to tell me.” The blankets are pushed aside immediately, letting you both tumble onto the mattress eagerly. “For the sake of your sweet tooth, I hope so.”

He flashes a predatory grin, eyes dark and full of mischief as he bites your chin. "Then let me have a taste."

"As much as you like," you assure him, sliding back to lie down amongst your pillows. "Until we are both satisfied."

He hums and attacks your mouth again, intoxicated by the taste of your lips and sure that the rest of you is equally addicting.

Every inch of you is plied with those hungry kisses. From your lips and jaw down the length of your neck, paying tribute at the temple of your breasts and growling into the soft flesh of your belly as he makes his way down. No detail is spared his voracious attention. No scar missed. No stretch mark unadored.

You are exquisite. A map of time, of experience. Random scars that have faded to non-existence. A lesser man wouldn’t even notice them, except Pero wears the same faded marks on his body. His tongue and teeth worship them until he has bitten each of your thighs and his shoulders are wedged between them, inhaling the musky, tangy scent of your sex like it’s a stimulant.

"I will go and get the honey jar if it will get your tongue inside me faster," you gripe, smirking at him even as your thighs bracket his head and his breath wafts over your cunt.

“Impatient witch.” Pero huffs, frowning so he doesn’t laugh. But he takes your lead and buries his tongue deep inside your walls, his prominent nose pressed against your clit.

"I will not apologize," you groan, sinking further into your mattress with a keening sound of bliss as he dives in with enthusiasm.

He wouldn’t expect you to. You are too brash for untruths. You are impatient and he groans into your folds as he sets about learning what makes your thighs quiver about his ears. It’s been years since he’s eaten a cunt with this much enthusiasm and he wants to prove that he can make you squeal.

Your fingers find his curls, tangling in the long strands and encouraging him to seek the deepest parts of you. It bows your back and makes your skin tingle, and you anchor yourself to him as he begins to build you up in pleasure right away. Every stroke of his tongue is magic, and you have experienced enough magic in your life to know that sensation deeply.

You respond so beautifully to him. Synchronizing your moans to the flick of his tongue or the nudge of his nose. Urging him on with breathless chants of pleasure that have him aching against the sheets he is grinding down against.

The pleasure is almost blinding, taking over all of your senses so that you forget everything in the world beyond him. His name is the only one one your lips, barely joined by breathless praises. A thousand lifetimes of practice have made him a skilled lover and you are glad to reap those rewards tonight.

You melt into him. Your cunt is better than honey but he laps at you continuously. Sampling the sweet nectar and pulling the gorgeous sounds out of you with a glee that is bordering on smug.

Time is as liquid as your body by the time you fall apart for him. All you know is that your world has narrowed to the man between your legs and that this is what you want more than anything in the world. You sob his name as he drinks down your release, fingers twisted both in his hair and in the bedsheets. The unapologetic ringing of bliss through the walls of your house seem to reverberate back to you, as if knowing that this pleasure should not be shared with anyone else.

Watching you shake apart is a privilege. One that he is determined to have. Again he curls his tongue around your clit to help you extend the fluttering of your walls. Obsessed with the way that you sob his name.

A satisfied sigh passes your lips when you can finally breathe again, and you open your eyes to find him staring hungrily up at you with his cheek resting on your thigh.

“Did I satisfy you?” He’s smug, because he knows he did, but he wants to hear you say it.

"Better than I expected you to," you promise him, not at all upset with how satisfied with himself he looks. He should be that satisfied. You certainly are. But you still shoot a grin back at him. "Now do it again. With your cock this time."

He snorts, taking the backhanded compliment and he leans in to nip your hip and starting to untangle his shoulders from your legs to crawl up your body.

"You wouldn't like a girl who fawned over you." That part of his personality is abundantly clear. Praise is good, but honest praise. Not when it is empty. "But I knew from the way you devoured me with your eyes at dinner that you could do it with your mouth, too."

He grunts, placated by your answer and his lips find yours again as he slides into your arms and wraps his arms around your back.

You’ll take the kiss as confirmation. As an agreement that you have learned him well in a very small space of time. And that is all you need to deliver the measure of passion back to him twofold.

You fit together so naturally. So easily. His body slots against yours with no discomfort, no need to adjust. His cock is pressed against your entrance and all he has to do is push forward to sink into you.

Gasping in unison, the sharp intake of breath turns to a shared, shuddering moan as he pushes inside you. Your arms wrap tight around him just as his hold you close, and the seemingly endless moment of just being joined is better than you ever remember feeling with any man before.

It’s not that it has been so long since Pero has filled a woman that has him groaning your name. It’s how perfect you feel. Transcending beyond physical into something almost primal, like you are his.

One long, breathless moment of amusement is needed before you search out his lips again, nipping the lower one and squeezing your cunt around his cock to spur him into moving. This blissful elation has mountains to climb before the night is over.

He grunts, twitching inside you because of your boldness. He likes a feisty woman, especially in bed. One that demands that her needs be met and met well. He pushes even deeper before he is dragging his cock back out, making sure that your walls feel him retreating to anticipate the next commanding thrust.

The rhythm you build together is damn near athletic with the amount of push and pull you give. Not quite right but all the way to the edge of wondering whether your creaking bed will give out before you decide you don’t care. He would be worth the collapsed furniture, this rough-hewn warrior with his heart of golden softness. And you wonder, in between moaning his name into the darkness, whether anyone has ever told him that before.

The mattress undeath you doesn't give him the leverage that he wants, that he needs to snap his hips forward and pull another beautiful cry from those lips of yours. Obsessed with how you take every demanding thrust and still seek more, he reaches up and grabs the headboard for better purchase. Growling your name while he rocks into you. "Fuck, you are perfect, bruja, taking my cock and begging for more. I'll give you everything you want and more." He pants, almost breathless, but determined to keep the brutal pace up. He had fought in hand to hand combat for hours, he can make you cum before he collapses in exhaustion.

Some lovers are sensuous, some are tender, some are eager or greedy. Pero matches the way you feel in this moment — the unbridled surety of what your want and need and crave — without question and with great enthusiasm. He is as hungry for a partner to be unrestrained with as you are. To find someone with whom you can remove your mask. The wet noise of slapping hips and growling of praise fills your senses like a drug and all you can think is how you want more.

Every thrust feels like he’s going to impale you. Hurt you. Your legs wrapped around his waist feel like they are the only thing keeping him from fucking up into your throat and still you cry for him. It’s the most beautiful, greedy sounds he’s ever heard and he wants more of them ringing in his ears. His lips kiss and his teeth bite along your neck, your jaw while he huffs and puffs, grunting his own pleasure into your skin.

Too much, not enough, absolutely perfect, overwhelming, and yet the most unbridled you’ve ever felt. It is everything. The first time you come apart for him it is like the explosion that heralds the beginning of a new world, tearing you apart from the inside out but only granting you a new and vital life force. Pero ends up on his back beneath you, trading places so that he can watch you ride him with greedy eyes and explore your body with calloused hands as you take more pleasure from him.

You are a witch. You’ve bewitched him. In awe of the sight of you, tits bouncing, head thrown back, you ride him like you are riding a horse across the desert. Every time you slam back down in his cock, his toes curls and his body lurches in pleasure under you. Hands filling with every inch of your flesh he can possess, growling and moaning like he is in pain, but it is pure pleasure bleeding those sounds from him.

It’s sunrise before you’re done with each other, collapsing into a pile of satisfied bodies and damp sheets. One of the best fringe benefits of immortality is the stamina and you fully abused that tonight.

“You have to work?” He asks, panting as he runs his hand down your sweaty spine and smirking tiredly when you shiver in response.

“I’m closed today.” You chuckle, breathy and light, deciding that taking a single day off from running the bakery won’t make a difference to the village. “There are more fun things to do at home.”

He chuckles. “Sí? Like what, bruja? Casting more spells over me?”

“Sí.” Laughing together, you hold him a little tighter, as though a whisper told you he might slip away. “Claro. Of course I will.”

He hums after a moment. “I have never felt that strongly before.” He admits after letting the silence settle between you and your breaths have slowed down. “That connected. Did you feel it too?”

“I did.” A small smile quirks at the corner of your lips. “I do feel it. Perhaps it is as they say.”

“Soulmates?” His eyes widen when he puts it together and his fingers twitch against the curve of your ass where he had been idly caressing. “You believe that is what we are?”

“Perhaps.” Your lips find his, brushing a reassuring kiss there while you still smile. “There is only one way to be certain.”

“How?” He kisses you back before he frowns slightly.

“Sleep, hermoso.” When he looks surprised you only laugh sweetly. “Sleep. And your bruja will cast into the shadows after some rest.”

“As long as you sleep with me.” Pero grunts, pulling you close again and closing his eyes even as the room becomes brighter with the coming day.

******

The sound of the cock crowing penetrates Pero’s sleep, making him grunt and curl around you a bit more as if to protect you from the coming day. “Too early.” He grumbles, although he knows that you must wake, pressing his lips to the warm skin of your neck where his face has been buried through the night.

“Ignore it.” You grumble back, shifting backward in a sleepy shuffle to burrow closer to him under the heavy wool blanket. You’ve only half woken up but you don’t want to leave this bed.

He grunts in agreement, holding you tight and his cock twitches when you press your ass against his crotch.

“Ready for more already, mi caballero?” Not that you’re surprised — you’re ready for him again too. You dreamt about it.

“Sí.” He growls quietly. “Your cunt is too good not to be craving every chance I get.”

"One night and you are already addicted?" You chuckle from somewhere low in your chest and roll over to face him, only to sit straight up in bed when you finally open your eyes.

Pero frowns slightly, feeling the rush of cool air when you pull the warmth of your body and the covers away from him. "Lay down."

"Pero." With your eyes darting around the room, you start to twist and look in every direction, turning a little more frantic with every change of direction. "Pero, look!"

He grunts, opening an eye cautiously and then he is opening the other, sitting up in the bed with a frown. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Flanders.” You practically gasp out the word, looking around in shock. “In a cottage on the river outside Gent…” Practically springing from the bed, you reach for the nearest blanket to wrap around yourself and go to the window.

The garden and meadow behind your little cottage look brighter and sweeter than you remember, but very much the same. It has been hundreds of years since you lived in the Flemish countryside yet here you are.

Swallowing a sharp gasp, you turn back from the color-stained glass window. “When do you say you were from?” You demand. “Originally, I mean?”

Pero frowns as he follows you, not bothering to find his breeches and he looks out the wavy glass. You must have been very well established to have glass. He tells you the year. “Why?”

You swallow thickly, disbelief coloring your features and all you can do is choke out a laugh. “Pero, look around you. We were in an entirely different cottage when we fell asleep.”

“I can see that.” He huffs. “I’m asking why you wanted to know what years I was originally walking through life.”

“Because…” You can feel your heartbeat pounding, adrenaline beating in your veins. “Because in your first walk of this earth, I was living here.”

He frowns, brow pinching together in thought. “Where are we?” He demands, thinking back to that time.

“Flanders. The country. I was already baking then…there is a tavern down the road where I made bread and cooked suppers and helped keep guests.” The awe and confusion on your face are so deeply etched into your skin that it feels like they go all the way into your bones. “For two immortals we should not be so cods walloped by the notion of time travel.”

“Because I have never woken up in a time different from which I fell asleep.” He reasons. “I was supposed to travel to Flanders.” He whispers. “After I left the wall. That was mine and Garin’s plan.”

“You were?” You wrap the blanket around yourself a little more tightly at this surprising news, as if it might bring on more unknown magic.

“Sí.” He frowns as he peers out the window at the sleepy little scene in front of him. It’s almost jarring, how quiet this time actually was. There is none of the low frequency noises that he had grown used to hearing in the modern world.

“I wonder…”

“Wonder?” He turns back to you, watching you as you contemplate this newest development in your lives. “What are you thinking, cariño?”

The term of endearment does not escape you, but rather it almost seems to confirm the thought that has cropped up in your mind. “I wonder if there is something in soulmates…being people who were supposed to meet?”

Pero, despite his humble beginnings at this time in history, is not stupid and he understands what you are saying. “So we have been brought back to the time we were supposed to meet and understand our connection?” He theorizes and looks around the cottage again. “You were unwed at this time?”

He has followed your train of thought exactly and you nod. “I was. When I came to this village, I presented myself as a widow. There was more freedom in it.”

“And I was to come and spend the winter here.” Pero muses. “A sexy widow would have been a very appealing way to spend the winter.”

"I would have welcomed you." He is as to your taste after hundreds of years as he would have been then, and you would have let him into your bed without hesitation. "We would have kept very warm that winter."

He chuckles and leans over, pressing his lips to your bare shoulder. "Overheated." He promises. "Do you think we are here to stay?" He asks.

"It seems likely." Though you do frown, trying to think through the logistics in your mind. "We could travel. Make our way east. You could see your friend again."

"Does-- does this mean we are no longer immortal?" Pero asks, looking down at his hands and body. "Or does this mean we live these times again together?"

"I don't know." You murmur softly, placing your hands over his and gently squeezing. "But we will find out. Together."

------

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[absurdthirst]

The Empress and the Gladiator {Gladiator!Pero x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.2k

Warnings: Fingering, oral sex (male and female receiving), loss of virginity, star crossed lovers, mentions of war/death, vaginal sex, mentions of sex workers, rough sex, blood/gore, death, animal cruelty, gladiatorial games, pregnancy

Comments: Destined to become Empress of Rome, your heart has always been Pero Tovar's. When your father decides to host an gladiatorial tournament with your hand in marriage as the prize, Pero becomes the gladiator you are rooting for in the colessum.

A/N: With Gladiator 2 coming out this year, thots turned to Rome. While reader is Empress, no physicality has been described other than 'Roman'.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Pay attention.” Your tutor, Maximus, tuts as you stare out of the doorway to the courtyard. Your scrolls are messy on your table and the breeze through your hair makes you long to be outside and not studying the gods. You hear the clashing of swords and watch as Pero Tovar fights his mentor, a man named Julius, while his mother tends to your needs. His mother is your matron, taking care of your needs like your own mother would if she were still alive. After her untimely death when you were born, your father had brought in a matron while he searched for another wife. He’s had two more since your mother’s death but he claims to be cursed as both women also lost their lives during birth…and their babies. The sole child of the Emperor of Rome, you are in line to be Empress. Something that has never happened. The man you marry shall be by your side and your father had petitioned the senate to allow you to rule, for him to mold you into the perfect leader for the next generation. The senate had agreed and now, you spend your days learning about Seneca and Cicero instead of painting or strolling the gardens. You have been taught to read, you know the laws of the empire, and you have been trained in all manner of war. You are preparing to become Empress of Rome. You just need a husband. Turning your eyes away from Pero, you look back at your scrolls and continue your lesson. Little do you know that Pero is also watching you. His mother, bless her soul, was widowed by his father who fought for the empire. He lost his life in battle and the Emperor let his mother stay in the palace with her son to tend to his newborn daughter. Pero knows he will be sent to train with the army soon. He will fight as his father once did. However, he will be leaving his heart in the palace with you.

****

You walk through the gardens after your lesson, Pero long gone from the courtyard, and you are caressing a flower when you hear your name. “Why are you here alone?” Pero asks, his voice gruff and demanding, “you should not be outside without an escort.”

You huff and roll your eyes, aware of and annoyed by the fact that if you were a man no one would even question you walking alone. “I am in my own courtyard.” You turn to look at the older Spanish boy. Even if you have grown up together, he has filled out with muscle and grown taller over the past few years. “I am the future Empress and I can go and do whatever I wish.” You straighten your spine even though you know your father would not approve of being alone. Too many of his enemies would seek to use you for their own gain. You frown and look around, all the servants out of sight and no one nearby to hear you. “Why are you here, Pero?”

Pero stares at you for a moment, the moonlight reflecting on your face, and he can't help but be reminded of how beautiful you are. When your face is carved from marble and the coins are gold with your profile, he will be one of many to admire your beauty. Your moxie makes him bite his lip to smother a smile and he waits until your eyes fix on him. "I am taking a stroll. Getting some fresh air and admiring the grounds before I have to leave." He sighs, looking down at the grass beneath his feet.

“That’s right, you are leaving……” you frown at the reminder that tomorrow morning he will be leaving for the war that is being fought near Constantinople. You have spent all of your formative years around the man who you have come to view as more than a mere childhood friend. You’ve never seen him as a brother and now your heart quickens at his nearness. “Tonight is your last night in Rome,” you venture softly. “You should make the most of it. Most men would be visiting the taverns, or the whorehouses that I am supposed to pretend don’t exist.” His head shoots up, eyes wide and you smirk. “Or do you prefer the company of the men in the bathhouses?”

Pero raises his eyebrows and he offers you a wry smile, “don’t you know it all, emperatriz?” He chuckles and you snort, “I even know about Hispania.” Pero is impressed by your knowledge of the reality outside of the marble walls you wander in. It will serve you well. “To answer your question, I wish to spend my last night here since I will not be able to return. My barracks will be my new home and I will miss this palace…and you.” He confesses, his dark eyes meeting yours, “I have no need for wine or for women when what I truly want is right in front of me.”

Pero is handsome, his dark eyes seemingly even darker with the same emotion that makes your core throb and turn slick with need. You aren’t unaware of what happens between men and women, even if you are untouched. Untouched beyond your own fingers between your thighs when you lay in the dark, listening to the rustle of the wind against the curtains of your bed. “Pero….” You step closer to him, biting your lip as you inhale deeply, aware your father would have you beaten and Pero executed, but you don’t care. He could die, never to return, and you don’t want to live the rest of your life without knowing what it is like to be touched by him. “Tonight, the future empress will entertain you.” You decide, telling him boldly. “In ten minutes, climb to my balcony.”

Pero’s cock twitches under his tunic and he bows his head, “I will be in your service tonight, empress.” He murmurs, knowing he could be hung for this but it’s worth it. You are worth it. No longer the little girl who used to annoy him when he wanted to play gladiator with his friends, he wants the beautiful woman you’ve become. The oils you bathe in hit his nose and he swallows, taking a step back from you. He looks around to make sure no one saw him speaking to you alone and he strides off, knowing that you will be able to make it back to your quarters alone.

The slap of your sandals accompanies the rustle of your skirts as you hurry along the columned corridor to your quarters. Servants rush to bow, but you pay them no mind as your excitement has you eager to lock yourself into your room. Bursting through the door startles your servant, Corda. “My gods!” She huffs and you shake your head. “Fetch me a tray and wine, then you are dismissed.” You instruct her, making her jaw drop. “But-“ “No buts, Corda!” You hiss, taking a breath and smiling at her to not make her suspicious. “I know you wish to spend one last night with Gavros.” You hum, smirking slightly at her guilty expression. “Fetch my food and drink and then go enjoy yourself.” Her lover is also in the group that Pero will be accompanying to the war.

She bows her head and turns, making her way out of your quarters to fetch your tray and wine. She returns a few minutes later and sets the tray down. “Good night, my lady.” She murmurs, turning and shutting the doors behind her. The gauzy drapes are flowing onto the balcony as Pero climbs the trellis to swing his leg onto the balcony. He grunts as he stumbles but recovers to stand outside of your room. “emperatriz.” He whispers, hoping no one is in your quarters.

“Pero?” You look through the sheer fabric to see him hovering outside and push them aside to usher him in. “Come in.” You command, hoping no one saw him climb up. You don’t wish for the night to be disrupted and you know that if Corda is off gallivanting, no one should come to disturb you. Everyone is celebrating the troops leaving and you are happy that your father is busy as well. He steps inside your room and the curtain falls into place, giving you the illusion of blocking out the world. “You came.”

Pero offers you a soft smile, his hands suddenly damp. “Of course, hermosa. How could I not?” He asks you, “I am leaving tomorrow and if I don’t return, I want you to know…I want you to know that I would kneel before you as my Empress, as your loyal soldier, as your friend, and if you’ll have me, as your lover.” He murmurs, not touching you. You are pure and he could be killed for even being in your quarters.

Your body trembles at his confession, knowing that you feel the same way. He can be coarse and cross at times, but you love him. Reaching up to your shoulder, you unhook the gold leaf brooch that keeps your dress on your body. Letting it fall to the floor so you stand in front of him, completely naked. “Take off your tunic, Pero.” You command, lifting your chin. “I wish to inspect my soldier.”

His eyes widen at the beauty before him. Your body bare and his mouth is dry, his cock hardening as he takes in a sight that most mortals will never bear witness to. He kicks off his sandals and reaches for the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head to display his naked body to your hungry eyes. He stands straight, arms by his side as he awaits your inspection.

You inhale sharply, taking in the hard planes and chiseled lines of his body. The rigorous training has taken the boy's soft body and turned it into the hard sculpture of a soldier, your warrior. He has given you the power and it emboldens you to step forward, reaching out and stroking the smooth muscle of his chest. Biting your lip when you feel it move under your hand and let it drop down to brush against the thick length that juts out proudly from his groin.

Pero groans under his breath, his eyes closing as he lets you touch him how you please. He stands still, not lifting his hands to touch you. You are in charge tonight, his soon to be Empress. You will have what you want because tomorrow, he will leave and this night will be a memory he cannot share with anyone.

“Beautiful.” You murmur quietly, looking into his eyes. “This is for me.” You don’t ask, because you know that it is. Your fingers wrap around his cock and you marvel at how hard and soft he feels in your hand. “How long have you thought of me?” You ask. “Do you think of me when you visit the whorehouses? When you sink into a woman?”

"Yes." He doesn't bother lying. After tonight, you will be betrothed to another and he will likely be killed in battle. He has tonight so he will give you everything, all he has to offer. "Every time." He confesses, knowing that he paid those women to be faceless, imagining you in their place. You jerk him and he groans, letting you touch him as you please and he prays to the gods that he holds off long enough to give you pleasure.

You moan softly, loving how he responds to your touch. His confession of thinking of you while fucking making your cunt drip. “When I slide my fingers into my cunt, I think of you.” You confess. “How you would feel, how you would taste.” You squeeze him slightly as he groans your name. “How you would touch me. You know of such things, you have touched women before. Can you make my body shake in pleasure?”

He nods, throat tightening with arousal as you squeeze him again. "I can make my Empress shake in pleasure until she can take no more." He assures you, "I have learned well from the brothels. I want to show you, emperatriz."

“I am supposed to be pure, to stay pure, until I take a husband.” You remind him. “But I will not be pure.” You let go of his cock and step back. “Because I will have given my purity to my love. The one who holds my heart.” You reveal softly.

His heart pounds in his chest and he reaches for you, grabbing your waist, and he leans in to press his lips to yours. He doesn’t want to hold back knowing he could die and never know your touch. He tilts your head to kiss you, sliding his tongue into your mouth, and he backs you towards your bed.

Now that his hands are on you, he is in complete control. You moan, reaching up and twisting your finger into the short hair at the base of his skull. You can’t do much with it, but you tug gently, wishing it was longer. “Pero…” you whimper when he breaks away from his lips to kiss down your throat. “Pero, please, make me yours for tonight.”

He grabs the back of your thighs, lifting you up to carry you onto the bed. He lays you down, the silk sheets beneath you and he hovers above you, taking you in. You’re gorgeous. Aphrodite incarnate. He leans down to kiss along your throat, his hand caressing your thigh as he settles between your legs.

You should feel exposed, vulnerable, but you feel nothing but the heat of his gaze. Again, your hands slide along his skin and you map the muscles. Knowing that tonight will be a memory that you will cherish forever, keeping it locked away in your heart. “You are so….sexy.”

Pero slides his hand along your thigh up to your breast and he tilts his head so he can dip down and take your nipple into his mouth. Your words make his cock twitch and his stomach clench, knowing you find him attractive. He loves it. He loves you. Your back arches into his mouth and he bites down on your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Pero!” Your eyes close and your back arches up from the bed to his mouth. Every pull of his mouth shoots straight to your cunt and makes it clenches. “Oh gods.” Your leg lifts and you rub the back of your foot against his leg, enjoying the roughness of his hair.

He switches to your other breast, loving the way you cry out his name. “Shush, my love. The guards will hear you.” He warns you, pulling back from your breast and he presses kisses along your stomach, settling between your thighs. Your cunt, covered by curls, has him groaning your name. You smell like the oils you use and something tangy that has him moaning as he wastes no time surging forward to slide his tongue through your folds.

Your gasp is loud, catching your breath and making your breast shake. Your hands grip the sheets and you can’t believe that he is going this. You’ve heard about the pleasure to be had, but you’ve never thought that it would happen for you.

He flicks his tongue over your clit just as the whores had taught him. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his hands caressing your thighs and he groans at the tangy taste of your arousal. You taste like honey. He pushes your thighs further apart and slides his tongue down to push it inside of you.

“Oh fuck.” You moan, clenching your jaw before you have to lift your head and look down at him between your thighs. You had expected him to just take you, but he was surprisingly good at giving pleasure. “You should just stay and spend all day doing this to me.” You moan out the praise as your hips jerk up to meet his eager tongue.

Pero lifts his head from your cunt, his chin glistening as he smirks, “I would spend every day worshiping you if it were possible, mi emperatriz.” He assures you, sliding his tongue through your folds again and he sucks on your clit. His hand slides along your thigh until he’s pushing two fingers slowly inside of you.

His fingers are thick, so much thicker than your own. Making you whimper out his name again, drowning in the pleasure that he pulls from you as he presses them deep. “Yes.” You sigh. “I love you, Pero.”

He loves hearing you say that. His fingers stretch you out for his cock. He pumps them a little faster and leans in to take your clit into his mouth, sucking. He wants you to fall apart for him, to tell him you love him enough times to last him a lifetime because that’s what he will need.

You know that it’s wrong for you to give yourself to Pero. You should have saved it for the man who would become your husband, the man who would help you rule Rome after your father dies. You don’t care, your heart belongs to Pero and you want to give him a part of yourself you can never have back. You chant the words of love over and over as he works you up, until your entire body bucks with broken cry. Your cunt bearing down on his fingers and soaking them with your pleasure.

He loves the way you soak his fingers. Working you through it, he groans into your wet flesh. His cock is hard against the sleeping mat beneath you, and he is aching to be inside of you. He groans your name and kisses back up your body until his lips find yours and he slides his tongue into your mouth so you can taste yourself.

The taste of your cunt on his lips has you moaning, enjoying the flavors mixed tongue and you want to taste him too. “Pero-“ you whimper, making him pull away to look at you as if he wonders if you have changed your mind. “Can I do that to you? Suck your cock?” You’ve heard the servants talk about it, even watched as it happened in the shadows, but you’ve never done it.

Pero's cock twitches at the thought but he can't imagine defiling you like that. Just to touch you like this is enough for him to be killed and his soul to be damned by Pluto. "I am yours for whatever you wish, mi amor, but I must warn you that you cannot do too much otherwise this will be over far too soon." He has wanted you for so long, watched you from afar, and the thought of you touching him in that way already has his stomach clenching.

You push him onto his back as you decide to take his pleasure into your hands. “You will tell me before you find your release.” You say it like it is a forgone conclusion and lean forward to press your lips to his. Then breaking away to kiss down his chest, eager to see how he reacts to your mouth on him. If you only have tonight, you want to gorge yourself on him.

His breath catches in his chest and he watches you make your way to his cock, wrapping your fingers around it and he loves the lust in your eyes. He loves how much you want him. "Fuck." He hisses when you pump his length, the foreskin pulled down to reveal the leaking head.

You preen under his rough praise, feeling the way he twitches and pulses in your hand and against your tongue. It’s thrilling to learn that he enjoys this and you open your mouth wider to take more of his length down your throat.

You moan around him and he twitches in your mouth, loving how you feel surrounding him. You feel incredible. “Fuck, hermosa.” He grunts as you explore his cock with your mouth and tongue.

Giggling slightly, you pull off of him and decide to lick him. Making him groan again. “You must love this, all the noise you are making.” You know that he can be as loud as he wants, no one is in this wing of your home beside you. You tease him and then lick him again. “Tell me what you have imagined while a whore’s mouth is on your cock.”

Pero can’t believe how naughty you are for an innocent woman. “I imagined - imagined this. You. Your mouth wrapped around my cock. My cock inside of you. You. I wanted you while I was giving them my cock, my coin.” He confesses breathlessly as you jerk his cock.

You hum, feeling slightly jealous of them, even if you cannot have a claim in this man. He is free to do whatever he wants, with whomever. Now, you just enjoy the fact that he wants to be yours. “You have me, Spaniard.” You promise, ducking your head down to take him back into your mouth.

He loves hearing you claim he has you when both of you know you only have tonight. He groans when you take him deeper and his stomach clenches. “Hermosa. You can’t - I don’t want this to end too soon.” He chokes, not wanting to finish without making you clench down on his cock.

Reluctantly, you let go of him and kiss back up his body. “You will stay the night, yes? We can do that again after?” You know men can find pleasure more than once and you hope that he is also like those fools who like to brag about being able to rut all night.

He nods, "I will stay there night then I will go before sunrise. We cannot risk getting caught." He promises and pulls you up so he can kiss you, rolling you onto your back. "Are you certain?" He asks softly, nudging his nose with yours after he pulls back from the kiss, his cock pressing against your thigh.

“I have never been more certain of anything else.” You promise. “Not the gods or the Senate could make me change my mind.” Your hand caresses his cheek, the thin strip of a beard of his face slightly patchy with youth. “I love you, Pero. Tonight, make me a woman.”

He doesn't deny you. He can't deny you even if he tried. He reaches between you to grip his cock, pulling back his foreskin to slide the head through your folds until he is positioning his cock at your entrance. He watches you as he starts to push inside of you.

You expected pain and you expected nothing. You really didn’t know what to expect but the feeling of him filling you up is exquisite. Your mouth drops open as you moan his name again, your legs pulling back to take him deeper into your body and you know that you are forever changed.

Pero feels your innocence break and he pushes into you fully, making you his in a way no other will have you. He groans and leans in to kiss along your neck, taking a moment to let you adjust and he murmurs, "I love you."

You whine and wrap your arms around his neck. Closing your eyes and sighing softly. A piece of you is forever his and you know that your heart is his until eternity as well. You might marry for your position and have children, but your heart will be this Spaniard’s. “I love you, Pero.” You promise him. “Forever.”

Your promise makes his heart clench as he starts to move inside of you. He's in no rush. Not rutting into you like he would a whore he paid his coin to. He moves slowly, watching your face as you take him. You close your eyes as he adjusts the angle of his hips and he grunts when your walls clench around him. "Mi emperatriz hermosa." He murmurs as he kisses along your neck.

You know that he is being slow with you and it’s amazing. Making you feel every ridge and vein in his cock as they scrub along your sensitive walls. It’s love making in the purest form and you don’t want to let him go. Another soldier can go fight for the Emperor and Rome. Even if you know Pero would never agree to that, finding it to be cowardice. You have tonight. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you moan his name again. “Pero.”

Pero doesn't want to leave but he has no choice. He has no future here in the palace. He must leave and forge his own path. He has to accomplish something outside of these walls. He must fight for Rome and for the Emperor and one day, he will be fighting for you. His hand finds your thigh, lifting it higher so he can sink deeper and his lips find yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth.

Your moan is breathed into him, encouraging him. Letting him know that he is making you feel incredible. Your nails scratch down his back, not hard enough to break skin, but you wish to leave your mark on him. “Pero, gods, you- you are amazing. I have loved you for so long. Watched you fight in the courtyard and touched myself thinking of how you would touch me.”

Your words make him twitch inside of you and he groans your name, “always pumped my cock thinking of you. Fucked whores with you on my mind. You have my heart and I shall be leaving it here with you forever.” He promises, “you’ll have it until Pluto takes me.” He slides his hand between you, wanting to hear you cum one more time.

He is talented and you are lucky that he has been taught ways to please you. Making you moan again when he starts to rub the flesh above your cunt. “You take my heart with you to war.” You promise him. “It is yours, even if my body must be someone else’s, you had me first and you hold my heart always.”

Pero groans, rubbing your clit a little faster desperate to push you over the edge before he finishes. It’s overwhelming being inside of you and knowing that he will have to leave tomorrow, he is desperate to hear you cry out his name. “I’m yours, hermosa. I need to feel you.” He begs against your jaw as he presses desperate kisses there.

His words make your entire body tremble. You know your core is wound tight and the next time he plunges deep into your body, you shatter. Crying out loudly, your walls squeeze him tight and the liquid hot pleasure washes through you.

“Fuck.” He hisses as you clench down around his cock. He groans your name and tries to fuck you through it but he has held off long enough. It doesn’t take long, only a half dozen more thrusts, until he is pushing deep inside of you and filling you with his hot seed.

You close your eyes, memorizing how it feels and for a brief moment, you wish that you could have him stay and fill you up everyday until his seed takes root. Knowing that a child from Pero would be your favorite, even if he was a bastard. “Perfection.”

Pero kisses you, unwilling to move even as he softens inside of you. He murmurs your name and kisses you softly, caressing your thigh as you keep your legs wrapped around him. His heart aches knowing that this is the only time he will have you like this.

You catch your breath in the silence that lingers between you, both of you lost in your thoughts as you continue to stroke his back. “No wonder people love to take lovers.” You manage after a long moment. “If it is half as good as this, I know why the soldiers immediately go to the whore houses.”

Pero chuckles, “it isn’t as good as this because this is love making. The whorehouse’s are for fucking. This is love between us.” He knows that any man listening would hang him by his balls for being so soft but this is you and it’s your only night together. He won’t deny you how he feels when he won’t get to say it ever again.

“Oh.” You melt at how intimate it is, how romantic. It is like one of the great stories that is sometimes performed for the people. “We will never have this again, will we?” You ask practically, knowing that you could never love someone as much as you love Pero. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair. “At least we got to have each other tonight. Tomorrow you leave to fight for the glory of Rome and her Emperor.”

“And her empress.” He adds, nudging his nose against yours. He pulls out of you, groaning as he shifts to lay beside you before he pulls you into his chest and murmurs your name, “you will always have my heart. I will fight for Rome and for your glory.” He promises. 

“Fight and live.” You urge him. “I hate the ‘die for the glory of Rome’ shit. I would rather you live. Live until you are an old man, gray in your hair.” You caress his chest and press a kiss to where his heart thumps in his chest. 

Pero smiles, knowing it's unlikely he would grow old and even less likely he would grow old with you. He sighs and kisses your hair, "get some rest, amor. We have the night to enjoy before I must leave."

True to his word, Pero had taken you, again and again during the night. Rest only coming in small spurts before one of you was reaching for the other. On and on until your entire body aches with a secret hurt when the darkest part of the night passes and the faintest pink hue starts to gather on the horizon. The wine has been drunk, the food consumed and the water that is always available for you to clean yourself is dirty. Your eyes are gritty with sorrow and exhaustion as you watch your lover’s naked body begin to be covered back up as he dons his clothes. 

Pero redresses while you watch him and he kneels on the bed when he's ready to go. He leans down to cup your cheek, leaning in to kiss you deeply. "Be happy, mi emperatriz. Don't wait for me. Find your happiness however you can." He urges, knowing he could never be with you. Your father would forbid it. "I love you. Siempre." He vows and nudges his nose against yours, kissing your forehead before he stands up straight and walks over to the doorway to leave your quarters. He looks back at you one last time before he sneaks out of your chambers, unaware that his mother is watching from the shadows.

Your eyes close on bitter tears after the door closes behind him, burying your face in the sheets you had shared with him. The scent of his body still lingers and you weep for the love that you know you will never be allowed to share with Rome.

Señora Tovar prepares your tray and carries it into your rooms, finding the silk sheets rumpled, two empty goblets and an empty food tray. There's no denying what happened here last night and she is glad she has prepared a tea. "Good morning." She declares as she walks into your room. She had dismissed Corda to prepare your tray herself.

You pull yourself out of the sheets at the sound of your lover’s mother, biting your lip to keep from crying even more. “Good morning.” You manage to mumble, your voice cracking slightly.

She comes over to you, setting your tray down on the bed. "I have prepared a tea for you, chiquita. We know you cannot afford for my son's seed to take." She speaks bluntly, "you must drink this and your secret will remain between us." She doesn't want to witness her potential grandchild be shunned by society. She wants the best for her son and her family, she needs to protect you as well.

Your mouth drops open in shock as you stare at her. “I- you- you know?” You ask, practically gasping the question and she chuckles softly as she shakes her head. “It was not hard to guess when I see my son sneaking out of your room looking like a man who has visited paradise and been banished.” She tells you. “He has been in love with you since you were children playing together and I know those feelings have never wavered.” You bite your lip, chin trembling. “I love him, too, mamá.” You have called her mama - like Pero - since you were young. She had been like a mother to you, but Pero was never your brother, even from a young age, your heart skipped a beat when he was near.

She reaches out to caress your cheek, "I know, amor. I know you do. He loves you too. You are meant to be together in another lifetime. Your souls will meet in another time. You cannot pursue him. It will mean his death. Let him go and keep last night in your memory, mija." She cups your cheek and offers you a soft smile, "now...drink the tea. It will ensure you aren't with child."

You don’t want to drink it, wanting for a moment to let his seed take root and defy everyone. Looking into her eyes, you sigh softly and pick up the tea. “I would carry his bastard proudly if he wouldn’t suffer for it.” You tell her before you take a sip. “I hope he comes home. Even if it can’t be to me.”

She sighs, watching you drink it. "I know, amor. You would both suffer. You know your father would never allow it. He would have Pero killed." She closes her eyes for a moment, "one day...you'll be married with a baby at your breast and you'll remember last night but you'll be happy and Pero...he will be shrouded in the glory of Rome." She hums, "you'll meet again and when you do, you'll be different people."

You know that you will not settle. You will have a man who makes you feel as Pero does or you will not take him as a husband. “Yes we will.” You hum sadly. “He will be a general of Rome and I will be her Empress.”

*****

"You cannot continue this juvenile resistance." Your father scoffs while you sit at the dining table, servants carrying food and wine to you but you reject the food and take the wine. "I do not wish to marry a man I do not love. Do you wish for me to be unhappy?" You hiss back and your father clenches his jaw. 

"You have been a maiden for years. You should have married years ago and I am too soft. I allowed you to take your time, let you find a husband within our circles but you refuse. In the senate today, we discussed a way to ensure that the empress will have a suitable husband by her side. A tournament. I wish to have every eligible man fight for your hand in an arena."

You snort and roll your eyes. “Noble men would rather lavish their days away in the baths than fight, father.” You remind him, taking a sip of your wine. “Rome grows weak and yet you think I should marry one of them? What will they be fighting at? Who can belch the loudest?” You have had excuse after excuse to not marry, waiting for word from Pero as he is off fighting, but the years have passed and your father’s patience has given way to pressure from the senate.

"Not noble men. You need a warrior by your side. Someone who can assist you with battle strategy. You have not fought for our empire and you do not have the experience for war. You need a man beside you who can advise. You need a gladiator. I have requested the warriors of Rome to compete for your hand." He declares, "the General is particularly interested in your hand."

You grimace slightly but your father doesn’t see that. The general spends more time in Rome carousing than he does with his men in battle. You find him to be rude and demeaning, although you can never find someone nearby when he acts out. “Warriors.” You think of the warrior you would want and then look to your father. “Will all warriors be allowed, or only those you choose and rig the tournament with?”

Your father snorts, "I want a man who is battle worn and worthy of your hand. Any man can compete but it will be in the Colosseum and they will fight to the death. The hand of the future Empress is worth a man's life. He must die if he fails and you, my dear, will have the strongest warrior to be your husband, your partner after Pluto takes me."

Your brow raises at the news that it will be a fight to the death and you hum again, sipping your wine. “Sport will be had and a maiden won.” You snort, secretly pleased that you are not the maiden you pretend to be. “The crowds will love you for this, father.”

Your father hums, a smug smile on his face, "they will, won't there? We will send word to all that the best can compete for the hand of the most beautiful woman in Rome. The future Empress. May the best man win." He smirks, picking up his goblet.

****

Rome has changed since he has last been here. Pero frowns as he shuffles off the horse and groans slightly as he stands straight. He thinks of you, just he does every day and his eyes slide towards the palace where you would still be. “We got here just in time!” His friend, Octavious, slaps him on the back. “There is a tournament that will be held.” The barracks are rife with the news, every man boasting that he will enter. “The winner becomes the husband of our future Empress!”

Pero doesn't allow himself to react but he takes the scroll from his friend and reads the details. A tournament at the Colosseum - a fight to the death for the hand of the Empress. His jaw clenches and the scroll is ripped from his hand. His mother still resides in the palace caring for you. He will go see her now that he has returned and maybe he can see you. He situates his horse and makes his way through the bustling streets until he is at the palace gates. He grunts his name and he is walking through the gates to find his mother in her rooms. "Mi amor, you're home." She cries when she sees him, rushing to wrap her arms around him and he pulls her closer, holding her tight. He hasn't seen his mother in so many years and he's changed. So has she, she has gotten older but no less beautiful. "You're home." She grins, pulling back to cup his cheeks. "Mijo." She leans in to kiss his cheeks. 

"Where is she?" He asks, "I heard about the tournament." He says and she sighs, "yes. She is not happy. This has been the talk of Rome. It will not begin for a while to allow warriors to return to Rome to fight." She reveals, "she is in her rooms." 

Pero nods, kissing his mother's forehead. "I will be back, mama." He promises, knowing he needs to see you after being gone for too long. He remembers how to sneak to your rooms without being noticed and he's soon knocking on the door, heart pounding in his chest from seeing you for the first time in so long.

You sigh to yourself, almost ignoring the knock on the door. It would be Corda, having insisted that the servant wait for permission to enter your quarters if you were present. You are older and expect some privacy, a rarity here because of who you are. Setting down the wine that you had been enjoying, your sandals slap against the hard stone floors as you move to the door and open it. Making you freeze when you see a man in front of you. He’s familiar and yet so different. Darker, older and seemingly more menacing with a large and wicked looking scar bisecting his left brow. Evidence of surviving a nasty fight. The softness of youth chiseled away to leave nothing more than a fierce warrior, a man, standing before you. “P-Pero?!” You gasp, unable to believe that he is here. You know he is alive, his mother had kept you informed when she heard from him, but you are shocked by his appearance and your heart leaps with joy.

“Hola, mi emperatriz.” Pero greets you breathlessly. You’re just as beautiful but you’ve matured and you look like a leader. He offers you a small smile after a moment when you continue to stare and he knows he’s battle worn carrying scars - some visible, most invisible. “I heard about the tournament upon my arrival.” He confesses, “your father’s idea?”

At the mention of the tournament, you realize he is still standing in the doorway of your quarters for anyone to walk by and see. You know that it’s wrong, but you don’t care as you pull him into your room and slam the door behind him. He’s here. You have him back and now, with your father’s proclamation, there is a way for you to be with him. Instead of answering him, you throw yourself at him and press your lips to his desperately.

He doesn’t push you back. He’s seen war. Men die gruesomely in battle. Women and children killed. There were times when he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it back. His hands grip your waist and he pulls you up against him, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he takes a taste of forbidden fruit.

Moaning, you press impossibly closer. Feeling the joy and passion you haven’t once felt since the day he left reigniting in your belly. You’ve not let another man touch you, remaining pure to his body alone. You know that he will have had other women but you don’t care. It had been your decision and now you are grateful that you had. Your fingers reach for the thick leather belt at his waist to untie it, not caring that he is dirty from the road, you need to touch him to make sure he is real and here again.

Pero knows he should push you away. He shouldn’t claim you again. Yet seeing you, how beautiful you are, remembering how much he’s missed you…it’s like he can’t control himself. He’s not gentle as he gathers your dress in his hands, tugging it up your body so he can caress your skin. “I missed you.” He kisses against your jaw as you push his tunic from his body.

“I prayed to Mars everyday to keep you safe.” You tell him frantically, your hands mapping his scarred body and you groan when your fingers wrap around his rapidly hardening cock. “I love you.” You declare breathlessly. “You said I should not wait, but I did. I have only been yours.” You confess. “Make me yours again, Pero.”

He groans, annoyed that you waited for him because you’ve given him hope. “I love you too. Never stopped.” He vows and guides you back towards the bed. “I’m not going to be gentle.” He confesses, his fingers sliding up your thigh until he’s sliding them through your folds.

“Don’t be.” You beg, knowing that you might be sore, but you will cherish the aches. He pushes you down onto the bed and you slide your dress up to your waist and hurry to unclip the shoulders. “I want my warrior to take the spoils of his conquest.”

Your words make his cock throb and he hisses when you expose your body. Your curves made his mouth water and he surges to dip down and take your nipple into his mouth while he settles between your thighs, gripping his cock to slide it through your folds.

“Pero…” you whimper his name, fingers digging into his longer hair and you love how you can tug on it slightly. “Tell me you didn’t marry.” You beg, gulping back a sob of pleasure when he bites down. “You didn’t find a woman while you were away?”

“I would not be here if that were true.” He assures you, “I wouldn’t betray your soul like that, hermosa.” He vows against your sternum and he starts to push inside of you. “You are still the woman I love.” He promises and you moan as he stretches you out.

Your eyes close and you feel complete for the first time in years. “Fuck.” You whimper, clenching down around him and making him hiss quietly. “That is what I have been missing.” You moan. “Move Pero, take what is yours.”

He doesn’t hesitate to start moving. No longer the younger version of himself making love to you. The desperate older man wants to fuck you, to claim you when he knows that you won’t be his to claim soon. He hisses when your walls flutter around him and he pushes deep when he thrusts back into you. His hand squeezes your breast and he nips along your neck until his lips smash against yours.

You feel the desperation and the need in his kiss, responding in kind. Your fingers drag out of his hair and you scratch down his back again as you rock your hips up to meet his frantic pace. “Pero! Oh fuck, Pero, you, harder- please, harder.”

He won’t deny you when he desperately needs this. He thrusts harder, his skin slapping against yours and his breath puffs against your skin as he pants your name. “So - so fucking perfect. Mi amor. Never stopped loving you. Fuck. I- I missed you.”

“Never stopped.” You gasped, arching up and moaning loudly. Unable to imagine anyone else touching you like Pero is. “Missed you every day. Every day.” You promise. Your body responds to his harsh thrusts and you feel your core start to clench down. Your fingers slide down to his ass and you grip it. Encouraging him as he pumps into you ever harder.

He grunts as you push him deeper and he shifts onto his knees, dragging you into his lap. His strong arms grab the back of your thighs and he lifts you up and down on his cock while he thrusts up into you. “Fuck. Fuck.” He groans, leaning in to kiss your shoulder.

You moan, wrapping your arm around his neck. Pressing your lips to his jaw as he fucks you frantically. You want this always, just him. “I love you. I love you, Pero.” You groan. “You feel so good.”

“Te amo, hermosa. I thought of - of you every day. Every fucking day I’ve been away from you.” He vows, thrusting up into you and his thighs ache but he’s desperate to feel you fall apart around him.

Every thrust pushes you closer to pleasure and you help him. Rocking down when he thrusts up, each one of you groaning and whimpering in pleasure. “I love you, I’m going to- fuck!” You cry out when he pushes deep. Throwing your head back as your cunt clamps down around him.

“Mierda.” He groans when you grip his cock inside of you and soak him. You feel so fucking good. “That’s it, hermosa. Fuck.” He pants, shifting to lay down and you shake as you shift to straddle him. “I want my Empress to ride me.” He orders, smacking your ass with his hand.

You giggle slightly, clenching down around him again from the sharp slap of your skin. Leaning forward, you press your lips to his as you start to rock your hips and moan into his mouth as you push your tongue to meet his.

He caresses your skin everywhere he can reach. Moaning your name as he watches you move on top of him. You aren’t as skilled as a whore but you haven’t done this before. Even with your hips moving a little rigid, he enjoys this far more than any whore he’s given coin to. His hands find your hips, helping you find a rhythm.

He moves you more naturally, making you moan as your tits are pressed into his face. “Pero…” your eyes roll back again and you hold tight to his shoulder as you follow his rhythm and ride his cock.

His mouth finds your nipple, sucking on it as he groans against your flesh. You’re so pliable and he loves how you take him inside of you over and over. Rocking back onto him, you let him control the rhythm and he bites down on your nipple before soothing it with his tongue.

He never wants to let you go. If he could stay in this moment, he’d stay like this forever. His cock twitches inside of you, watching as you take him over and over. His hands caress your back and he kisses up to your neck, aching to suck his mark there but he can’t, no matter how much he wants to.

“I want to feel you inside me again.” You pant breathlessly. “That feeling of your seed inside me was the best feeling I ever had.” You turn and press your lips to his, needing to be close to him in all ways.

He is selfish. If his seed takes and you marry another, his bastard will be killed. They would not allow a bastard to be the future emperor of Rome. His logic knows that it’s not a good idea but his heart and his cock desperately want to fill you up. His heart wins and he rocks his hips to thrust up into you, pushing you forward onto his chest and he wraps his arms around you. “I will fill you up. You’ll be dripping me.” He promises with a growl.

You whine his name and reach down to touch yourself, your fingers brushing against his cock as he rocks up into you. Stroking your flesh quickly as he groans your name, coming apart again with a soft cry. “Pero!”

When you clench down around him, he grabs your ass and thrusts up into you harder and faster, grunts escaping his lips as he seeks his own climax and it doesn’t take long. He hisses your name and clenches his eyes shut as he cums, painting your walls with his seed for the second time.

You moan softly, holding him tight and closing your eyes as he fills you up. The warmth spreads and makes you sigh in pleasure. “That’s so good. I love it, I love you. I want you.” You promise softly. “I- I want you for my husband.”

Pero sighs, stroking his fingers along your spine. “Your father would never allow it. Unless I win the tournament. I need to fight for you, mi amor.” He murmurs, knowing he could be killed but he has to try. He has to fight for his love.

You close your eyes, sighing softly. “Please tell me that you have become a fierce warrior?” You plead. Reaching up, you caress his face and press a kiss to the bottom of his scar. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve lost you once before and now you are back.”

“I am a great warrior. I have survived many battles and it would be incredible to fight for a cause I truly believe in: you.” He murmurs, “I will fight for you. For us.” He vows, “and if I die…I will die knowing that I fought for us. For our future…even if I never get to witness it.” He whispers, knowing it’s a risk but how can he stand by and watch you marry someone else?

You don’t want him to fight, but if he wins, your father would have to accept Pero as your husband. “You will be the only warrior I will be cheering for.” You promise, kissing his cheeks and then his lips. “You will carry my love onto the sands and defeat all others for my hand.”

Pero nods, caressing your cheek, “for you, my Empress.”

****

He lingers in your quarters for as long as possible until his mother finds him after you are dressed. “Mijo.” She smiles, “you must go before the guards see you.” She warns and he nods, leaning in to kiss your forehead and he squeezes his mother’s hand as he passes her, knowing he cannot remain in your quarters. He must prepare to fight. “I shall prepare the tea.” His mother says and you shake your head, “no tea.” Her eyes widen slightly but she won’t argue with you.

It is a risk for you, but you don’t care. Emboldened by Pero’s return, you are ready to risk everything. “Pero is fighting in the tournament.” You hope she doesn’t get upset at you for making her son risk his life again in the deadly games. “He will win and then you will longer be a servant in this house.” You promise. “You will have your own servant to attend to you.”

His mother is not surprised to hear that her son will be fighting. She’s concerned that he might not win and she will lose her son and the woman she’s come to love as a daughter. You will not survive the loss. She offers you a smile and a nod, not wanting to voice her worry.

****

“I want to win the tournament without too many issues. You know that I am the best man to marry your daughter. Your general. I am fit for war and she will not know of the issues we face on the battlefield. You have sheltered her and she will be a weak leader. She needs a man to guide her.” Atticus, the general of three Roman army explains to your father as they sip their goblets of wine. 

“She is naive but I have trained her well in all matters. It is true she needs a man to guide her in the subject of war. Perhaps you are the best candidate.” Your father hums and the general smirks, “then shall we call off the tournament and announce our betrothal?” He suggests but your father shakes his head, “no. We must show the people of Rome that the best man won her hand. You shall fight but let me make it easier for you. Let the riff raff kill each other and you shall be a late contender. You’ll have five men to kill. Maybe less. You shall be the victor.” Your father decides and the general grins, holding up his cup, “to the glory of Rome.”

****

Pero stands with his sword and his shield in hand, helmet on his head as he stands in line. There are many men here to fight for your hand and the hold beneath the colosseum is packed full of men eager to win you and the power of Rome.

The roar of the crowds fill the colosseum and you sit under the shade as warriors file out from the catacombs below to stand in the bright sunshine to bask in the adoration of the crowds. Blood will be spilt today and you wish that none would die, but the more violent the sport, the more entertained the Romans would be. Several from the senate come to greet you, but you keep your eyes on the sands, looking for Pero. He had said he would not fight with a helmet on so you can spot him. Ever since his return a month ago, he has come to your chambers every night to tangle his limbs with yours and leave you limp with pleasure and full of his seed. Your heart is twisted with worry and hope as you wait and look for your lover. Any moment now, your father will arrive to commence the games. 

Pero remembers his promise to you to survive and win, and so he sets his helmet down before he steps up onto the sands and winces as the sun hits his eyes. The warriors line up, prepared to fight to the death for the hand of the future Empress. He’d heard many men talk about taking your innocence, leaving your blood on the sheets, and he had to stop himself from killing them before the battle and from revealing the secret he holds close to his heart. He was the one to take your innocence all those years ago. His eyes dart up to the stands where you are and his heart pounds in his chest. This is his chance. His only chance to win your hand and the approval of your father. With his blessing, you could marry and Pero would be by your side until he dies. Your eyes find him in the crowd and he stands straighter, watching your father raise his hand. The crowd goes silent and your father begins to speak. “Today, you fight for Rome, for her honor, and for the honor to be by her Empress’s side as a leader to all Romans. You must earn this privilege and if you fail, you will die. May the best gladiator win.” He nods and the crowd roars back to life when the battle commences moments later.

It’s an impossible task, pretending to be uninterested in the games when your eyes are riveted to one man. You don’t blink, don’t look away for fear of missing some small thing that could be life or death for the man you love. He is amazing, his speed and skill are obvious as he moves, his sword flashing in the sun as he cuts down his rivals.

It doesn’t take long for the first round to be over. Covered in blood and surrounded by bodies, Pero takes the chance to look up at you. You are watching intently and he knows he can’t fail you now. At least two thirds of the warriors are gone. “And now…we introduce a new element…lions.” Your father gleams with maniacal joy as the lions are brought into the arena. The crowd cheers and you gasp “no.” Pero growls, “fuck” under his breath. This just got more complicated but he will kill a fucking lion if he has to.

“Something wrong?” Your father turns and looks at you with a smirk, but you shake your head. It’s already a needless slaughter of Rome’s most capable warriors, but if you show favoritism towards Pero, you are almost sure the games will be directed towards taking him out. You don’t trust the general to not cheat and he has not even stepped out into the area yet. “The tall one.” You tell him, pointing towards a giant of a man with a golden crown of hair peeking out from under his helmet. “He seems like he would be a good husband. Provide me with strong babies to further our line.” You lie, knowing that you would never accept anyone but Pero into your bed.

Your father smirks, “he is not Roman, my dear. He’s from the west. He will not provide the line you wish to have.” Your father declares and raises his hand once again, “commence.” He orders and the warriors begin to battle once more but this time, the lions are released. Pero grunts as his sword clangs with another, the roar of the lion behind him followed by a scream of a man who gets chewed up. Pero’s heart is pounding but he fights, knowing that he can’t lose. You’ll be married to someone who would treat you like a servant when you are destined to be Empress. You need a husband who will support you.

Your heart sinks, knowing now that your father will cheat to have the man he wants you married to win these games. The servants behind you fan the Emperor and you against the heat and you know it must be sweltering down on the hot sands. You gasp when the lion closest to Pero takes a swipe at him, narrowly missing his flesh with those large claws. “Gods.” You mutter, clenching your jaw as another man is dragged down by the great beasts. A splash of blood staining the sands beneath the carnage.

Pero’s chest heaves and he’s covered in sweat. Blood streaked on his body but it’s not his own. The sun is burning but he fights to stay alive, swinging his sword over and over until he’s facing a lion. The lion roars and he grounds himself, swinging his sword. The lion swipes him, making him hiss from the gash on his arm but he ignores it, focusing on killing the beast.

Your entire body tenses and you lean forward. Watching the fight between lion and man. You see the animal cut into his arm and you press your lips together to keep from crying out. You know that your father is watching the games, but he will notice you. You pray to the gods that the lion doesn’t win as you watch the beast lunge towards Pero and drive him to the ground.

Pero scrambles to protect himself with his shield while the lion snaps his teeth at him. He struggles and he sees his life flash before him in that moment and he sees the future he’s losing. A future with you and he won’t let that go so he swings his sword, driving it into the chest of the lion who roars and swipes but stumbles to the ground. Pero pants as he allows himself a moment to regain his strength while the battle continues around him until it’s him and one other man. Your father holds his hand up and the crowd goes silent. Pero’s chest heaves as he looks up at the balcony, waiting for the next announcement. If it’s a fight to the death one on one, he plans to win. “We have a late contender.” Your father declares, “General Atticus throws his hat into the ring.” He announces and the crowd cheers when the gates open to reveal the General in his gleaming armor.

“Father!” You hiss in annoyance, knowing that Pero is exhausted after fighting for hours, while Atticus has watched from the stands and is fresh. He turns to you and smiles, “he will be a good warrior beside you.” He declares and you know that Atticus will cheat. He’s a snake.

Pero rolls his shoulders, knowing that he has to wait until the other man goes for Atticus. He can regain some strength. The horn sounds and as predicted, the other man rushes towards Atticus who easily takes him down. The man was exhausted as is Pero but he won’t lose. He can’t. Atticus smirks as he withdraws his sword from the dead man and wipes it on the sand. “Give it up. You can’t win.” Atticus taunts Pero who growls, chest heaving. The two men appraise each other for several moments and Pero waits for him to make the first move.

You are on the edge of your chair, a small scream clawing up in your throat when you see Atticus attack. The lunge and slash is too close and you see that Pero is exhausted. You grip the arms of your chair as your lover spins away from the general and puts several paces between them. The general shuffles slightly, feinting a move to the left but then goes right, Pero watching and moving with him so he deflects the attack easily. “Mars protect him.” You murmur quietly.

Pero spits onto the sand, his throat dry, and his muscles aching but he refuses to yield. The general smirks at him, “you will never have her. Oh, Pero Tovar, I have heard all about you. How you have been in love with her since you were children. She isn’t yours to have. She will be mine. Rome will be mine.” He grins and surges forward. His sword slicing Pero’s shoulder and your lover cries out in pain. The general attacks again, slicing Pero’s side and he’s exhausted. He falls to his knees, his sword in his hand and his eyes turn to you as Atticus raises his sword.

You lunge to your feet, horror making you shout out the secret you have been keeping from Pero the last week. “I’m carrying your child!” You scream out, “Fight, Pero! I love you!” The entire colosseum is deathly quiet, waiting for the death blow to be delivered, so all of Rome hears your shame. You don’t care. You just want Pero to live.

Pero’s eyes widen as your scream echoes in the colosseum. You’re pregnant. With his child. His jaw clenches and Atticus stares at him in shock, momentarily distracted, and Pero jumps onto his feet, swinging his sword and within moments, Atticus’s head rolls across the bloodied sands of the arena. The crowd roars to life and your father stares in shock as the general’s body is sprawled out on the ground, his head on the sands, eyes wide in shock.

Screaming in joy, you refuse to even look towards your father, knowing that you just ruined his plans for your future rule. Tears start to stream down your face, ecstatic that your lover has won and will now have your hand in marriage per the rules your father set down. The thunderous applause of crowds are deafening, their approval meaning that there is no way your father can change the rules again. “Pero! Pero!” You shout, the crowd picking up on it and starting to chant his name through the colosseum.

Pero pants, exhaustion seeping into his bones and he wastes no time in rushing through the stands, making his way to the balcony, and when he swings his leg onto the balcony, he reaches for you and pulls you close. Pressing his lips to yours, he sighs your name and smiles against your mouth. His hand finding your stomach between you. You can be together. Finally, your father smiles and applauds but you can sense his disapproval.

The people of Rome witness your fussing over him. The frantic kisses and the happy tears they swear everyone in the stands can see. Your hands grab his face to caress and coo over him, overjoyed by the fact that he won. The sands of the colosseum are littered with bodies and blood, signifying how hard Pero fought to win. “I love you.” You promise him breathlessly. “I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to surprise you after you won.” You admit.

“Hermosa.” He murmurs, “I will protect you until my last breath.” He vows, “you and our child.” The crowd is applauding, roaring with screams of joy and your father waves to the crowd until he gestures to you and Pero who takes your hand as he approaches the edge of the balcony. Your father claps as you raise Pero’s arm and your lover grins as it sinks in that he has won. “Your future empress and her warrior. They will be wed in two days time.” Your father announces and the crowd cheers once more. 

“Come, my love, you need to wash and rest.” You coo and Pero nods, the adrenaline wearing off and he stumbles slightly as you guide him from the balcony to the chariot waiting to return you to the palace.

The ride back to the palace is quiet, neither one of you speaking, although children and dogs run beside the chariot. The children cheer and wave and the dogs bark as they race alongside the spinning wheels. You are elated that he won, but you need to keep him close until the wedding. Your father will be furious that you had slept with Pero, but hopefully your public confession will keep him safe. Once you are back at the palace, you order food and wine to be brought to the baths, intending on taking care of your lover yourself.

You guide Pero to the private baths of the emperor and yourself, the servants fetching the trays you requested, and Pero watches as you work on removing his armor. “You are going to be mine.” He murmurs, unable to quite believe it. You smile and continue removing the armor from his body, depositing it on the marble floor that surrounds the baths.

Once Pero is naked, you take a cloth and wet it in the water, washing his wounds carefully. “It will scar.” You tsk slightly, knowing that he won’t mind the additional marks on his battle riddled body. “Your victory will be the talk of the Empire for years to come.” You tell him, dropping the cloth and reaching for your own dress to disrobe. “Now you will reap your spoils.” You smirk. “An Empress, bathing you of your sweat and blood before she rides you. Sucks your cock like a common whore. Rome will be on her knees for you.”

Your words make his cock throb, already hard from the adrenaline, and his eyes take in your body. The knowledge that you are having his baby makes him inhale sharply and he groans your name, “my Empress.  You shall want for nothing. I am yours. Rome is yours.” He vows as you take his hand to help him step into the warm waters.

The warm water is soothing and you know that your lover is thirsty, so as soon as he sits down you bring him a cup of wine. “My Spaniard.” You hum, holding it up to his lips. “My love, my future warrior and the father of my children to come.” You coo as he takes a sip.

He swallows down half the goblet and after you set it down, he reaches for you so he can cup your cheek. He presses his lips to yours and slides his tongue into your mouth, wanting to show you how much he loves you. He killed half of Rome for you.

You go willingly into his arms, wrapping yours around his neck and straddling his thighs in the water. Kissing him back with just as much passion as you can show him. You know that he’s both exhausted and invigorated and you reach for the cloth and soap. “Let me tend to you.” You murmur, kissing along his jaw as you pick up the goblet and press it into his hands to drink while you tend to him. “Relax and enjoy.”

Pero slides his hands along your back, enjoying the way you care for him. It’s tender and just what he needs after his body has been through hell and back. “Amor.” He murmurs, sighing when you kiss his cheek. The goblet of wine in his hand lowers slightly as his grip loosens. You start to wash him, his hair full of blood, and he watches you bite your lip in concentration.

You take your time, soothing his muscles with the heat and the wine. Knowing that the water feels good and being clean will feel even better. You might have been raised to be the Empress of Rome, but you want to take care of him. He has done so much for you. “My love. My brave and wonderful love.” You praise softly. “I was so scared for you. Even knowing you would win.”

Pero snorts, “you were that sure?” He asks, not believing you. “I know that you weren’t sure. Especially when those fucking lions came out. Your father…he’s a cruel man. Lions.” He shakes his head as you caress his chest with the cloth. “I thought I was going to fail when the lion was on top of me.” He admits softly, “but then you said you were with child and I couldn’t - I had to fight. Even if I was cut down. I had to try.”

“I’m glad you did.” You admit softly, leaning over and kissing his shoulder right above the wound he had taken from Atticus. “I would never wanted to be married to that man. He is just as cruel as my father, maybe more so. I have heard the rumors, and I’ve never liked him.” You soap up your fingers to wash his hair, knowing he will feel better when he is clean. “I missed my bleeding last week.” You explain quietly. 

Pero's cock twitches at the fact that he has gotten you pregnant but he remembers the way you screamed it. "You screamed it for all of Rome to hear, mi amor. The people...they will look at you as...impure and I do not wish to have that. We must marry as soon as possible." He murmurs, closing his eyes.

“I don’t care.” You promise him. “I would rather be known as impure and have all of Rome know I love you, than to be viewed as pure and have to marry Atticus.” You sigh softly. “I want to believe Rome would be happy for me. They cheered for you.”

Pero opens his eyes, "they cheered for you. They adore you. Their future Empress." He murmurs, "carrying their future Emperor. They would be fools to cast you aside when you simply followed your heart." He groans when you rub your fingers against his scalp.

You smile as you watch him relax, his eyes closed and enjoying the sensation of your hands in his hair. “They cheered for us, for we are the future of Rome.”

Pero smiles, knowing that it’s always been you. He’s never loved another. His hands sliding down to squeeze your ass as he starts to harden beneath you. “I can’t believe I get to have you. I never - siempre - I always imagined I’d have to watch you marry another.” He confesses, “but now…you’re mine.”

“I am yours.” You promise, picking up a clay pitcher to pour clean water over Pero’s hair. “And as soon as I finish, you are going to sit while I ride your cock and bring you pleasure.” You hum.

“Mmmm mi amor, I would love to let you use my body for your pleasure.” He murmurs, tilting his head back to let you wash the soap from his hair, the blood washing away. His cock is hard beneath you, “mi emperatriz, full of our baby.” He groans, his hands squeezing your ass.

“Full of your baby.” You whisper, pressing your lips to his. “I refused to drink your mother’s tea after you returned.” You admit, wanting him to know that you had no reservations about carrying his child. “If there had been no tournament, I would have asked you to flee Rome with me.”

Pero sighs, reaching up to cup your cheek, “I couldn’t ask that of you. You have been raised to lead. I could never ask you to abandon your empire.” He sighs, “but I would’ve followed you anywhere.”

“That is in the past.” You reach between you to wrap your fingers around his cock and line up so you can sink down on him. “You will be my right hand, the sword and shield of Rome.” You predict as you slowly start to take him into your body. “Leader of my armies and master of my heart. My gladiator.”

Pero’s breath hitches as you sink down onto him. His hands find your waist and his lips press against yours once more. His tongue sliding into your mouth, and he savors his victory. He was nearly killed but he survived, he won. He can enjoy his reward…you.

****

“The general approaches.” Your servant announces it as if you do not see the crowds parting for the large retinue of soldiers, the crests of the regiment held high and the confetti littering the streets for the celebration of your husband’s victorious return to the capital. Your hand idly rubs the large, swollen bump under your breasts where his child safely lies. Kicking at the noise and feeling your happiness at Pero’s return. In the last eight months, your life has changed. You married Pero, ignoring your father’s unhappiness at the union since it was the best thing for Rome. Your father had passed away in his sleep days later, making you the Empress of Rome and your baby its future heir. Pero had been made the top general of your armies and had been dispatched to bring peace to your lands. Successful, he is now returned to you and hopefully, the expensive wars will be no more for a long time. You smile at the crowds, but your eyes are fixed on the noble figure of your husband as his horse canters up the streets, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“Gods, she has gotten big.” He murmurs to himself, riding up the steps of the palace where you are standing and he swings off of his horse as the crowds close in below you. A servant takes the reins as Pero strides over to you, his hands cupping your cheeks to kiss you deeply in front of the people of Rome. The crowd cheers and Pero caresses your bump. “I’ve missed you, emperatriz.” He murmurs, nudging your nose with his. “I missed you too, my gladiator.” You whisper and he smiles, waving at the crowds as he steps back to take your hand. “I need you now.” He demands, escorting you into the palace and you try to keep up as he guides you to your quarters.

Pero’s long strides eat up the marble flooring between the front of the palace and the quarters you had taken for yourself after your father passed. The furnishing had been replaced and the room to the side that had been used for his mistresses had been turned into a nursery for your future child. His eagerness to touch you has you giggling as you are practically dragged along the corridor. Despite your advanced pregnancy, it’s obvious that your husband desires you. “I have missed you between my thighs, husband.” You tease.

“I missed you more than you can imagine, amor.” Pero pushes the doors open, slamming them behind you when you’re inside and he wastes no time dropping to his knees on the marble floor and pushes your dress up your body. His hands caress your bump and he surges forward to bury his face in your curls, his tongue sliding through your folds.

“Pero!” You cry out in pleasure as your sensitive body reacts to his skilled tongue. You had learned so much about each other’s bodies when he had returned and you were sneaking him into your bed every night, but after your marriage, your couplings became even more blissful. Pero is an attentive and giving lover, you don’t doubt that he had been faithful to you while he was away for so many months despite knowing that others take their ease with the whores that follow the army. “Fuck, your tongue is so good. I have missed you beside me at night.”

He groans, missing your tangy taste, and he hisses as he flicks his tongue over your clit. Your bump prevents him from seeing you but he groans as you tangle your fingers in his hair. He’s dirty from the road but he doesn’t care as his hands slide along your legs, caressing your skin while he works you over with his tongue.

Pero eats your cunt eagerly, with a hunger that sometimes takes your breath away as he pushes your body towards pleasure. “Pero.” You whine, holding steady to his shoulders when he lifts one of your legs to his thigh to delve into you deeper. “Make me cry out and then I want you deep inside me, want to feel you fill me up again.”

He wants to push you over the edge. Sucking on your clit, he can feel how close you are and you tug on his hair. His cock is aching for you and he wants you to cum for him. He flicks his tongue over your clit and pushes it deep inside of you, his nose pressing against your clit.

Your stomach heaves and your fingers dig into his hair and tug when you come apart. “Pero!” You scream his name, your eyes rolling back as you soak his tongue in your pleasure. It makes your legs tremble and threaten to buckle but you know his strong arms will keep you upright.

He grips your ass, keeping you upright, and he works you through it, loving the way you moan as you come back down to earth. He caresses your skin and lowers your leg back down. “Come on, amor. I want to be inside of you.” He stands up and takes your hand to guide you over to the bed. He unclips his breast plate and sets it down, his leather tunic swaying as he works on untying it to expose his body to your eager eyes.

“My love, my gladiator.” You moan, his strong body always making you feel desperate for him. He is still strong, even if he is not as lean as he was when he had left you before when you were nearly still children. His cock is hard and jutting out proudly, making you moan. “After you have bathed, I want to be on my knees for you again. Have you sit on the side of the baths while I take you down my throat.”

Pero knows he won’t win if he argues with you that you shouldn’t do that in your condition so he doesn’t protest. “Hands and knees, mi amor.” He knows that’s the most comfortable position for you right now. He kneels on the bed as you shift onto your hands and knees, the baby bump beneath you as your toes dig into the bedding. Pero pumps his cock as he shuffles closer and he positions himself at your entrance before he starts to slowly push inside of you.

Your eyes close, cunt squeezing him tight as you moan his name. You’ve never had another lover but you know that no one else would be as good as your husband. He twitches inside you, making you whimper. “I want it hard, Pero.” You beg. “It won’t hurt me and I crave the ache.”

His hands caress your back down to your ass, pushing your dress higher to expose more of you and he groans when your walls flutter around him. “I love you. Mi emperatriz.” He vows, “I am yours. I serve only you.” He promises and he rocks into you a little harder like you want.

You moan quietly, loving how he adores you. Anyone else would have been hungry for what power you could provide to him, but Pero doesn’t care about that. You are his priority. “I love you.” You gasp out. “You are my Emperor. I give everything to you.”

Pero groans, leaning over you to press his lips to your neck. “I love you. You are everything.” He never wanted to be Emperor. He never wanted the power. He only wanted to be with you, to have you. Even if it meant running from Rome. You’re his life. “My Empress.” He murmurs, rocking into you a little faster, his hand sliding down your bump until he’s pressing his digits against your clit.

You moan his name again, frantic to cum around his cock after so long without him. Pleasure rockets through you and you push back against his thrusts eagerly. “Pero- Pero, I’m going to cum!” You cry out, seconds before stars burst behind your eyes and you clamp down around his length.

He grits his teeth when your walls grip him. He fucking loves it. He’s missed you so much. This is why he could never fuck a whore. No one has ever made him feel like this. He pants against your back as he rocks into you, “fuck. I- I’m gonna fill you up.” He grunts, pushing into you a half dozen more times until he cums, painting your walls with his hot seed. “Te amo.” He pants, breathing you in.

“I love you too.” You slowly roll to your side, Pero still buried inside you so he can stroke your belly and both of you can relax. “You are home now. No more wars until our second child is at least five.” You hum, knowing the people of Rome are tired of costly wars.

“Your empire is secure. Your people love you. We shall be legendary. Our family, our children will be remembered forever.” He murmurs, caressing your belly and he kisses your forehead. “You are my Empress. I would die for you. I would kill for you.” He vows and you stroke his cheek. He already killed for you. Your gladiator. You and Pero were always meant to be and the history books will write of your epic love story. The Empress and her Gladiator.

[avastrasposts]

Rosemary & Lavender

Plot: The victorious army is in town and Pero feels he deserves some R&R at the local tavern; a hot meal, a bath and a bed. And you just happen to be there to administer that bath. Lucky you!

Mercenary!Pero x female reader

Warnings: Explicit smut, dirt, blood, scowls and time period typical attitudes to safe sex. No use of y/n and the reader is pretty much a blank slate.

Word count: 4.5k

So @nerdieforpedro informed me about her Pero soon being in a tub in the fic she's working on, and that sparked a whole idea. She is wholly responsible for the below spa session. I can't believe I haven't written Pero getting a well deserved bath before! Thank you for the inspiration, Nerdie!

Also, huge thank you to the lovely @lady-bess who whipped up the banner in about five minutes flat when I twisted her arm with sweet words about Jack Daniels. Love you!

The soldiers were loud and triumphant as they rumbled into town, the victory had been resounding, the enemy thwarted and a much larger conflict avoided. The people of the town were out on the narrow streets, cheering the men as they marched onwards to the camp that had been erected on the other side. The victorious officers led the improvised parade, grinning at the boisterous men. The line of soldiers seemed to go on forever, but eventually the line trickled out and you closed the window to the upstairs room in the tavern your brother ran and hurried down to the kitchen. There would be a lot of work to be done when the men came in search of ale and revelry in a few hours. 

At the back of the long line of soldiers came those who didn’t really care what side won or lost, as long as they were on the winning side and got their payment, they were the mercenaries. Among them was a tall, dark haired Spaniard whose deep scowl kept most people at bay, Pero Tovar. He scanned the houses of the town as he followed the men walking past them, keeping his eyes open for a tavern who also offered rooms to stay in. He was still expecting his pay from the commander, but he’d found a few coins and valuables as he lingered on the battlefield after it was all done. His body ached, he was covered in grime, blood and mud, and he had no intention of sleeping in a tent tonight. The coins he’d found would buy him a bath, a bed and a hot meal away from the rest of the army. 

The tavern sign swung in the wind and he recognised the sign for lodgings. Taking no notice of the other mercenaries, he ducked his head and stepped through the low door, into the gloomy room inside. The innkeeper caught sight of him and raised a hand in greeting as he approached. 

“Welcome, and congratulations on your victory, soldier!” he boomed, “You’ve all done us a great service by keeping our border safe.” 

Tovar scoffed, his scowl deepening, he had no patience for the locals who were too cowardly to even attempt to defend their homes. 

“I want a hot meal, a bath and a bed for the night, in that order, innkeep,” he growled, tossing the coins on the nearest table. 

“Of course, sir, of course, take a seat and I’ll make sure your bath is heated while you eat,” the innkeep waved at the serving girl in the corner, who hurried through a door leading to the kitchen. Tovar sank down at one of the trestle tables as the innkeeper disappeared up a creaking staircase. Out of sight, he could hear him call to someone to prepare a hot bath in the available room, and then the stairs creaked as the innkeeper made his way back down. 

“Sir, my sister will make sure your bath is ready for when you’ve eaten, please let her know if you want more hot water or need anything else.” 

Tovar grunted and gave a short nod in reply, picking up his short knife and beginning to clean the grime from underneath his fingernails with the sharp tip. 

Not many minutes later the serving girl reappeared with a large bowl and a flagon. She set both down on the table in front of him and he inhaled deeply. Whoever the cook was, they did a fine job with the stew. It was thick and rich and he could see a bone or two sticking up. While the serving girl fetched him bread, he fished the longest bone from the bowl and sucked the marrow from it with a loud slurp before he tucked into the stew. 

It didn’t take him long to finish the bowl and mop up the remains with the last heel of bread. He pushed the bowl to the side and drained the flagon. 

“Girl, which room has my bath?” he called to the serving girl in the corner and she all but jumped out of her skin at his bark. 

“U-up th-e stairs and to the right, milord,” she stuttered, “l-last r-room.” 

He ignored her incorrect title for him and pushed to his feet, making his way up the creaking stairs and finding the room at the end of the hall. 

You straightened up as the door was opened and the lodger walked in. 

“Your bath is just about ready, sir,” you said, pouring the last of the hot water into the large wooden tub and checking to make sure it was hot enough. The delicate fragrance of rosemary and lavender filled the room, the sprigs floating in the water, the air warm from the fire burning brightly in the stone fireplace. You’d set aside a couple of your softest linen sheets for drying and a pitcher of cider was sitting on the small table in the corner together with bread and cheese. 

The man grunted in response and stepped through the door, his large frame taking up much of the space between the door and the tub. He was still wearing his armour, what little could be seen under the grime that covered it, two viscous looking swords equally splattered by dirt and blood on his back, and a knife in his belt. You couldn’t even see much of his face, most of it covered in mud, although it looked as if he’d attempted to wipe it off, patches of tan skin peaking through.

He sniffed the air, nodding approvingly as he saw the lavender floating in the steaming water and began to pull at one of the straps. 

“Do you require assistance removing your amour, sir?” you asked, putting down the jug and stepping to the side to make room for him by the tub. 

“Tovar,” he muttered, his hand dropping from the heavy looking belt around his waist, “don’t call me sir. And yes, if you’re willing, a helping hand is welcome, but I won’t pay extra for it.” 

You raised an eyebrow at his curt reply, but stepped closer, reaching for the first strap. 

“I won’t charge extra for it, we’re all very grateful for your service in defending the land around our town.” 

He only grunted at that as he stood still, watching your face as you unbuckled a piece of his armour. He hadn’t been close to an ordinary woman in months, only the whores that followed the wagon train, and he’d made sure to stay well away from them. He knew from experience that the easiest way to get something unpleasant festering in your cock was to share the same cunts as the rest of the army. But here was a real woman, clean by the looks of it, the shining hair uncovered, marking you as unmarried, skin clear of any blemishes, round cheeks and soft curves, was it any surprise that his cock twitched as you moved around him? Delicate hands unlatching and uncovering more of him with each piece that you removed.  

The pieces of his armour were placed nearby and he stood in his sweat drenched shirt as you worked on the last part. He could feel the foul smell coming off himself, but you didn’t flinch. He had a clean shirt in his pack, this one he might need to discard. Looking at the perfect swell of your ass cheeks under the dress, as you bent down to place vambraces on the floor, he wondered if he could offer you enough money to stay and bathe him, if he had enough coins to tempt you to do even more for him. His eyes were glued to you as you stood up straight and turned around. You felt his gaze slip over your body, greedily taking in each dip and curve, especially where your chest strained against the fabric of your dress. 

Without a word, you continued your task of undressing him, pretending to just keep going now that the armour was off. Your hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, and pushed it upwards, feeling his hard muscles under the warm skin as you caressed him under the guise of removing the last layer on his upper body.  

Tovar’s cock slammed to attention at the feeling; soft, warm palms, fingers slowly trailing over his chest, and sides, lifting the shirt over his head and dropping it down on the floor. Without stopping to ask, your fingers moved to the lacing in his breeches, and he toed his boots off as you looked up at him, meeting his dark eyes without hesitation. 

“You’re covered in all manner of grime, sir,” you said, glancing down to loosen another loop, “will you let me help you get clean?” 

“Pero,” he muttered, following your gaze down to where your hands were deftly working their way closer to the evidence of his arousal, his cock tight against the leather of his breeches. 

“Pero,” you echoed, slipping your hands around his waist and pushing his breeches down over his hips, curving your hands over his rear, grabbing it a bit more than necessary. His cock bobbed free, quickly growing harder as your hands caressed over his hips, sliding up along his sides, finding his shoulders and slipping down his arms, your fingernails leaving goosebumps in their wake on his skin. Finally your hand closed around his and pulled him towards the tub. 

“Get in before it gets cold, Pero,” you said, keeping your voice in the same low tone he’d given you his name in. 

He stepped into the warm water and let out an involuntary groan as his muscles first seized up and then relaxed, letting him slip deeper into the tub, the fragrance of rosemary and lavender all around him as he sensed your presence next to him. 

“I will smell like a well roasted side of pork when you’re done, are you bathing me or cooking me?” he mused as he sniffed the air, pushing away a sprig of rosemary. 

“You look like a very tough side of meat, I’d need to keep you simmering for days to get you tender and soft,” you said, laughing softly as Pero raised his eyebrows at you. 

“Tough side of meat,” he huffed, his hand coming out fast as a viper and swatting your behind as you bent to pick up the washcloth, “come here and finish what you started, mujer, or I’ll show you how tough my side of meat is.” 

You smiled at his crude humour, his hard erection clearly visible beneath the water, underlining his meaning. 

Rubbing down the wash cloth with sweet smelling soap you kneeled behind his head, “Close your eyes, Pero,” you said softly, “let me clean your face and hair first.” 

He could only grunt in response as you began to gently wipe at his face, tracing each line and angle, wiping weeks of grime away with every delicate movement. You’d guessed that he was a handsome man, even the dirt couldn’t hide that, but you were taken in as you rinsed the cloth in a bowl and reapplied it to his face, wiping gently. His skin was golden, a smattering of freckles over his nose, long dark lashes rested on his high cheekbones and the full lips were soft and plush looking under his scruffy facial hair. It really was too long, and his hair had begun to curl over his ears. 

“Pero,” you asked softly, “can I trim your beard and hair a little, keep it from getting in your eyes?” 

He only gave another low grunt in response, not even opening his eyes. You stepped away for the cutters, and then kneeled back down, using a small comb to untangle his locks, cutting until it was all even, revealing more of his handsome face. 

Rubbing the hard soap between your hands, you began to wash his hair, running your fingers through it to lift the grime and dirt. Under your hands, Pero moaned, an almost obscene sound, as your nails scratched at his scalp. 

“Mierda…” he groaned, “that’s good, keep doing that.” 

With a smile you continued, longer than necessary, to rub his scalp, massaging all the way down his neck and the tightly corded muscles holding his head up. Pero tipped forward, exposing more of his broad shoulder to you, and you soaped your hands again and worked through every inch of flesh you could reach, digging your thumbs into the knots and tight spots. Pero was breathing heavily, groaning every time you found a new kink to put pressure on.

“Señorita, I would pay good money to have you do this to me every night,” he mumbled, his head lolling from side to side as you worked your way up again, scratching at his scalp and rinsing his hair. Gently you pulled his head back and rested it on the small pillow at the lip of the tub. 

“If you pay better than my brother, I might take you up on that offer,” you smiled at him, even though his eyes were closed. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, you moved to the side of the tub and picked up the washcloth again.

Pero peeled his eyes open as you began to gently rub at his chest and arms, rinsing away the dirt. 

“And he won’t come after me if I steal you away from this place?” he asked, letting his free hand reach out and trace across your shoulder, down your side, barely grazing the curve of your breast before he let his hand fall. 

“He’ll probably only see it as one less mouth to feed,” you said with a smile as Pero shifted his gaze to where your hand was now washing his leg. You moved the washcloth methodically, rubbing circles on his foot, his calf, then on his knee, moving to his thigh and letting your hand disappear under the water. Pero hissed as the cloth grazed against his erection. It had simmered down while you cut and washed his hair, now it was growing rapidly, and he bucked his hips as you nudged it again. 

“Mierda….” he muttered under his breath, tipping his head back, anticipating your hand closing around his hard length. But instead, you pulled your hand out of the water and began to work on his other leg, the same methodical motions, circling over his wet skin. His foot…his calf…his knee…his thigh…it seemed you moved at a snail’s pace. When you finally let your hand sink below the water again, he all but held his breath as your hand moved. The washcloth brushed over the tip of him, sending a shiver through him, as you rubbed the very top of his thigh, cleaning the crease where his leg met his torso. It was agony, pure, sweet agony, and he had to bite his lip, his breathing laboured. 

“Cariño lindo….” he finally mumbled, putting his hand in the water and finding yours, “stop tormenting me.” With a firm grip he made you drop the washcloth, letting it float away forgotten in the tub, and brought your hand to his aching cock, your hand closing around it as you met his dark eyes. He let go of your hand and it stayed, wrapped around his thick length, an impressive girth from what you could feel. With a sigh he tipped his head back again, and you felt his cock twitch under your fingers, prompting you to slowly drag your hand up to the tip, your thumb slipping over the fat head. Pero bit down on his lip, air escaping his mouth, and beneath heavy lids he watched your face as you moved your hand. Your tongue peaked out, the tip resting on your bottom lip, and he could feel you grip him firmly, the soft pad of your thumb caressing his slit again. The sensation made his hip jerk up and he wondered if you’d let him pull you into the tub. Or even better, let him toss you on the bed that stood by the window, pull your skirts up and see if you were as wet as he thought you must be. The thought of sinking his cock into that wet heat made him jerk his hips again, fucking up into your tight hand. 

The water lubricated your movements, Pero’s heavy breathing and almost pained moans egged you on, and your hand stroked him firmly. His eyes were glued to you, half closed and he was mumbling under his breath, his hips jerking his cock up into your hand. He was heavy under your fingers, smooth and hard, and so thick that your hand couldn’t really close around all of him. Through the now murky water you could make it out, jutting out from between his strong thighs, a dark thicket of hair surrounding it. You pulled down the foreskin and let your thumb slip around the smooth head again, making him gasp and curse, pleading with you to go on. The water splashed a little over the edges as you slipped your hand down, picking up the pace, Pero’s incoherent mumbling replaced by heavy breathing and groans. He tipped his head back, his eyes squeezing shut, your hand moving faster, lighting a trail of fire through his spine, the familiar tightness building in his heavy balls, his fingers were gripping the sides of the tub tightly, his knuckles white. 

“Please….” he groaned, a loud gasp escaping and you felt his body freeze, only his hips jerking erratically into your hand as you continued to stroke him, white liquid shooting out from his cock into the water. 

“Mierda…” he hissed, grabbing your hand under water, closing your fingers even tighter around his still pumping cock, making you rub him through the length of his climax, milking every drop from him. 

Eventually he slowed down, making you slow your pace to a stand still too. His head lolled back and his muscles relaxed, only his chest moving now as he drew long, deep breaths. 

“Cariño lindo,” he muttered, taking your hand under water and bringing it up to his mouth for a slow kiss, “tell me, are you as wet as I am?” 

His question, and the sinful look on his face, made your cheeks heat up, but arousal flared in your body too. 

He pushed himself up, hanging his arms over the side of the tub, water dripping to the rushes on the floor. With a sly grin and his eyes on your face, he pushed your skirt up, his hand slipping under and up, finding the inside of your soft thigh. With practised ease he navigated your undergarments and found the apex of your thighs. He found you dripping, the slick liquid coating the lips of your sex, and with a pleased groan, he pushed a thick finger inside. Your body convulsed and you had to grip his shoulders to stop yourself from falling into the tub. 

“Pero…” you gasped, his finger deep inside, curling back and making your cunt tighten around his digit as he gave you a pleased grin. 

“So wet, cariño,” he praised, “I had a feeling you would be.” 

He slipped his finger out and quickly pushed in another, stretching you as his thumb found the pearl at the top of your slit, swirling around it with his rough pad. Lighting shot out into every limb and your grip on his shoulders tightened, your breathing suddenly laboured as he began to drive his fingers in and out, the slick dripping down his hand. You whimpered and dropped your head, leaning against his shoulder, and you felt him turn his head and nip at your neck, adding to the onslaught of your nerve endings. 

“Come on, querida, let me ruin you for whatever slow farmer tries to fuck you when I’m gone,” he muttered, his hot breath in your ear as he curled his fingers again, grinning as he heard you whine at his words, or maybe it was the way his thumb changed the pattern on your aching bundle of nerves. 

Your teeth were leaving marks on his shoulder, your nails digging into them too. The breathy moans you were panting made his cock twitch and fill again, he felt blood rush to it as your cunt clamped down hard around his fingers. 

“Fuck it,” he suddenly groweled, water sloshing over the floor as he pulled his fingers from between your legs and stood up. You gasped in protest but he didn’t let you gather yourself, pulling you to your feet he stepped out of the tub and pushed you backwards onto the bed. He gave your behind a swat, urging you to shimmy up it, and followed you as he eagerly pushed your dress up around your waist again. His grin was hungry, and you saw his heavy cock swollen between his thighs again. With an impatient shove, he parted your legs and sank down, his wide shoulder holding them open. 

His first lick through your folds made you cry out, grabbing on to his damp curls as he opened his mouth to fuck his tongue as deep as he could inside you. The feeling made you dizzy as every inch of your skin seemed to burn under him, your arousal ramping up as you heard him growl into your cunt, his tongue lapping at you. He moved above you, pushing your legs further apart as he moved his hand up and mumbled something into your flesh. You tugged at his curls, pulling his face up to look at you and he gave you a grin. 

“Your taste is driving me wild, hermosa,” he panted, his short beard glistening with your slick, “I want to feel you come on my tongue, can you do that for me?” He gave you a mischievous grin and held up his hand, wiggling two of his fingers as you nodded weakly. His fingers slid down through your cunt and easily into your heat and he watched your eyes slip closed as you moaned, your head dropping back down on the bed. As you panted out his name, he picked up the speed of his fingers, bending down to close his mouth around your swollen bead, flicking his tongue over it before he lapped at it. Your cries, your fingers tightening in his hair, let him know he was working you the right way and he doubled his efforts. His cock was aching beneath him, hard and swollen, as you tried to close your legs around his head, your body arching up from the bedding. Panting hard you began to moan his name, rocking your face against his mouth with your fingers in his curls, he could feel you beginning to unravel, your legs shaking. With a final effort, he clamped his mouth around your sensitive pearl and sucked, pushing a third finger into you and curling back. 

“Pero…” you moaned loudly, “p-please…” A gasp escaped you, your breathing erratic and he felt your body go taught under him, your cunt going impossibly tight around his fingers. He felt his scrotum tighten at the thought of feeling that around his cock, as you cried out, your climax washing over you in wave after wave. He kept his fingers moving, flicking his tongue over your core and pushed your pleasure as high as he could. You were all but sobbing as he finally felt your legs begin to relax around him, gasping to catch your breath. He caressed your thighs, pulling out his fingers and pushing himself back up to sit on his haunches. His cock was painfully hard, bouncing back against his belly as he looked down at you, spent and sated beneath him. 

There was something predatory in the way his gaze roamed over your body now, your bottom half exposed to him, your top half still covered by your dress. He put his hand out and tugged at one of the ribbons. 

“Take it off,” he commanded, pushing aside the first layer. With trembling fingers, still shaking from his ministrations, you undid the fastenings, pulling the dress apart and wiggling out of it until it lay beneath you and you were as naked as Pero still kneeling between your spread legs. He was watching you with heavily lidded eyes, stroking his cock with lazy movements, the head red and weeping. 

“I want to fuck you,” he said, his voice low as he leaned forward and moved up over your body, “I won’t come inside you, but I need to feel this tight cunt around my cock tonight.” 

You nodded dumbly, you’d do anything to have more of him, he’d already given you more pleasure than you thought possible, and you ached to feel him inside you. 

His rough hand came out and grabbed your soft breast, teasing the nipple and watching it pebble under his finger tips. When he was satisfied, he let his hand slip down your cushy belly, noting how you shivered as he grazed your sensitive core. He grabbed your thigh and pushed it up, making space for himself. When he was satisfied, he closed his hand around his cock and placed it at your opening, watching as he caressed it through your folds, coating it in your slick, and then pushed in, sliding through your swollen cunt in one fell swoop. It made you gasp as Pero groaned, both his hands grabbing your hips and he pulled you onto his cock. 

“Cariño, so tight…” he growled, eyes transfixed at the place where his aching hard length disappeared into your wet cunt. He pulled out, and slid back in again, groans escaping through his clenched jaw as he began to fuck you. His fingers dug into your flesh as he held you in a vice, snapping his hips, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. 

You watched him, your own body spent and pliant under him, only there to let him use, to sink his cock into, as he growled like a feral animal, snarling when he felt your cunt tighten and clamp down around his cock. His newly cut hair was damp from sweat and bath water, he smelled of rosemary and lavender and every scar on his hard soldier’s body stood out on his flushed skin. 

He groaned, his eyes closing, squeezing them tight and his mouth hung open, his breaths coming out in short bursts. Suddenly he pushed your hips away, pulling out with a hiss and fisting his cock, furiously stroking himself. It took only a few seconds, and then his hot spend shot out, coating your belly and thighs as he snarled and moaned like he was injured. With fascination you watched the thick liquid burst from the shining head of his cock while he squeezed, his face screwed up like he was in pain. He tugged at it, milking it dry before he finally gasped, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes. 

Looking down at you, his eyes softened as he regarded you for a few long seconds, his hand still wrapped around his softening cock. With a sigh he crawled over you, dropping down on your side and pressing a kiss, wet and soft, to your cheek. 

“I’m sorry, hermosa, but I think we need another bath.” 

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐓.

DAY FIVE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: animal shapeshifter au + "you're not actually scared are you? of me?"

pairing: animal shapeshifter!pero tovar x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, romance, cottagecore, fantasy au

summary: you decide to take a swim in a lake that is deep in the middle of the forest. during your swim, pero finds you, and he's not happy that you went out alone during a full moon.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: breeding, marking, biting, does this count as monsterfucking if he's just human with wings and two cocks, pero has two cocks, despite the warnings this is actually quite soft, double penetration, praise kink, soft!dom pero, possessive!pero, creampie

a/n: during this i learned that some bird species have two cocks. you're welcome for this information and thank you for voting in the poll dfvdfvf (also i didn't edit this so sorry about that ily all)

The moonlight beckons you. It always has and always will. You watch as the water effortlessly brings the white light pouring from above with gentle waves kissed by the calm breeze. That same breeze rustles the leaves of dark trees. You’re not afraid of the darkness anymore. Haven’t been since you moved out from your family home, away from those who want to stifle you and silence you. 

Your steps are soft as you near the lake, the ends of your dress brushing the grass. You feel a predatory gaze taking in the sight of you, he’s in the shadows, enjoying the show. 

Your grumpy companion, if you will. 

Slowly, you drag the back of your hands up your waist and trace the pads of your fingers over the sweetheart neckline of your bodice. You lower them, feeling the rich ribbons holding the entire dress together. 

With one swift movement, you pull one thread and the rest comes down, pooling at your feet. 

You enter the lake, it’s cold but not cold enough that you’d want to jump out. You exhale a shaky breath and swim deeper, turning in the water, you observe the full moon. 

A rustling fills the silence. And feather-like steps are heard. Your feet sway underwater as you float upright. What captures your gaze first are a set of deep brown eyes that are too human to belong to a beast. 

Then you notice the fur, the pointed nose, and the snarl that shows white pointy teeth. The beast steps closer, paws large enough to cover your entire face. You swim close to the edge of the lake, your feet move against the thickness of water, you want to place your arms over the ground to brace yourself but decide against it. He’s angry, you can feel it, you just don’t know why yet. 

He stops at the edge you refuse to brace yourself against and leans down, his wide nuzzle an inch away. He inhales and exhales deeply, the force of his breath nearly drying your skin. He still bares his teeth towards you and you notice the faint traces of blood over his dark fur. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growls, the deep voice echoing in your head. “It’s the full moon it’s dangerous.” 

“There are no people here.” 

His tongue darts out to move over his teeth, eyes watching you carefully, “It is not the people I fear, little soul.” 

With a sudden need to be close to him, you bury your fingers into the thick neck of the beast and urge him to come closer until your forehead is pressed firmly against his. He doesn’t close his eyes but you do. He’s incredibly warm; a faint scent of lavender and blood clings to his skin. 

“Join me,” you murmur. He watches you curiously for a moment before nodding and taking a step back. You revel in watching his transformations. His eyes finally flutter closed, a dark purple mist surrounding him, he lets out an audible breath. 

You first see the wings; dark and lush, they spread to his sides before folding back. 

Then you see the rest of him. Sunkissed skin, broad chest, and a stomach that has gotten rounder ever since he met you—a sign of a life with balance. Even though you have them memorized, your eyes dart over every faint scar that is scattered all around his torso. You love them. Tracing your tongue over every since one, the lightened patches of skin reminding you of stars. 

Pero steps forward, naked as the day he was born, soft cock hanging between strong thighs, he approaches the lake. And you. 

“I am still mad,” he grumbles, his accent thicker now that he’s using his actual voice. “You did not tell me you were going to come here.” 

“I knew you would find me.”

He doesn’t say anything and slowly submerges into the water, his wings follow him in the water like a mermaid's tail. You frown when he turns his back, his back tense and shoulders raised, you come closer and begin to cup water and release it over his wings. A shudder crawls up his spine, the delicate limbs playfully twitching despite his anger. 

“Just because I did not kill you the first time—” 

“Or the second.” 

He grunts, “Or the second—” 

“Or the third.” 

“¡Suficiente!” his wings raise higher and he turns viciously, the same anger you saw in him as a wolf returning full force. “This is not a game. There are creatures out there that won’t hesitate to rip you shred to shred.” 

Pero forces you to swim until your back hits the shore, the lake’s depth surpasses you both, yet he manages to towards over you. 

“Pero. . .” 

“You do not know what is out there but I do,” he snarls. “I am one of them.” 

He places a hand over your chest, blunt nails biting into the skin right above your heart. The curve of his nose brushes against yours. Underwater, you feel the heft of his cock pressed against your stomach, it takes you everything not to moan and rub yourself against him like a dog in heat. 

“What you don’t understand,” he hisses, voice dangerously low. “This heart belongs to me now—Not yours, fucking mine.” 

He pins your hips together, knocking the air from your lungs, your jaw drops and all you can do is stare. Instinctively, you legs press together, the lack of motion threatening to pull you under the moonlit lake. Pero doesn’t allow it, however, both his hands drop to your waist, keeping your head barely above the surface. 

You feel the brush of his lips on your cheek. 

“That muscle that pumps blood in your veins and keeps you alive. . .  it is not strong enough to take the attack of claws and teeth, or something worse. You owe it to me to keep it alive. You owe it to me to let me know of late-night dips, after making me fall for such a susceptible creature.”  

You close your eyes, your heart racing in your chest. You have no idea how he’s been around, centuries perhaps, he’d never told you. But you know it was a lonely life, to be gifted with the remarkable talent of turning into every animal imaginable only to cease to be human, for that talent, which was thought to be a gift, seep into the essence of your humanity. 

His gaze wanders over your countenance. You feel the heaviness of it. Finally, you open your eyes and bring your thumb over to the scar that goes over his eye and stroke it gently. The ridges of puffy skin catch against the pad of your thumb and you swallow.  

"You are not actually scared, are you? Of me?" he murmurs.

You smile, “Never,” you brush your lips together. “And you’re right. I’m yours. Sorry for wandering off. I honestly was just looking for you, I missed you and knew you’d trace my scent.” 

You scratch his jaw, the short hairs tickling your skin. He observes you a second longer before cracking a smile and nuzzling your neck, you feel teeth on your skin as he rocks his hips forward. “I’ve missed you too, my sweet soul.” 

Before you know it he’s hauling you both out of the lake, laying you over the velvet grass. The soft blades tickle your skin. Pero lies next to you, propping himself up on his elbow, he allows his eyes to devour you whole. His wings stretch over you both like the night sky, long and wide, you swallow as you ache to touch them—to feel their softness on your fingertips. 

“You like my wings,” he states, an observation. You nod and a wing descends, the tip of the feathers moving down the valley of your breasts and over to your stomach. You hold your breath as it inches closer to your clit, and you spread your legs without a second thought. “So obedient,” he murmurs. “Or is this your way of apologizing to me, hermosa?” 

The brush of feathers between your legs halts the words that were about to spill. Your body arches, a loud gasp tearing from your throat. The subtle touch makes your body sing for him, begging him to touch you with force. Enjoying your pain driven from pleasure, he continues to play with you with the end of his wing, and you enjoy the sight of slick smearing against the feathers. 

“Perhaps it’s both,” you murmur, sliding your hand down his torso and cupping his cock. You wrap your fingers and where he would groan eagerly, he turns rigid. Thinking that he’s still angry, you swipe a thumb over the head and move down. 

Something else hits your hand. Something hard like the one in your palm.

“P-Pero. . .” you look up to him. He grunts in acknowledgment, waiting for your question. You move your hand again to make sure what you’re feeling is correct, your fingers slip between two heavy cocks, one of them decked in soft, tiny feathers. You let out a strangled sound. “Do—Do you have two cocks right now?” 

He clears his throat. Normally you’d find the flush of his cheeks and his loss for words cute but you’re in shock. You’ve been with him many times before and never did he have two cocks. 

And there was no way you missed one. 

“It only happens once a month,” you squeeze the feathered one and he groans, hips thrusting to feel the softness of your palm. “It is. . . a side effect.” 

“Side effect of what?” 

“Of whatever the hell I am,” he answers bitterly. “It is for breeding. The. . . feathers they’re not actually feathers, they heighten the pleasure of a female and make them more. . . fertile.” 

A beat of silence. 

While you’re at a loss for words, you continue to stroke him, and indeed he was right. The soft things you deemed as feathers left a flowery-scented substance on your palm. Your lids flutter at the scent, your heart feeling light and full of want. 

The mere thought of Pero filling you is enough to have your cunt drooling for him. And he must’ve sensed it because his eyes darken and his wings hide you from the watchful gaze of the moon. 

He thrusts a little harder than, the bulbous head of his second cock hitting your wrist, “You like it?” he nips at your chin and cups your mound, slipping two fingers inside with ease. “I would want nothing more to fill this pretty little cunt up with all of me, but are you sure?” 

Pero skims his teeth down your neck, “I never had someone during the full moon.” 

“Then I’m happy your first,” you grind into the heel of his palm, moaning, when he presses hard against the bundle of nerves. “I want you, Pero. All of you. I want to feel you for days.” 

“Oh, preciosa, you’ll be feeling me for centuries.” 

There’s something exceptionally filthy being on all fours in the middle of the forest with Pero fucking his tongue into your sopping entrance. 

He’d been going at it for at least half an hour, you lost track of time during your forth orgasm, the ground beneath soaking your essence. His mouth, his fingers, he spared no expense in working you open. His mustache chafed your skin as he stuffed you full with three fingers, scissoring them while being knuckle deep. 

“Pero—I—I need—” you break down, tears streaming down your face. It’s too much. You don’t know how much you can take it. “Please.” 

“You think you are ready to take me?” he kisses the lips of your cunt long and slow, the tip of his tongue tracing your folds. “Poor thing. Did I tire you out already?” 

“I—I just want your cock. . .s,” you say, yet you still follow his mouth with your hips when he moves away. He suddenly flips you to your back, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. 

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say it.” 

“I want your cocks,” you sinks his teeth into your neck, his regular cock brushing your folds. “I want all of you, Pero. Breed me.” 

“Fuck,” he rasps, his tone frustrated. “Fuck—Of course, bebita, I’ll breed you so fucking good. Then I’ll fuck you again and again, until you are round with me,” something dark flashes in his eyes when you whimper. “You are making it really hard to go slow.” 

You cry out again, purposefully grinding against his cocks, his eyes roll back and he momentraily loses himself, thrusting forward—

You both moan in unison; you, from being stretched around the girth of him, and him from how easily he slides inside of you, the tight fist of your cunt wrapping deliciously around his lenght. 

Pero begins to fuck you with shallow thrust and your eyes roll back. You can’t imagine how good it’s going to feel when you have both of them inside. You’re a whimpering mess beneath him, his very being towering over yours. You clench around him as his thrusts become deeper, a gush of wetness soaking him. He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, his chest heaving, he holds your gaze. 

“I’m going to slide in the other one now,” he kisses your lips and pulls away. Your eyes drift to his wings that stretch again. He pulls back his hips and when he pushes back again there’s an added pressure. A mixture of moans and pained hisses bounce behind clenched teeth, your finger curling into the dirt. Pero waits for you to adjust to both of him, his voice dripping with adoration. “You’re taking me so well. So good for me, my sweet little human, always wet and ready.”   

When your body relaxes around him, he presses forward. The feel of his other cock is different, that feather like texture tickles your walls, the prickles quickly melting into drops of pleasure inside you. A burst of arousal awakens in the pit of your stomach, your eyes go wide, your legs spreading further until the tendons begin to ache. 

“Please, please, please,” you cry out, hands grasping his forearms. “Fuck me, fuck me—shit—what is this?” 

Pero pins your hips to the ground, “Calm down, you are going to hurt yourself,” a heavy scent of lavender fills your nostrils, more liquid dripping from your core. “Like I said, it adds to the pleasure but I am only half way in, mi amor. You need to be patient so I can fuck you properly.” 

Your chest heaves, lungs collapsing, you taste salt on your tongue, “Okay. . .” you whisper. “Okay.” 

“Such a good girl,” he coos, but despite that, he doesn’t release your hips. “Taking two cocks at once so beautifull. I wish you could see yourself,” his thumb traces where you two connect, then he begins drawing languid circles around your clit and your entire body loosens momentarily. He bruises himself deeper with small thrust. “So close, just a little bit more and you’ll have them both inside of you.” 

Pero’s large hand caresses the swell of your stomach, you smile at him with a dazed smile, “Just a little bit more.” 

You know he’s fully sheathed from the sounds he make, something between a growl and a moan. The stretch you feel is immaculate. You feel so full. Both cocks twitch  uncontrollably inside, the sensation shortening your breath. Sweat beads at his foreahead, fingers biting into your flesh as he tries to stop himself from ruining you completely. 

When you cradle his cheeks, his eyes snap at you and he bares his teeth. It might’ve been tricks of the night, but you sweat his pupils become dark diamond before returning to normal. His wings flutter around you both protectively. 

“There’s no one here,” you say calmly. “I’m all yours.” 

Realization strucks him, his eyes widen, lips parting with a soft exhale. His expression makes you want to laugh. This isn’t the first time you’re telling him this, yet everytime you do he looks at you with the same awe-struck expression. 

Then all hell breaks loose. 

His teeth sink into your neck, his hips relentless as he hammers into you. Wet noises fill the forest. You’re left screaming his name, the burst of pleasure you receive with every stroke mind numbing. You feel so stuffed. Both cocks going in an out of you with embarrising ease, your body is on fire and something devastating begins to build up rapidly inside. 

“P-Pero,” you stutter, slack-jawed. “I’m—I’m going to—” 

“You feel it don’t you,” he sucks a nipple between his lips, tongue lapping the hardened peak. “The way pleasure feels endless and something that you can drown in forever. I have been feeling like that during every full moon. Finally I have someone to fall from the heavens with me—” 

He hooks his arms underneath your thighs and pushes them up until your knees graze your forehead. Your spine screams in agony, yet the thickness of having both cocks inside is enough to numb you to it. He goes deeper with every snap, your eyes roll back, ever muscles goes taut right before he pushes you over the edge, your cunt gushing around him as you scream his name, over and over. 

“That’s it, my sweet girl. Come for me,” he buries his head into your neck, fully exposing your body to his weight while he viciously pounds into you. “Fuck, can you feel me?” 

You definitely can—but you can’t form the words. His cocks expand, throbbing and twitching as they both strike that one spot that makes you see stars brighter then the ones above. 

Pero keeps his promise and spills into you, both cocks filling you until your body can’t take anymore and he drips around the edges. Your eyes flutter closed. Your mouth gasping for air, there’s so much, his cock pulsing. He gradually releases your legs, and they drop to the ground, framing his waist. Pero’s face remains buried in your neck, inhaling your scent. 

“Do I smell good?” you joke. 

He hums, “You smell amazing,” he answers. “You smell like me.” 

You want to quip back and say it must not be that good then, but you swallow your teasing for now, admitting to yourseld that you wouldn’t want to smell like anything else. 

“I never want to leave you,” he mutters. “Feels too good.” 

“Then don’t,” you say, clenching around him. You whimper as you feel both cocks still hard inside of you. “Doesn’t look like coming once subdued you anyway.” 

“Say it,” he peels away from your neck, grinning down at you.

“Say what?” 

“That you want me to fuck you again.” 

You roll your eyes. “No way.” 

His grin only wides when he rolls his hips and your words break into a loud, wanton moan. “That is okay, your body speaks for you anyway.” 

Before you can reply, he silences you with a kiss.

[604to647]

Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

Third Movement (Presto agitato)

11K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: What do you do now that you realize you have feelings for the Barón?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Pining and Angst. Semi public kissing, groping and sex. Someone comes in his breeches 🤷🏻‍♀️. F!oral, fingering, thigh riding, unprotected PiV. Pet names (spanish), Pero catches reader and gives her a little twirl once.

A/N: I'm sorry for the word count 😅😅 I feel like the pacing of this final part is kind of like season 1 of Bridgerton where it was like 5 episodes of flirting and then SMUTSMUTSMUT 🤭🤭 Just wanted to give our Spaniard and his Dulce a HEA, that's all! Please please correct my Spanish!! Google won't be offended! Thank you for reading along and hope you're looking forward to Season 3 of Bridgerton next week!

Series Masterlist 🎼 First Movement 🎼 Second Movement 🎼

The following morning you wake to your ladies’ maid gently shaking you and a massive headache.  Barely able open your eyes, so puffy from crying, you’re sure you gave her a terrible fright.  After asking for and drinking some water, you try using the cool glass to depuff your eyes and alleviate the pounding in your head, but no difference is made; you continue to feel positively awful.  Daphne comes into your room at the behest of the maid and immediately sees you’re much too unwell to entertain visitors today; it’s an easy decision to send all your suitors away and have them come back when you’re better.  When you start to apologize for causing a fuss, she immediately shushes you and insists you get rest - she will have the maids bring up some soothing tea.  You lay back down, exhausted, and drift off in the middle of telling her how much you love her.

---

Pero steps into Bridgerton House just as several young men are leaving; as they brush past him, he spots Colin speaking with a maid in the main foyer.

“Tovar! It’s been ages – how have you been?” Colin beams when he sees his friend. 

In truth, Pero is here to see you; he can’t quite get over the look of distress on your face when you left him last night.  Not for the first time, Pero silently curses Lord Ridlington for having sent over women to his house unsolicited last night, his apparent idea of a prank.  Leaving the women to themselves in a waiting room, Pero had been discussing with his butler the next course of action when you had surprised him beneath his window.  After you left, he made the proper arrangements for the women to leave discreetly, and had gone to bed thinking of you as usual. 

“I’ve been well, thank you.  Hope things have been going well here?  Have today’s suitors started their visits earlier than usual?” He gestures to another three men now descending the stairs and making towards the exit in an orderly line.

“No, my Lord,” the maid explains, “Miss is ill today.  Her suitors have been sent away and asked to return when she has recovered and is ready to receive visitors again.”

“Ill?!” How could you have taken ill when he just saw you?  Instantly Pero admonishes himself for having kept you standing outside last night - the night chill must have disagreed with you.  “Please,” he begs, “take me to see her.”

The maid looks panic stricken.  Surely this Spanish nobleman must understand the impropriety of a man being let in to the bed chambers of an unmarried woman.

Colin diverts her attention, “Marie, it will be okay.  Barón Tovar is an old family friend of the Count’s.  There is nothing improper afoot.  The door will remain open and you and I shall both be but a step away.”

With Mr. Bridgerton’s assurance, Marie the maid leads the two men to your door and opens it wide before stepping back to wait outside with Colin.  Pero walks into darkness, the curtains still drawn to help you sleep and ease the pain of your headache, but your magnetic pull leads him to you with no issue.

Kneeling by your bedside, Pero says your name softly, but you do not stir.  He goes to push aside some hair that’s fallen across your forehead and is alarmed when it feels hot to the touch; using the back of his hand to check your forehead and cheeks, he finds you clammy and feverish.  Shouting for Marie, both Colin and the maid rush in to Pero’s call, “Please find the Duchess!  Her friend is running a fever and a doctor needs to be called.  And please bring me a basin of cold water and a clean washcloth at once!”

Daphne rushes in minutes later to find Pero dabbing your forehead with the wet cloth that Marie procured, “Oh no!  I saw her this morning and knew she was unwell, but I did not think to check for a temperature!”

Shaking his head softly, Pero entreats the Duchess, “Do not blame yourself, your Grace.  Likely this morning she was not feverish when you saw her.  Please, has a doctor been called?”

The Duchess nods tearfully, grateful for Pero’s kind words and feeling a kinship with this man who clearly shares her tremendous concern for your well being. 

When the doctor arrives, Daphne stays in the room and gives Pero a nod of reassurance; he leaves begrudgingly though he knows you are in safe hands with the Duchess.  Hovering impatiently never more than a step away from the door, Pero breathes a sigh of relief when he overhears the doctor say that your temperature is no longer increasing, and that if kept cool and comfortable, your fever should easily break over the next day or two.  He vows to ensure both conditions are met to the best of his abilities until the moment you awake.

After the doctor leaves and Daphne has gone in search of a servant to fetch your father, Pero stays by your side, continuously stroking your hair gently and dabbing your hot skin with a cool cloth.  Every time Daphne passes by the open door of your room, she looks in to find Pero watching over you, brows furrowed, eyes full of concern and worry.  Sometimes the Duchess will see Pero’s lips moving, speaking gently to you - though she never hears the words he says, she can tell they’re heartfelt.  It becomes crystal clear to her that two weeks ago she had simply asked the Barón the wrong question; instead of “Do you intend to court her?”, she should have asked Pero: “Do you love her?”  The answer obvious. 

Pero never leaves your side, not when the Bridgerton women visit, or even when your father comes.  He just tucks himself into the corner of the room until their visits are over, as if afraid to leave you.  When it’s just him and you alone, he tries his best to make sure you’re comfortable, arranging your blankets nicely and propping up your pillows so that your sleep is restful and serene.  He requests that cool water and clean cloths are at his constant disposal, and makes sure to dab your face, neck, and decolletage at consistent intervals in order to keep your temperature down.  And while he does so, Pero continuously talks to you, encouraging you to get better, coaxing you back to him. 

He calls you carino, hermosa, princesa, mi reina, mi amor, and all the other endearments he doesn’t ever let himself call you save for in his head.  He lavishes you with compliments and words of praise that he's never allowed to slip past his lips - how perfect you are, how sweet and smart, that he doesn’t know anyone else like you and that your cheerful demeanor and melodic voice are the only things that can ever make him smile.  He tells you how he hasn’t smiled as much as he has since he reunited with you at the Danbury ball in years.  He confesses that every time he holds you while you dance, he has trouble letting go when the music ends, and when he sees another man take your hand and spin you around the room, he has to hold himself back from physically stepping in and pulling you back into his arms.  He tells you that he finds you beautiful and intoxicating, and describes every last inch of you that he can’t stop dreaming about, but lingers the longest in his description of your eyes and the richness of expressions they make that leave him breathless.  He tells you all these things because if he doesn’t say them out loud, he thinks he will burst from having to hold his feelings in all the time.  He tells you these things because he knows you will never hear them.

As the doctor predicted, the fever breaks late the following day and you start to stir shortly after.  Blinking your eyes open slowly, they come into focus to your father’s worry lined face and you watch as it cracks with relief, “Welcome back, dearest.  How do you feel?”

Not sure you can trust your voice right now, you give your father a small smile and nod when he says he needs to get the doctor.  In the few minutes you have alone, you try to get your bearings; the last thing you remember is waking to a terrible headache and falling back asleep after Daphne told you she would be sending your suitors away.  You swear you have vague memories of Pero’s voice and soft touch, but that couldn’t have been real.  Pero.  Oh.  You remember now the reason for having woken up before feeling empty and sad, but you don’t have too long to linger on it because your father returns swiftly with the doctor.

After declaring you well on your way to a full recovery, the doctor leaves you with your father; the Count, looking like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders, hugs you tightly and clasps his hands tightly over yours, “I am so glad you are better, dearest.  Now, will you please tell your suffering father what is troubling that heart of yours?”

You’re shocked.  How could your father know about your feelings for Pero when you only realized them a few nights ago?  Your surprise must be written all over your face because the Count gently explains, “My dear, in the entirety of your life, you have only ever had such a fever twice, both times due to crying yourself sick from heartbreak.  The first time was when you were a young girl and I read you The Little Mermaid - the ending saddened you to tears.  The other was when we were leaving Portugal and I didn’t let you keep the stray puppy you had been feeding for a month.  This is how I know something ails your heart terribly.  Please.  Tell your father so he can help you.”

Your heart swells with affection for your father - he has always been the most loving and caring man, attentive to your feelings and understanding of your nature.  There is no one on this earth who you trust so whole heartedly and with whom you feel so safe.  Except for Pero, you suddenly realize. 

You tell your father everything.  You tell him about how Pero lets you be yourself without reservation, and that with him you don’t need to temper down your enthusiasm for your interests or make your experiences seem smaller than they are.  How he encourages you in everything you do and makes you feel like you’re capable of anything and everything.  He respects you and approaches you with kindness, always making you feel safe and taken care of.  That he makes you laugh all the time.  And that you’ve taken Pero and his wonderfulness for granted, not realizing just how rare and valuable all his amazing qualities are because if you had you would have figured out earlier that you’re completely in love with him.  You cry softly and confess to your father that your heart is broken because you’re in love with a man who will never see you more than a childhood compatriot, and that you may never get over this sad truth.

The Count listens to you sympathetically, and when you’re finished, he simply tilts his head thoughtfully and asks, “How do you know he does not care for you in the same manner?”

You can hardly tell your father that you snuck out of Bridgerton House and interrupted Pero when he had company over, so you have to cite another reason you’re so certain of how Pero feels about you.  But you find yourself struggling to come up with any concrete examples or reasoning that satisfy even yourself; all you can say is, “Because he wishes for me to find a husband.  He encourages me to do so.  I’m simply the daughter of his father’s friend.”

Something like bemusement dances over your father’s face, “It seems to a me that a man who thinks of you as simply the daughter of his father’s friend would not have purchased my shares in the fleet.”

You’re absolutely stunned.  Pero purchased your father’s shares?  But why?  There was no inherent income from the investment, the dividends benefitted you and your future children only, “Why would Pero do that?”

“You will have to ask him yourself, dearest.  It shouldn’t be too long before he visits himself now that he’s likely heard you’re awake.  He had not left your bedside for nearly two days and it was only at my insistence that he let me sit vigil so he could go home and change his clothes.”

Again, you’re astonished; is it possible that your vague recollections of Pero’s voice and gentle touches while you were ill are real? 

“I will say, when I asked him the same question of why, his answer was that he did not want the hard work you and I put into our happy venture to be squandered.  He said he knew that would break your heart.”

It’s true, it would.

“With his experience, I know the fleet would be in good hands.”

Nodding, you have to agree.

“… and you would be in good hands.”

You look up to see your father looking at you with an expression you can’t quite place.  You’re about to ask him about it when you hear a quiet knocking and you look over to see Pero standing in the open doorway, as if you had summoned him with your conversation.

“My apologies, I do not mean to interrupt.  I thought I heard your voice and wanted to see if you were awake,” Pero looks tired, but hopeful.

The Count waves him in and gets up, whispering in your ear, “Be kind to him, dearest.  The man has been in anguish and has not left your bedside for more than a few minutes these past two days.”  Kissing you on the cheek, he tells you he will go and find the Duchess to give her the good news of your recovery if the doctor has not yet done so himself.  After he pulls away, you notice for the first time that your room is filled with peonies, every flat surface covered with the most splendid displays in the prettiest pastel colours – your heart soars at the sight.  When Pero takes your father’s place in the chair across from you, neither of you notice that the Count closes the door behind him.

“Dulce, how are you feeling,” asks Pero with as much feeling as you’ve ever heard from him.

You tell him you’re much better, and that although no one has said so explicitly, you suspect that much of your recovery is due to his diligent care and watch over you.

“It was nothing, Dulce.  I was worried about you.  I am glad you are okay now,” he says, relief evident in his voice.

“Thank you for taking care of me.  I really don't know what I have done to deserve your kindness, Pero.  And not only these past two days when I’ve taken ill, but over the entire course of this season – I do not think I have ever properly thanked you for being there for me, supporting and encouraging me, and bringing me such peace and joy so that I did not buckle under the pressure of my debut.  Please allow me to do so right now.  Thank you, Pero,” you look at him with adoration and admiration, pouring all your feelings out and disguising them as simple gratitude.

“It has been my absolute pleasure, truly.  I am so very proud of the woman you have grown up to be: beautiful, smart, funny, and so, so very caring.  You are one of kind, Dulce – and the lucky man who marries you needs to know just how special you are.  There isn’t anyone else who has your vibrant spirit, your sweet disposition, your fun-loving heart.  He needs to know and nurture all these wonderful qualities so that your light never goes out,” Pero espouses your virtues and merits with eyes fixed upon yours, wishing he could express just how deep his admiration truly runs.

To say you’re affected would be an understatement, and it makes you bold and brave.

“Pero, I cannot tell you how much your kind words mean to me.  I have never known a man to be more genuine and earnest that you; when you say something, you mean it.  I find you so very thoughtful this way.  And in other ways as well – I know, for example, it must have been you who filled this room with my favourite flowers.”  Pero nods indulgently and you carry on, “… and I know you purchased the shares in the fleet from my father.  Thank you, Pero.”

Pero is surprised, although he had not asked the Count to keep the sale from you, he didn’t expect you to know already.

You’re looking at him with an expression he won’t let himself name, eyes soft, almost pleading, “Why would you do something so generous, Pero?”

Pero remains quiet, as if wrestling with how he wishes to answer and you wait patiently, not sure what to expect.

“The owner of the shares has custody of a great gift.  The fleet is an impressive venture - it has potential to do considerable good in this world, and much of that is thanks to you and your father’s dedication and contributions – the holder of these shares cannot squander that opportunity; he needs to honour you and your father’s legacy by carrying on the good work you’ve started together.  But that in and of itself is not the gift.  The man who holds these shares is also given the gift of being able to take care of you, to have a small hand in ensuring a prosperous future for you and your children.  I… could not take the risk that someone who did not understand the honour of this charge would hold these shares.  I hope you can understand and not think it imprudent of me.”

You don’t know what to say.  Pero is so generous and considerate – how could he ever think you would view his gesture as anything but deeply caring?  Unsure of your silence, Pero attempts to lighten the mood, “This way, I can still be in your life.  I can come to see you when I need to discuss matters of the fleet.”

“Pero, you’re my friend!  You do not need to have a business pretense to see me.”

He shakes his head sadly, “You will be married, Dulce.  Your husband would not like a man like me visiting his wife frequently.”

“A man like you?” you’re not sure what he means.

“A man who looks at you the way I look at you.”

You inhale sharply, hardly allowing yourself to breathe, “And how do you look at me, Pero?”

“Like you are the sun, Dulce.  Like everything you touch is made brighter and better from the light of your smile and the warmth of your sweet laugh.  As if under your care and attention, everything and everyone, including me, grows – stronger, brighter, better.  I look at you like I dream about the graceful notes of your voice every night and wish to hear your melody of thoughts and opinions on all things.  I look at you like I am hypnotized just by the sway of your hips and even the lilt of your fingers.  Everyday, I’m ever more enchanted with the tilt of your head and curve of your mouth.  I look at you like I could never get enough.”

“And what if I don’t want that?”

“Then I will stay away, mi reina.  Anything you wish,” though crushed, Pero knows that he would do whatever you asked.

“No, Pero, you misunderstand.  What if I don’t want a husband who does not want you looking at me like that?  What if I want you to look at me like that?  What if I do not want a husband who isn’t you?”

“Dulce…” Pero’s heart has leapt into his throat, he can hardly allow himself to believe what he’s hearing, “… you do not know what you’re saying.  You would not want me for a husband.”

You smile kindly, “And why not?”

Pero looks at you so sadly it breaks your heart, “You would not wish to separate from your friends and leave England to be mistress of a lowly Barón’s estate in a foreign land where you know no one and do not speak the language.  Not when you have suitors with much grander fortunes, with estates nearer to your friends, and where you and your children would grow up in the style befitting the daughter of a British Count.  You would not want a husband who is never home and spends more time on the seas and in far off lands than he does on home soil; one you never see and for whom you would worry all the time, not knowing where he is or what he is doing.”

“Would you not be willing to take me with you on your travels, Pero?”

“Of course, I would,” Pero never second guesses his answer.

Heart still aflutter at Pero’s romantic declarations, you press ahead, determined.  “Well.  It seems then that no one would be better suited to be my husband than you!  You must know me well enough to know that I do not care for grand fortunes and estates, and my dear father and now you have made sure that I will never be financially dependent on any husband.  What I care for is freedom and adventure!  And exploration and not being kept from the joys this life has to offer because I am a woman, or just somebody’s wife.  As for my friends, I can always visit!  And I am fortunate enough that the strength of our bonds is not dependent on having to see each other constantly.  Honestly!  This would not be the first time in my life I have gone to live in a foreign country where I do not speak the native tongue – it’s practically second nature to me now!  But I can see how it would be useful to be able to fluently converse with servants and locals - I suppose I would just have to commit myself to learning Spanish.  That is,” you’re suddenly embarrassed upon realizing that Pero hasn’t actually asked you to be his wife, and instead, you’re espousing all the reasons you find the match to be agreeable when he himself hasn’t expressed any desire for it, “if you would wish to have me.” 

“Dulce, all I have done since the moment I laid eyes on you at the Danbury Ball is wish to have you.  Do you know how hard it was for me to see you entertaining all those suitors when I was certain none of them could ever appreciate you for even half the wonderful person you are?  None of them had any idea what a smar-“

You crash your lips to his, and after the initial surprise, Pero kisses you back with the fervent need that’s been building in his soul the past few months.  Throwing your arms around him, you open your mouth to his just as his hands pull you flush to his chest; it’s the warmest, hungriest first kiss to have ever been kissed.  Your mind having only recently caught up to your heart, and Pero’s constrained feelings finally being set free, your tongues press together over and over, spilling all the unspoken words between the both of you.  On instinct you fist Pero’s shirt and pull him down with you onto the bed, Pero’s eyes darkening as he climbs on top of you, placing one knee in between your legs while keeping the other on the ground.  You finally run your hands through his soft curls and it feels as incredible as you had imagined two nights ago; you both moan softly at the sensation.

“Dulce, you make the prettiest noises…”

You purr softly at Pero’s praise, leading him to groan deeper into your mouth and you feel the hand that isn’t braced on the pillow next to your head start to skate up your side, landing near your breast and tentatively drawing circles on the underside of your plush curves with its thumb. You arch into Pero’s hand to encourage him to touch you, and he responds as he always promised he would if he had the chance which is to give in to your every desire.  Groping your breast and finding your nipple between his fingers, Pero rolls and pinches so expertly that you can’t help but writhe beneath him.  He shifts to kiss down your neck as he continues his attentions on your peak and when his knee brushes your throbbing centre, you gasp loudly before covering your mouth with your hands.  Still breathing heavily, the two of you giggle and smile stupidly at each other in the tender moment.  Pressing his forehead against yours, Pero whispers, “Mi reina, we should stop, I still need to ask your father for your hand.  Tomorrow, I am sure he will come here for breakfast and I will ask to speak with him after.”

Looking deep into is eyes, you nod; you know Pero’s right, though there’s a warmth radiating from your very being that wishes to invite scandal and tell him to never stop touching you, knowing by the way he’s making you feel right now that it would be worth it.

Not without regret, Pero pulls himself off of you and stands; after he helps you sit up, Pero tips your chin with his finger so you look at him squarely.  A seriousness takes over his face, an expression he usually reserves for others, “Are you sure you want me, mi amor?  You have so many suitors, so many options.”

Your eyes shine with sincerity and so much softness for this man that does not seem to understand just how much you love him.  You vow to spend the rest of your days showing him, “There are no options when there’s you, Pero.”

You can’t help but shriek a little in laughter as Pero falls on you and crushes his lips to yours, pinning your body to your bed with his large and solid frame.  Kissing you over and over, Pero punctuates his affection with barely strung together words of love - So perfect.  So perfect.  Can’t believe it.  How.  How did I get so.  Damn.  Lucky.  Beautiful. Perfect girl.

Right before your giggles can turn into moans, a knock on your door freezes you both.  The noise is quickly followed by the Duchess’ slightly amused voice, “Is everything okay?  We have brought up dinner.  Please let me know when it is decent for us to come in.”

Giving you one last peck on your lips before chuckling lightly, Pero pulls you up and whispers, “Tomorrow,” before going to open the door for Daphne.

The next morning you find Pero waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs when you come down.  Checking quickly to make sure there aren’t any lingering servants, you step off the third to last step and fling yourself into his arms.  Pero catches you easily and gives you a twirl before placing you gently on your feet, then places a less gentle kiss to your lips.  With a few hurried murmurings of devotion - I missed you.  You look beautiful. I still can’t believe you’re mine - you break apart and head to breakfast.

When the two of you enter the dining room, you’re greeted exuberantly by your friends congratulating you on your recovery and expressing their delight that you’re well enough to rejoin them.  Your father hugs you and you think you detect a knowing smile gracing his face, but you’re too soon seated with platters of food being offered and pushed towards you for you to be sure.  It’s a happy occasion but also slightly awkward – you’re seated next to Pero, but you have to pretend that nothing has changed between the two of you.  Trying to cheerfully chat with your father and friends, you find yourself unable to give the conversation your full attention because you trying with all your might to hold in the most wonderful news of your life, and with it, your overflowing happiness.  It doesn’t help that Pero finds increasingly mischievous ways to secretly touch you throughout breakfast: foot reaching over to playfully nudge yours, gently squeezing your thigh under the table.  When he purposefully brushes his hand down your arm and over yours in order to reach for the butter dish, you gasp in surprise - his touch out in the open sending a warm thrill through to your heart.  In response to your friends’ concerns, you have to lie and say you may still be feeling fatigued, and Pero, ever the menace, pats your shoulder affectionately and reminds you not to overexert yourself before buttering his scone with a smirk.

After your father finishes his meal, you nervously watch Pero hastily shove his last piece of food into his mouth before asking the Viscount for use of his office, and entreats your father for a word.  Finishing your own breakfast as quickly as you can without drawing suspicion, you find your way to the closed office doors and pace outside impatiently.  Try as you may, you cannot make out any of what is being spoken in the office, even when you press your ear up to the door.  After what feels like an eternity, the door opens and Pero exits; not the least bit surprise to find you outside, he whispers in your ear as he walks by, “Your father wishes to see you now, Dulce.  Come find me afterwards.  I will be upstairs writing a letter.”

The Count welcomes you into the office with open arms and you immediately fly into your father’s loving embrace.  As he continues to envelope you in the warmth of his joy, he chuckles, “Well, dearest, I think your old father deserves some acknowledgement for being right.”

Pulling away from him, you look at the face that’s so much like your own, eyes crinkled in mirth and a smile big enough to rival yours, “I concede, Father - you were right.  And I have never been so happy to have been wrong!”

Your father’s already expressive eyes shine with an extra brightness, “All I have ever hoped for is your happiness, my dear.  Pero is a good man, like his father before him and he has given me every assurance that he will cherish and take care of you the way you deserve.  I shall rest easily knowing that you will be in his capable hands… and he in yours.”

What did you ever do to deserve such a brilliant father who has given you the most wonderful life?  You ponder this as you walk up the stairs after telling your father that you love him and saying goodbye for the day.  You suspect you’ll never discover a satisfactory answer, but can only hope you can one day bestow the same unconditional love and support upon your own children.

You find Pero sitting at the corner desk in the drawing room where some of the Bridgertons are relaxing: Eloise and Colin reading, Francesca tinkering at the piano forte, Daphne looking over some correspondence of her own.  Approaching him silently, you look over his shoulder and whisper, “Mi rey, to whom are you writing?”

Smiling at your Spanish endearment of choice, Pero responds without looking up from his task, “I am writing my king, Dulce, and asking him for his permission to marry.”

Ah right, you consider that the Count could very well be penning a similar letter to the queen at this same moment, “What happens if he refuses, Pero?” 

“Then I abscond with my new bride and we live like pirates on the run,” smiles Pero, still not looking up.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you grin.

Pero finally sets his soft gaze upon you, “Nothing can be so bad if you are by my side, mi reina.”

He looks at you with such devotion and affection, you can’t help yourself - you cup his perfect face in your hands and bend down to kiss him.  Pero returns your soft, gentle kisses with his own, nothing urgent, nothing hurried – just a moment of tenderness that couldn’t have been restrained.

You don’t break apart even when you hear the successive gasps of your friends or even when Colin cheers, unable to part from Pero’s lips even a moment sooner than you need to.  When the two of your finally look up, it’s to the sight of the Duchess standing with her hands on her hips and a beaming smile on her face, “Do you two have something to tell us?”

You and Pero attend all of the remaining season events as a happily engaged couple.  Pero, no longer scowling all by his lonesome against the wall, but standing tall and proud next to you; his hand laced through yours or comforting and firm on your lower back as the two of you receive congratulations from the ton.  He drinks in the jealous looks from your former suitors and inwardly chuckles a little at the conceding grumbles from the mamas who proclaim with surprise that they didn’t know he had been looking for a wife.  His stoic countenance cracking just a little at their poorly concealed scandalized faces when he replies that he hadn’t been.  For your part, you don’t notice any of this; you only have eyes and ears for Pero.  Your face hurts from smiling so much – it’s all you can do to tear your eyes away from your handsome fiancé in order to respond politely to the questions you receive from curious members of the ton.

You still dance every dance, floating on air as you traverse the floor in the strong arms of your dashing Spaniard; now that there is no danger of some other man whisking you away from him for the next dance, Pero quite enjoys the dance floor.  He holds you closer than he probably should, chests touching and faces so close that the gentle fan of your breath curls over his lips; his hands find themselves placed low on your back during the waltz, dipping scandalously close to where he really wants them to be, itching to squeeze the plush globes of your ass.  If anyone was to make a comment to you about it, you would giggle and simply say that your fiancé is a passionate man.

And he is.  A passionate man, that is.  Under his grave and steely visage, Pero is a man who yearns for and craves the woman he loves, hungry for you at all times.  Such a man is not made of infinite restraint - the limits of Pero’s self control having already been sorely tested for the past few months.  As such, whenever an opportunity to escape the rigid formality of these events would arise, Pero wasted no time whisking you away for himself.

At the Grand Picnic, he steals you away to a secluded spot in the gardens where he proceeds to kiss you so fervently and passionately that you actually get dizzy.  He presses you against the base of some winged sculpture and hungrily licks and sucks down your neck, all while you cover your mouth with your hands, hoping against hope to contain your moans and soft whimpers.  The stone angel watches from its perch as Pero trails his mouth down past your collar towards the swell of your breasts, already rapidly rising and falling.  Pressing feather light kisses to the tops of your breasts, Pero drinks in your breathy giggles when his scruff tickles you, before diving in devilishly, lapping at your ample curves and the valley in between.  As you start to pant from arousal, Pero finds himself most ardently wishing that your tits would break free of their fine silk confines and spill into his mouth. 

A la mierda, he thinks and glides his tongue into the sliver of space between your dress and skin, dragging it across your chest until he hits your hardened nipple; having found his prize, Pero dives in, straining with his tongue to stroke your peak harder and faster.  When he leverages enough space with his chin to wedge in between your soft skin and the fabric of your dress, Pero takes your breast into his mouth and sucks while groping your other breast with his hand, finding the twin nipple already straining against your gown, aching to be played with.  The combined sensation has you grabbing at Pero’s hair and pressing him closer to you; with your hands now otherwise occupied, your gasps and moans spill unfiltered from your open mouth.  The obscene sounds Pero pulls from you must start to carry, because soon you hear voices getting nearer to where you and Pero have now frozen, his mouth buried in your chest; he places one last chaste kiss to tops of each of your breasts before the two of you giggle and run hand-in-hand out of the gardens.

At the Opera, Pero secures a box on the second mezzanine for the two of you.  With most of the ton preferring the orchestra seats or boxes closer to the stage, you find yourselves alone in the secluded alcove nearer to the house balcony.  Once the lights dim and the overture starts, Pero takes your hand in his and you lean on his shoulder, relaxing into his closeness.  By the time the audience is enjoying the soprano’s heart-breaking aria in the third act, Pero has his left arm thrown around you and the knuckles of his right hand are ghosting over the front of your panties where he finds them already damp from want. 

“Keep your eyes on the stage, Dulce,” he whispers in your ear as his thumb draws slow circles over your clit.  You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, trying with all your might not to let your whole body react to Pero’s teasing lest it draws the attention of the opera house attendees sitting on the balcony or in the boxes on the opposite side of the hall.

Pero is patient.  And thorough.  He takes an inordinate time exploring the shape of your pussy - running his thumb then fingers over the outline of your slit and the hardening form of your clit, eventually cupping your mound and letting you grind down on his palm to give you some of the friction you so desperately seek.  He toys with you over the fabric of your underwear for the remainder of the 3rd act until your panties are completely soaked through.  Only once the 4th act is underway does he slip his hand down the front of your underwear and start to run his forefinger through your folds.

“Pero…” you sigh, spreading your legs wider to allow him more freedom of movement.

“Doing so good for me, mi amor,” he whispers back, continuing his smooth, teasing strokes, dragging your sticky arousal through the valleys of your seam and trailing it up to your clit, spreading it over and around your bundle of nerves before returning his fingers to your wet core.  He repeats this over and over, alternating the speed and pressure of his fingers, never letting you settle into a complacent state.  Quite the opposite – you feel like your body is on fire. 

Willing yourself to breathe through your nose as evenly as you can, you focus on the soprano’s finale song before the ensemble gathers for the finale; just as the singer hits the high notes of her solo with a warm vibrato, Pero pushes a finger straight into your heat and you whine in harmony with her.  Slowly he pumps his finger in and out of your tight hole, nearly losing control with the way you clench as he drags along your warm warms; Pero feels you hum around him as pleasure you’ve never felt before radiates throughout your entire body.  The squelching sound of Pero working your cunt are thankfully masked by the musical drama unfolding on the stage, and Pero uses the opportunity to ask you if you’re ready for another. 

Seeing you nod as subtly as you can, Pero murmurs, “Good girl,” before adding a second finger to join the first.  Oh.  You’re so full.  It’s a stretch, but the sting pairs perfectly with the devastating pleasure now coursing through your veins as Pero slowly drives his fingers into you.  Staying with a slower pace until you start dripping down his wrist, Pero’s fingers now start to thrust faster, keeping tempo with the musical build that the ton in the orchestra is enjoying, clueless to your lascivious activities above them.

When Pero presses his thumb to your slippery clit, you surge forward and grab onto the balcony banister for stability, nearly in danger of drawing the attention of unwanted eyes.  Refusing to ease up in his efforts on your cunt, Pero continues to push you closer and closer to your high, his fingers never faltering from their punishing pace until you come and cry out in tune with the finale’s final chorus.  While the rest of the audience applauses when the curtain falls, Pero’s praise is only for you - purring that you did so good for him and kissing you gently as his slips his slick covered hand back into his glove. 

At the Hastings Ball, you’re the one feeling bold.  Having arrived at your friend’s estate a week prior to help the Duchess with preparations, you familiarize yourself with the grounds and all the intimate, secret corners perfect for intimate, secret things.  Once all the guests have arrived and the festivities have begun in earnest, you sneak off with your fiancé, leading him down a hidden staircase into the Duke’s impressive wine cellar.  With all of tonight’s refreshments having already been pulled from inventory, you know no one will be coming down here during the ball; you’re free to touch, feel and love on Pero in all the ways you desire.  Once Pero realizes the amount of privacy you’ve been afforded, he’s like a dog unleashed, stalking and cornering you into a wall with a growl, sniping at your neck with his teeth and lips, pawing at your soft curves already on display for him in your pretty ballgown. 

Here in the cellar, while you still cannot be loud, but you don’t have to be quiet – the cavernous room echos your quiet moans and Pero’s deep grunts like a soundtrack of pleasure that’s percussed by heavy breathing as the two of you drown in one another.  Lips attached to yours, but eyes kept open to take in your lustful expression, Pero spies an unopened crate out of the corner of his eye and smiles against your mouth, “Come here, Dulce.  Let me show you something.”

After letting him lead you to the crate, you allow Pero to help you on top before scooting you back so your legs no longer dangle over the edge.   Grinning, you ask playfully, “What, pray tell, do you wish to show me, Barón?”

“Want to show you how I’m going to make my pretty wife feel good every day we are married,” Pero looks at you, eyes dark, as his starts to ruffle up the many layers of your dress.  You giggle as his pushes through the yards of fabric with a feigned annoyance, bunching it up for you to hold against your chest like an overstuffed pillow.  Once Pero is satisfied with his unfettered access, he gently pushes you to lean back on your elbows, hands still laid prettily on your pillow of dress skirts, eyes watching your handsome fiancé’s movements.  Pero leans over the edge of the crate and rubs your silk stocking covered calves with his big firm hands as he starts kissing up your leg starting from where your stockings end mid thigh.  Every kiss he leaves on your skin gives you a shiver as the cool cellar air hits the imprint his lips leaves behind; then, as he gets closer to your heat, he starts to open mouth kiss where you’re the most sensitive, dragging his tongue back and forth over these tender spot and leading you to throw you head back and close your eyes in heady desire.  When he repeats this fog inducing pattern on the inside of your other thigh, you start begging, “Pero, please… please, my Lord, ple-pl-please!”

Nipping at your sensitive flesh with his teeth, Pero smirks against your leg, “What do you need, mi reina?”

Opening your eyes, you nearly buck into his face when you see Pero’s roguish expression peeking up at you from between your wide spread legs, “Touch me please, mi rey.”

“Here?” he asks, with pretend innocence before he dives in and starts devouring your pussy over the fabric of your underwear without waiting for your answer.  This feels different.  So much like his fingers but even more sensual, intimate, wild.  Pero mouths and nuzzles your cunt with a precision only rivalled by that of his tongue; his tongue has a mind of his own, gently prodding, exploring, reaching where his lips can’t. Pero's hands reach up your legs and hook under the band of your soaked panties and you catch him look at you before he murmurs “May I?” directly into your cunt.  The vibrations of his question run through to your chest and it’s all you can do to nod quickly before you watch him pull the frilly undergarment down your legs and have them drop to the ground.  Already completely wrecked, Pero takes in your glistening folds, wet and primed, and growls, “Look at this perfect pussy.  And she’s all mine.”

You run one hand through his soft curls and grip his hair so he’ll look at you, smiling lazily, already unbelievably blissed out, you promise, “All yours.”

“Mine,” Pero repeats, and then he buries his face into heaven.

The sensation is overwhelming in the very best way.  Pero is eating you, no, devouring you like a man starved; every press of his lips to your pussy somehow deeper and hungrier than the last, as his tongue licks every crest and wave of your core and marks them for his own.  Your slick pools from you, down your backside and dampens your gown beneath you; the wet noises from Pero’s mouth against your folds echo obscenely around you and your voice cannot help but try to add in its own harmony.  All of this makes you feel like a worshiped goddess about to ascend her alter and simultaneously like a wanton whore who knows that true heaven lies in the bodily pleasures of this mortal realm.  Then, as Pero’s mouth closes over your clit and he starts to flick your throbbing nub with his tongue, you realize in your daze that no, what you are is something better than either of those two things: you’re the woman who is marrying Barón Pero Tovar.  That’s the thought that overflows from your thumping heart and pushes you over the edge, coming on Pero’s face as you chant his name in a grateful prayer.

After the Ball, you’re positively exhausted from purposefully overdoing the socializing after returning from the wine cellar so no one would recall your long absence.  Yawning, you’re giving your hair a final brush when you hear a soft clink against your bedroom window, followed shortly by another, then another. 

Confused, you approach your window with slight trepidation, and upon looking out, you think at first that your tired eyes must be deceiving you.  Below your window, gazing up at you, is Pero.  He looks devastatingly handsome; yet to undress – Pero is still in his formal breeches, but his white shirt has been unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, exposing his smooth, tanned skin to your admiring gaze.  You might lick your lips at the sight.  Giggling as you tiptoe down the stairs, you walk out onto the terrace that hangs off the sitting room directly below your bedroom, greeted by Pero’s blinding smile, “Barón, what are you doing here?”

It's an easy climb up the side of the wall to the terrace level for Pero and his long legs; once he’s standing directly in front of you, he answers, “I could not sleep without seeing you one last time, Dulce.”

Where did this man who adores you so openly and without reservation come from?  You throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a gleeful kiss; you adore him too, after all. 

Still grinning, Pero jokes, “And as I recall, it is my turn to call upon you in the dead of night from beneath your window in order to rouse you from the comfort of your bed chamber.”

Although he has no such intent, Pero’s words immediately transport you back to the night you realized your feelings for him… and how you had left his house, devastated upon the discovery that he was not alone.  Stilling in your movements, you shrink away from Pero a little; none of this goes without notice.

“Dulce, are you okay?  I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply there was anything wrong with these late-night meetings, but if you prefer to go back inside, I understand.”

You shake your head to let him know you’re not upset by that, but still your expression remains slightly sad and hurt.  Pero bends at the knee to meet your eye, “Mi amor?”

You’ve never lied or kept anything from Pero in all the time you’ve known him, and now that you’re his fiancé, you’re not about to start.  Looking at the ground next to you, you mumble, “I’m sorry, I was just remembering the night you’re alluding to; when I interrupted you… with those two women.”

When Pero doesn’t answer, you wonder if he’s upset with you for having disturbed him that night, and you look up to meet his eye finally, trying to give him a brave smile, “Please do not be upset with me.  I did not know you had company, which would have been entirely your private business, to which I know I am not entitled.  But if I must be honest, I do not particularly enjoy imagining you with other women.”

Pero has to stifle a laugh; if only you understood the war that raged in his chest every time a suitor placed his hand on your waist for a dance or when you would laugh at their jokes with that twinkle in your eye he loves so much – then you would not feel as if you had to hide these feelings from him.

Stroking your jaw gently, Pero tips your face to his, “Dulce, I could never be upset with you.  Firstly, you are entitled to all my business, private or not.  Secondly, the women to which you refer were not there by my invitation – Lord Ridlington had sent them to my house that evening as some sort of prank.  In his words, maybe if the Barón got laid, he would not be such a stick in the mud.  Nothing happened with those women, I promise, mi amor.  When you arrived, I was right in the middle of arranging for a carriage to take them home.  And thirdly,” Pero walks you backward until your back hits the wall; he braces an arm above your head, and towering over you, grips firmly onto your waist with his other hand, “how could I ever even think of another woman when there is you?  You with your pretty face, and your sweet smile, and your heavenly laugh.  You with your witty quips, and your melodic voice that says the smartest things, and this gorgeous body…” 

Pero’s voice trails off as he starts to kiss down your neck and his strong hands start to move up and down your sides in unison, then separating so one can reach up to massage your breast and the other down to grope your ass.  Your head tips back to allow Pero more access as you melt into his touch - he’s everywhere at once, overwhelming all of your senses.  Kissing down to your breasts, Pero finds them available to him in a way he has yet to experience, your thin night dress much flimsier than the gowns you wear during the day; he can already see your nipples poking up through the fabric, hard and inviting.  Without warning, he ducks and takes one in his mouth, teasing and sucking in tandem with your loud gasps and moans.

“Oh Pero, right there, oh- nghhh, please that feels so good!” you cry out breathily.  Spurned on by your praise, Pero frantically rucks up the skirts of your nightgown and slots his thigh between your legs, pulling you down to sit.  The pressure and friction on your cunt sends a wave of pleasure through you, amplified and extended by Pero’s tongue and lips laving their attention on your breasts.  He encourages you to rock against his thigh, using his grip on your waist to help you find an enjoyable rhythm, and once you’ve found one that catches your clit on the flex of his leg, his hands leave you to your work and travel up your body to pull down the front of your night dress, exposing your tits to the cool night air and Pero’s darkened gaze.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, as he leans back to admire everything before him: your naked curves, your hardened peaks begging for his attention, and the sight of the woman he loves getting off by rubbing her pretty pussy all over his thigh.  He thinks he’s minutes away from combusting.

Instead, he dives right into your chest, mouth and tongue licking, kissing and nibbling, hands groping, pinching and pulling all your delicious parts so that he can bring you to your second orgasm of the night.  While tugging at your nipple with his teeth, he hisses low, “Were you jealous, Dulce?”

Half out of your mind from pleasure you gasp back, “Yes!”

Growling, “Good,” Pero sucks in a mouthful of your breast and kneads what he can’t fit into his mouth with his hands, panting out words when he should be taking in breaths of much needed air -

Now you know how I felt.

When some other man would touch you.

When you would smile at your suitors.

When you didn’t know I would burn the world for you.

You cry out at his confessions, gripping the back of his head and pulling him closer to you still; increasing your rocking, you’re chasing your own high when your knee brushes up against something hard, something big.  When it jumps at your touch, you use your knee to stroke Pero’s length with every pass of your pussy over his thigh. 

Your breasts now wet from Pero’s mouth, the cool night air’s chill against your skin causes you to tighten in Pero’s arms as he continues to electrify you with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, his words -

Never need to be jealous ever again, Dulce.

There’s only you.

Never want anyone else.

Don’t need anyone else.

You’re my everything.

Mine.

You come to his loving and possessive declarations, singing back your own - Yours, yours, yours.  Body violently seizing and shuddering, Pero holds you close as you ride out your high.  As you continue to buck against him, he crests to your desperate whimpers and breathless panting – his eyes never leaving your face, mesmerized by the sweet blissed out expression that he pulled from you.  Finally opening your eyes, you grin lazily at the sight of your lover smiling at you, calming down from his own summit; and when you feel the dampness of his trousers against your bare knee, you giggle in pride and pull Pero back to you lips for a flutter of happy kisses.  As he walks you to the door to the waiting room, you hardly give him a moment without a light peck on his lips, cheeks, neck – not sure you’ll be able to stand being apart from Pero for even a few hours of sleep.

Before he leaves you, Pero cups your face in his large hands, whispering against your lips, “I’m yours,” and you smile back and press your mouth to his before returning, “Mine.”

You marry at the end of the season in late June with the blessing of the Spanish king to do so in England.  The ceremony itself is wonderful and your gown is gorgeous, but you hardly remember anything save for how handsome Pero looks waiting for you at the end of the aisle and how he and the Count both had tears in their eyes for most of the wedding.  What you remember much more vividly is the fun you and your friends had when preparing for the nuptials.  Days and nights filled with laughter, play fighting over flower arrangements, tearful promises to never let distance impact your friendship – you thank the Bridgertons over and over for their love and support during this season and bringing you to Pero; you can never repay them.  When you board the ship to your new home, it’s not without tears as you say goodbye to your friends and father; everyone sends you off with mirroring sentiments and promises to visit soon.

If the Tovar estate servants had any concerns or misgivings about having a foreigner as mistress of the house, you soon win them over with your kind and gentle nature; your cheerful and easy-going demeanor overriding any language barrier, which with their help and your dedication, you were overcoming more and more every day.  And if there were any remaining whispers, be they among the members of the Spanish court, villagers, or any one else, they were quickly quieted once the concerned party bore witness to the ferocity of your love for your husband and his obvious and complete devotion to you.  The older house staff observed quite readily that they hadn’t seen the Barón smile as much as he did since he was a boy.  The newer servants declared that prior to his marriage, they had not seen him smile at all.

One morning, only two months after landing in Spain, you wake to find yourself alone in bed for the first time since you and Pero got married.  Deciding it unnecessary to ring for your ladies’ maid (Lucia, a delightful woman whose English was improving as much as your Spanish), you throw on a dressing robe over your night dress and pad downstairs, sure you’ll find your husband in the dining room having breakfast. 

As usual, you’re right; for a few minutes you remain standing in the doorway, admiring your handsome hulk of a husband as he shovels the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth.  You love the way he eats… everything - with voracity, unabashed hunger, like he can never get enough.  Strolling in only when you see him push aside his empty plate in favour of a pile of letters and paperwork to begin reading, you thank the footman who had already seen you and plated you a warm breakfast, before you approach Pero’s chair.  Dancing your fingers across his broad shoulders, you slide onto your husband’s lap before laying a soft morning kiss to his lips, “Buenos días, mi rey.”

“Buenos días, mi reina,” Pero kisses back, turning his full attention to you as he always does.

“Te echo de menos esta mañana (I missed you this morning),” you pout, although you’re not really upset with him in any way.

Pero smiles at you indulgently, “I thought you might like to get some extra sleep.”  He nuzzles your ear and you can hear him smile, “Considered you might be tired after your activities last night, Baronesa.”

You giggle and pull him in for another kiss, your cheeks get hot just thinking about the multiple orgasms that Pero pulled from you with his talented fingers, mouth and cock; you purr back and pepper his scruff with kisses, “Very thoughtful of you, Barón.”  Your eyes soften, “No me gusta despertar sin ti, Pero (I hate waking up without you, Pero).”

Pero kisses your temple, “My apologies, Dulce.  How can I make it up to my pretty wife?”

You squirm in his lap; a thrill still runs through you when you hear him refer to you as his wife, and you start to plant breathy kisses to the spot right behind his ear that you know drives him crazy.

“Already?  Is my wife so insatiable?” chuckles Pero, though his voice his has dropped to that low baritone register that makes your stomach flip.  You nod into his neck and start to run your fingers through his soft curls, tugging impatiently at the ones at the base of his neck.

“Déjanos por favor (leave us please),” Pero calls out politely.  The servants in the dining room leave at once and close the doors, some smirking - all the servants having gotten used to their master and new mistress’ voracious appetite for one another.  The younger servants were mainly amused and some even found it romantic; the older servants acting scandalized, but secretly pleased to see such a happy marriage on the estate after so long.

 “Sit up here, mi amor,” Pero pulls you off his lap gently and directs you up onto the dining room table; you move his papers aside and push his flatware out of the way.  Teasing him, you quip, “I thought you already had breakfast, my lord?”

“I’m ready for seconds,” growls Pero as he pulls up his chair and seats himself between your legs.  Licking his lips greedily, he unties your robe and peels it open to reveal your lacey nightgown underneath. Lifting up the skirt to reveal your already wet and waiting naked cunt, he murmurs, "Delicious," before lowering himself to meet you where you already need him so desperately.  Aware that you might still be sensitive from the previous night’s sex, Pero is careful with you – his licks and strokes to your folds are gentle and slow, he mouths and sucks your clit with tenderness and reverence, and when he presses two, then three fingers into your tight hole, he does so with restrained worship.  It’s only when you cry out for more, more, more, that he quickens his pace and fully presses his mouth to you, tongue tangling with your sensitive bud before nibbling it between his teeth.  Your moans and debauched sounds of rapture have never been restrained in this house, your house – and you come with a desperate and enchanting scream befitting the blinding pleasure now electrifying your body. 

Kissing up your nightgown and planting loving open mouth kisses to your breasts before letting you taste yourself, Pero licks into your mouth and whispers, “Te amo, mi reina,” before standing back to unlace his pants.

Your mouth waters as you watch your husband free his cock; no matter how many times you’ve taken him in your hands, your mouth, your cunt, you’re still in awe of its size and the things that Pero’s length can do to you.  Whenever you feel the stretch of him entering you, you always recall the first time and how gentle he was as he pushed in.  When you remember the tenderness in his voice and face as he made sure you were comfortable, putting your pleasure before his – your heart always blooms with overflowing love for this man.  How did you get so lucky?  Pero would of course always say that he’s the lucky one, and then show you just how deep his affection for you runs by thrusting with intensity, punching that spot inside that makes you see stars, over and over – the exact way he’s doing so now.  “¡Cómo te amo, Pero!” you whimper again and again, and by the way he continues to drive into you, you know he believes you.  Folding himself over you so that he can bury his face into your neck and nip at the delicate spot at the base, Pero's pants and groans have you arching your back and fisting his hair just for something to hold on to lest you float away.

“I’m close, Dulce.  Come with me,” Pero growls, snaking a hand between your bodies and finding your clit with ease.  Drawing quick circles over your swollen nub, you feel the coil beneath your belly tighten and tighten until it snaps and you throw you head back chanting your husband’s name as you fall over the cliff.  Not far behind, Pero’s pace falters before he spills into you with a long and low grunt in your ear that shoots straight to where you’re joined as one. 

Weak, limp and perfectly satisfied, you let Pero pull you into a sitting position and kiss him deeply and sweetly as both of your breaths start to even, the heaving of your chests slowing in unison.

Forehead resting against yours, Pero catches your still dazed eyes and gives a small nod towards the papers that had been pushed aside and forgotten, “Dulce, I’ve been charged with accompanying His Majesty’s naval fleet to Naples, Italy.  Would you join me?”

Smiling because you know he already knows the answer, you nod, “Of course, mi amor.  I’ll start making the necessary arrangements today.”

Pero tilts his head, eyes soft and reassuring, “Are you okay with leaving?  We will have only been home for a few short months.”

Cupping your husband’s face in your hands, you gaze adoringly into his eyes, “My home is where you are, Pero.”

Pero closes his eyes and pulls you flush against him, with him still softening inside you, you’re as close as two people can be.  He tips your face to his and whispers, “You’re my home, Dulce,” and all you can do is sigh in unsurpassable happiness as he presses his lips to yours once again.

I've never done a tag list before so please let me know if it doesn't work, or you don't/do want to be on it, or it sets your phone on fire 😅 @drewharrisonwriter @inept-the-magnificent @tuquoquebrute @stcrrjoon @anoverwhelmingdin

@callsignmedusa @wintersquirrel @toobsessedsstuff @starwarslover-81 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

[ak-vintage]

Sins of the Flesh

Pairing: Incubus!Pero Tovar x f!Reader

Summary: After multiple chance encounters with a mysterious stranger, you begin having the most unsettling dreams.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! PLEASE read the warnings! Spooky, potentially disturbing or triggering for some readers. Inspired by gothic horror. Pero is a literal demon – not a good guy and a certified creep. Stalking behaviors, intimidation, manipulation, the conflation of fear and arousal, implications of somnophilia, masturbation (f), choking in a sexual context, dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex.

Word Count: 8.3K

Written for Monster (S)Mash hosted by @quinnnfabrgay-writes and @hauntedhowlett-writes

Huge thank-you to @kilamonster for her expert beta reading and Spanish translation skills! Love you so much, babe!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Incubus – derived from the Latin incubus (“nightmare”) and incubare (“to lie upon, weigh upon, brood”); a demon in male form that seeks to have sexual intercourse with sleeping women

The first time you notice him, the sun is shining. The haze of late summer still lingers in the air, and the afternoon heat makes sweat bloom in the small of your back, making your blouse cling to your skin as you wait in line at your favorite coffee shop. You had given up on your hair hours ago, piling it up onto the top of your head, and as you stare down at your phone, killing time, you feel a prickle of awareness skate across the bare skin on the back of your neck.

It’s almost like a caress – a real, physical thing – but when you whip around to give whoever had touched you so intimately a piece of your mind, you find…no one. You’re the last person in line at this particular register. There is no one behind you.

Except for him.

Several feet away – much too far to reach you – stands a man, tall and broad-shouldered with long, powerful limbs and dressed head-to-toe in black in spite of the heat. He is leaning heavily back against the far wall, right next to the entrance to the café, and he has his arms crossed over his chest in a gesture that somehow reads as both nonchalant and intimidating. The thought strikes you that he looks almost like a bouncer outside a club, a persona that doesn’t quite fit with the glaring afternoon sun streaming through the windows in this lively, crowded coffee shop.

You feel your brow knit together as you take him in. He’s absurdly handsome, in a rakish, almost dangerous sort of way – all dark hair, dark eyes, dark moustache. He has a scar over his left eye, faintly pink and puckered in a way that splits his eyebrow in two and tugs a bit at the golden tanned skin of his cheekbone, and on his full, slightly downturned mouth plays a knowing little smirk.

He’s too far away to have touched you. You are certain of it. And yet…

Something in his dark eyes flashes as he meets your gaze – like the strike of flint, like the spark of a match. His smirk widens, and you barely notice yourself taking a step toward him.

“Miss. MISS.”

The sound of the harried barista’s voice snaps you out of whatever reverie the strange man had inspired in you, and you spin around to find her staring at you with poorly-disguised exasperation.

The line in front of you has dwindled. You’re next, and you’re so far away from the counter, you might as well not even be in line anymore.

Embarrassment darkening your cheeks, you quickly approach the register with an effusive apology on your tongue, and the mysterious man behind you is forgotten.

That night, a pair of midnight-dark eyes follows you in your dreams – always watching, unblinking, just on the edge of your vision. They disappear when you try to seek them out, and when you gasp yourself awake before the sun rises, you swear you can feel the lingering heat of a broad, thick-fingered hand cupped around the base of your throat.

The clock on your bedside table reads 3:00 AM.

The next time you see him, the sky is a pale gray, overcast and dreary as autumn solidifies its grip on the atmosphere. You’re laden with shopping bags, having spent most of the day galivanting around the city with a friend who is visiting you from out of town, and the two of you decide to make one final stop on the way back to your apartment – a cramped little hidden gem of a used bookshop. Your differing tastes lead you to split up almost immediately upon entering, your friend heading straight for the lit fic while you dive into the fantasy section, and before you know it, you’re several densely-packed aisles away from your companion, tucked into the back corner of the dusty shop and surrounded on all sides by ceiling-high shelves.

It's dim here and almost completely silent, the classical music pumped through a speaker at the front of the store not loud enough to penetrate this far back, but you hardly notice – you’re surrounded by books, and you can’t imagine any place more comfortable. Shuffling your bags from arm to arm, lower lip between your teeth, you thumb through the endless volumes contentedly, happy to browse until something catches your eye.

So absorbed are you in your task that in spite of the quiet, you don’t hear him approach until a low, accented voice brushes your ears from mere inches behind you.

“Might I recommend…this one?”

You startle at the sound and turn to find the same man from the coffee shop – the one with the dangerous smirk and the scar over his eye – hovering just behind you, a well-worn book bound in oxblood leather in his hand. He offers it to you with an arch of his brow, and you find yourself backing into the nearest bookshelf in a futile attempt to put a bit of space between you. The moment you recognize him, it must show on your face, as his smirk morphs into a sharp, white smile that doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Dulzura,” he murmurs, and you feel goosebumps bloom across your skin at the unexpected endearment. “I already have a copy, and I know you’ll enjoy it. Por favor.”

Glancing between his dark, shadowed eyes and the anonymous book in his hand, you reluctantly reach out and take it. The leather is oddly warm beneath your fingers, the thing weightier than it looks, and as you bring it closer to examine it, the faint overhead light glints off the golden, embossed title pressed into the front cover.

Sins of the Flesh.

A lurid flush rises in your cheeks as you glance back up at the strange man, his broad form still lingering a bit too close to you to be polite, and you notice for the first time that he is wearing the exact same outfit he was wearing the last time you saw him in the coffee shop.

“I, uh,” you stammer, your throat suddenly dry. “I haven’t heard of this one.”

He shrugs, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “This does not surprise me, dulzura – it is very old. But you would be astonished at how well it holds up to a more…modern palate.”

Your eyes narrow, and you pray he cannot hear the way your heart has begun to throb against your ribcage, the way your breath has picked up in your chest. Your body cannot decide how it feels about this man, whether it is uneasy or aroused. He’s so close you can smell his cologne, something smokey and metallic and almost aggressively masculine, and you aren’t sure whether you want to tuck your face into his neck and inhale or flee the shop and pray he doesn’t follow.

Instead, you do neither and ask, “W-What’s it about?”

Just like in the coffee shop all those weeks ago, his obsidian eyes flash, and you watch as the tip of his tongue flicks out to wet his plush bottom lip. “Ancient things,” he replies after a moment of tense silence. His accent, warm and gruff, wraps around the words like crushed velvet, and you suppress a shiver. “Magic. Strange creatures. The eternal battle between good – ” He drags his gaze from the top of your head to the tips of your toes and back again, settling on your flushed face with a look that is almost predatory. “ – and evil.”

You swallow thickly and clear your throat. Tearing your eyes away from his feels nearly impossible, but you do it, choosing instead to stare at your feet. “I’ll, uh. I’ll have to check it out,” you say noncommittally, praying that your voice doesn’t tremble, praying that he cannot hear the way he has affected you as plainly as you can.

You’re on edge. Deeply uncomfortable. Not quite afraid, but nearly.

And you’re wet.

“As I said, my dear. I know you will enjoy it.”

Your deepest muscles clench, and with a tight, polite smile, you nod. “Thanks for the suggestion. Have a good night.”

His teeth gleam in the dim lighting at that. “I certainly plan to, dulzura,” he murmurs silkily, and every instinct that has been telling you to run from the moment you laid eyes on him is suddenly screaming at you, too loud and intrusive to ignore. You retreat down the aisle as quickly as you can manage, arms still heavy with your many shopping bags that knock clumsily into the shelves as you escape, but you do not let it deter you. You swear you can feel his gaze burning the skin on the back of your neck as you go.

It isn’t until you arrive back at your apartment nearly an hour later that you realize – when you left the shop, you took the book with you.

That night, those coal-black eyes once again haunt your dreams, though this time, they are accompanied by a voice. Low, warm, and lilting with an accent you can’t place, the voice whispers to you. You can’t make out the exact words, but you know they make your heart race and your blood run hot. They sound…possessive. Intimate. Knowing, as though the owner of the voice had reached behind your sternum and cracked open your chest, peaking and prying and assessing every delicate, fragile piece of you.

You feel hands on your throat again, not squeezing, not choking, just holding.

You feel soft lips brushing the underside of your breasts, hot breath dampening your thighs.

You feel a slick, soft tongue tracing the vulnerable crease behind your knees and the throbbing pulse point of your wrists.

When your visiting friend practically yanks you from your sleep, shaking your shoulders and calling your name, you catapult into consciousness drenched in sweat and more aroused than you have ever been in your life. Your hard nipples drag painfully against the soft cotton of your oversized T-shirt, and your panties cling wetly to your pussy lips like a second skin, utterly ruined.

It takes several minutes for you to finally convince your friend that you’re fine, that it was just a nightmare, that it’s okay for her to go back to sleep. She retreats back into your living room with one last concerned glance over her shoulder, and you stifle a sigh of relief as the door shuts behind her.

Alone again, the clock on your nightstand reads 3:08 AM as you shove your hand beneath the waistband of your panties. By 3:10, you are muffling your whines in your pillow as you bring yourself over the edge.

The third time you notice him, you’re lingering under the awning outside your favorite wine bar, hugging the coarse brick of the exterior in an attempt to keep out of the late-night rain as you wait for your ride share. You had planned to meet a date here, a man you had discovered while swiping through your app of choice one night a week or so ago when the weight of your seemingly eternal singlehood had felt particularly poignant. He had been nice enough over text, if a bit bland, but when you had asked him if he had any interest in meeting in person, he had agreed readily.

You had sat at the bar alone for well over an hour, draining one too many glasses of malbec, before you received a single text.

not gonna make it tonite sry

You had promptly unmatched with him and blocked his number. You didn’t have time for that kind of shit.

Now, the ride share app on your phone tells you that your driver is 10 minutes away, and you wish you had thought to wait to give up your seat at the bar until he was a bit closer. As it is, the place is packed. There is nowhere for you to be if you go back inside, so braving the autumnal rain seems to be your only option.

Hair and skin damp, nose running with the chill of the late October night, you wrap your arms protectively around your body as a dark, mysterious figure comes into view down the street. Taking up most of the unoccupied sidewalk with his bulk, he carries a large black golf umbrella, the gunmetal handle gleaming in the watery light of the streetlamps, and he wears a black leather jacket zipped up tight against the cold. The moment he spots you, his handsome features break into a leonine grin, and you feel that familiar pull deep in your gut. The fear laced with desire, the unease stifled by want.

By the time he reaches you, the rain has picked up, and you are no longer protected by the shallow awning. An involuntary shiver wracks your frame, and you aren’t certain whether to blame your rapidly dampening jacket or the shrewd, dark eyes of the man before you.

“Come, dulzura. Join me,” he beckons with an arched brow. The scar over his eye tugs with the gesture, and you notice for the first time that he appears to be wearing eyeliner – a thin layer of kohl darkening his already enviable black lashes. On anyone else, you might find it a bit over-the-top, but on this dark stranger, it only adds to the air of danger surrounding him.

“You will surely melt in all this rain,” he adds when you do not respond. “Let me share my shelter with you.”

You almost obey, almost pull yourself away from the wall behind you and step into his open arms beneath the generous cover of his umbrella. But before you can succumb to the draw of him, a car drives by – too fast for the weather and the late hour – and flings a shower of rainwater up onto the sidewalk, soaking the backs of his calves and drenching your feet. The icy deluge pulls you out of his thrall, and you resist the urge to dig the tips of your fingers into the brick at your back to anchor you there.

“Who are you?” you ask, feeling a brief surge of victory at the steadiness of your voice, the way you manage not to stammer. “What do you want with me?”

This surprises a laugh out of him, the sound dry and low and deep in his chest. “What a question,” he rasps. “Cariño, have you considered that perhaps it is you who wants something from me?”

For the first time in weeks, you recall the dream you had after that day at the bookshop. The dark eyes, the strong hands, the tempting, maddening voice, the way they all had seeped into your pores and flushed through your bloodstream like a drug. You feel your cunt bottom out at the memory, thighs squeezing together in an unconscious search for friction, and you think you ought to be embarrassed by your body’s entirely disproportionate reaction to him. But you aren’t, and that fact alone is enough to have your heart speeding up.

The strange man’s eyes instantly drop from your face to watch your squirm, and his gaze darkens with something akin to hunger.

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “What could I want from you? I don’t even know your name.”

“This is true. But names…names are powerful things.” He shrugs, his full mouth twisting into a knowing smirk as he glances back up at you. “I’m not certain that knowing mine would do much to change the way that your heart is racing right now.”

“My heart isn’t racing.” Your defiant words ring hollow even to your own ears.

He smirks, lip curling his dark, trim mustache, and rumbles, “No? Then why can I hear it from all the way over here, dulzura?” He takes a step forward then, narrowing the distance between you enough that you do reach back and grip the wall, if only to keep your knees steady beneath you. Leaning in close, the wide barrier of his umbrella swallowing you both as it blocks out the night, he whispers, “Why is the scent of you so strong I can practically taste it?

You grit your jaw as a flush finally makes it way to your cheeks. Wetness has begun to gather at the apex of your thighs; you can feel it pooling in your panties, slicking the place that has begun to pulse and throb for him. This man has never touched you while you are conscious, and yet you feel as though your cursed dreams have Pavlov-ed you so thoroughly that all it has taken for you to begin to ache for him is the mere implication of contact.

“Get away from me,” you demand through clenched teeth. The scent of him fills your nostrils – smoke and metal and man. And beneath it all, something unpleasant, something…off.

Is that…sulfur?

“You don’t want me to do that.” His accent colors his words, making them lilt and catch in the damp air as he looms over you. His closeness casts deep shadows across your skin, his broad shoulders and that fucking umbrella smothering the light from the streetlamps, from the nearby intersection, from the entrance to the bar. “In fact, I think you would rather I be much, much closer.”

No, you realize. It’s not sulfur that you smell on his skin, in his hair, on his clothes.

It’s brimstone.

“Please,” you whimper, eyes falling shut as if not being able to see his dark, hypnotic eyes would allow you to hide from them. You don’t know what you’re pleading for anymore. For him to leave you alone? For him to touch you? For him to save you from the torment that was his proximity, his voice, his scent? You think that you might accept any of those things right now; all you know for certain is that you cannot bear this battle of fear and desire he inspires within you for another minute.

You need him to get it over with – to stop with the threats and just hurt you already. Or fuck you and end your suffering. Whichever he chooses, as long as it’s soon.

The man tuts quietly to himself, and for the first time, you feel the touch of a startlingly hot, dry hand brush across the apple of your cheek. You bite back a whimper at the sensation, goosebumps breaking out all across your body, and you fight the insane urge to lean your head into his touch.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice low and gentle. You feel the warmth of his breath on your forehead then across the shell of your ear and down your neck. “There’s no need to beg, sweet thing. I’ll give you what you want.”

You gulp audibly at the promise, and then his hand drops from your cheek to your throat. You can feel your pulse racing against his fingertips, under the pad of his thumb. Just like in your dream, there’s no pressure, no force behind the touch. Just heat, breadth, weight. You feel your jaw drop open, your mouth slacken, your head tilt back like an offering.

You aren’t afraid anymore. You are calm. Obedient. Pliant beneath his hand.

He's so close to you now; you can feel him, the length and the width of him pressing you back against the exterior of the bar. Your knees are weak, your pussy dripping, quivering, begging. Have you ever needed someone as badly as you need him in this moment? It’s like the sensation is too big for your body, too great for your nerve endings to process. You feel weak with it, helpless. If he would just –

A sudden buzzing sensation travels up your arm, and a moment of clarity snaps through your body like a whip. Your eyes fly open, and you gasp like a swimmer emerging from a great depth after a struggle. You have been white-knuckle gripping your phone in your hand this entire time, and your ride share app is now lighting up your screen, filling the dark, narrow space created by the man’s umbrella with piercing light.

Your driver is here. He is waiting for you at the curb.

The dark-haired man smiles at you wryly and takes a step back. “I will, though not now,” he says with a sigh. “Run along now, dulzura. We will see each other again.”

“When?” The question passes your lips before you can reel it back in, and you’re mortified to hear that it sounds whiny and almost petulant. If you had been a small child, such a tone might have been accompanied by a stamp of your foot and a pair of crossed arms.

The man simply leers at you and offers you a rakish wink. “I think you know.”

That night, your dreams lose that blurry, soft-focus lens that has plagued you since the first day you encountered him at the coffee shop. Everything is perfectly clear, almost a little too real, and every sensation is heightened. You’re in your bed, white sheets downy-soft against your skin, the breeze from your ceiling fan tightening your nipples, pulling goosebumps to the surface. The collar of your T-shirt scratches against your throat, and your limbs are restless, tense, eager to move.

And you can feel eyes on you.

You sit up amongst your disheveled bedding, blankets pooling around your waist, and there – standing at the bottom of your bed, big hands wrapped around the rungs of your footboard – is the scarred man. Watching you silently.

“You,” you gasp, hands gripping your sheets, and the man smiles sharply. He looks…different somehow through the eyes of your dreams. A bit wrong.

He’s taller, bigger, bulkier, the shadows around his eyes deeper, his heavy brow more prominent. His teeth look sharp behind his smile, and he wears different clothing than what you’ve grown accustomed to seeing him in, the palette still all black but distinctly older in style. His shirt is billowy and loose and frayed at the edges, the collar untied and gaping open to reveal a generous glimpse of his strong, tanned neck and muscular chest. His black jeans have been traded for soft-looking black breeches, and you try not to let your eyes linger as you take in the way they pull revealingly over his bulge, leaving nothing to the imagination. He’s not hard (you don’t think), but that fact offers little comfort. He’s huge even without the added swell of blood.

“Me,” he replies. His white canines flash in the low light, his eyes black and hazy. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“I…didn’t know what to expect.”

“Mmm.” He brings one of his hands up to his mouth, brushing his thumb over his lip, tracing his mustache. “How unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you echo with a frown.

“I had thought you might have figured me out by now,” he says, disappointment coloring his words. “Your attempts to get me to tell you my name earlier had me thinking you had finally put it together.”

You shake your head. “I don’t understand.”

With a pensive hum, the man rounds the foot of your bed and comes to loom over you at your bedside. You can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, the smoke and metal and brimstone scent of him nearly overwhelming in this heightened state of awareness. It’s a heady combination, and although you incline your chin to hold his gaze, you can feel your eyelids growing heavy.

“Tell me, dulzura,” he coaxes, his tone sweet, soft, encouraging. “Did you read the book I gave you?”

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, you break his gaze, staring down at your hands as they fist the sheets puddled around you.

He reads your reticence so easily; you aren’t sure why you even attempted to be coy. Chuckling low and sinister in his chest, he reaches down and cups your chin in his big, warm fingers and tilts your face back up to look at him. “Oh, you did, didn’t you?”

Your skin burns where he touches you, his hand like a brand on your face. “I…started it, but I couldn’t finish it,” you confess.

“No? Did you not enjoy it?” The mysterious man frowns, eyes roving over your features, reading every flutter of your lashes, every quirk of your lips. It’s deeply unsettling, nearly unnatural, the way he looks at you with such directness, and again, you are hit with the sensation of being examined so deeply and so intimately, it feels almost wrong.

“Oh, I see,” he continues after a long, tense silence. “You enjoyed it too much, didn’t you? Filthy girl. And you wonder why I am so drawn to you. And you to me.”

Mortification rips through you like a lightning strike, and you jerk your chin out of his hold as you gather your blankets up around your chest in a belated gesture of modesty. Of course, the paltry layers of cotton do nothing to shield you from the heat of his stare. Because he’s right, damn him. You had enjoyed the book – a sordid collection of short stories that had to have been written several hundred years ago, judging by the vocabulary and style of prose. Each tale had been more macabre than the last, interspersed with chapters so debauched and decadent that you had found yourself needing to slip your hand into your panties more than once just to be able to go about your day.

Much like the man who had gifted it to you, the book had plagued you. You had found yourself thinking about it constantly, distractedly wishing for your next opportunity to pick it up and lose yourself in whatever grotesque, salacious, bone-chilling story it had for you next. Such an obsession hadn’t been good for you. You hadn’t been able to bring yourself to finish it.

If this man is implying that this book was some sort of clue, that the way he affects you is somehow connected to it… Ice slips down your spine at the thought, and you suppress a shiver.

“What are you?” you ask in a trembling voice. “What are you going to do to me?”

The man’s smirk softens into a smile – still just as heated, though not as provoking. You swear you can feel the scorching path of his eyes across your face, down your neck, to your clenched fists and limp sheets. He lets your question hang in the air for a moment, anticipation building in your gut, and then he growls, “I’m going to give you what you want. And, in doing so, take what I need.”

And then the bubble of anticipation bursts, and he is on you – bearing you back into the pillows, rucking up your T-shirt to grip your bare waist with searing hot palms, and sealing his mouth over yours.

His touch is like a balm to your frayed nerves, his kiss a drug. Just like outside the bar, you feel yourself going soft under his hands, your muscles lax, your bones limp. The drag of his fingers up your sides has you arching your back and smushing your aching breasts against his hard, broad chest. Your hands sink into his dark brown curls, keeping his mouth on yours, and it isn’t long before his tongue is prying open your lips and sliding out to meet yours. He tastes like smoke, like musk, and you are overcome with the distinct desire to draw him into you – to inhale him, to drag him down into your lungs and trap his essence inside your chest. Unbidden, your legs begin to twitch and kick, pushing your blanket down around your feet. You need to have your legs around his waist, need to drag him closer. You need it like you need oxygen, and though you know somewhere in the back of your mind that the depth of your desire should frighten you, nothing has ever felt more right.

This moment was inevitable – you know this now. From the moment you locked eyes with him in the coffee shop, you have been on a collision course with this man, this creature that always seems to know how to find you, that stalks your dreams, that corrupts your mind and your body so perfectly you cannot help but welcome it. Resistance is pointless, unthinkable.

Wrenching your lips from his with a whine, you pant into his open mouth, “It’s yours. You can have whatever you want. Please.”

The man above you makes a low noise, something bestial like a snarl, and the sound vibrates through your body at all the points where he touches you. “That’s my girl,” he groans, grinding his hips down into yours. You buck up into the friction as the thick, hard line of his cock makes itself apparent. Firmly, assertively, he drags himself across the soaked gusset of your panties, and you feel your pussy clench around nothing. “Don’t worry – I’m going to make it feel so good for you, dulzura. By the time the sun rises, both of our needs will be sated.”

His mouth moves down to your neck, nuzzling into the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. He licks you there, slow and hot, before drawing a bundle of sinew and skin between his lips and sucking. The sensation shoots straight to your core, and you feel your clit throb in time with the pulses of his sucks in a way that has you bowing up into him. You need more – more of his hot hands, more of his slick tongue, more of his rock-hard dick. You need it all, and if he doesn’t give it to you, you are absolutely certain that you will go mad.

Everything goes a bit hazy after that. Soft around the edges, dim, tinged with red and soundtracked by the thunderous pounding of your own heart in your ears. You feel him peel your shirt off your body, the worn cotton threatening to cling to places where you have begun to sweat with your need for him. You feel his lips return to yours briefly before dropping to your breasts, suckling your tight, pebbled nipples into his mouth, dragging his teeth along the tender place where your tits meet your ribcage. You feel his tongue dip into the soft bowl of your navel, making you squirm. And then your panties, long ruined and positively drenched in your slick, pull tight against your hips, and the distant sound of ripping fabric reaches your ears.

He has torn the offending garment clean off your body.

You try to give as good as you are getting, try to meet him touch for touch, but if you are honest with yourself, you are mostly a passive recipient of his passion. No matter how hard you try, you cannot seem to keep your eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, and every time you attempt to take control of the encounter, to pull off his shirt or to guide his mouth with your grip on his head, you find yourself falling back against the mattress, too weak and overcome with pleasure to do anything but allow it to wash over you. You feel as though you are under a spell, utterly in this thrall, your body a slave to the wet of his mouth, the heat of his hands.

You cannot compete with him. You can only surrender.

When his tongue delves into the wet, soft warmth of your sex, you simply moan and spread your thighs as wide as you can manage. When he slicks his tongue over your swollen, puffy clit, you dig your nails into his scalp and wrap your fingers around the short locks of his hair. When he groans your name into your flesh, you do not wonder how he knows it. You just hitch your hips against his face, dragging your cunt across his prominent nose in long, hard thrusts until you fall apart on his face.

It is then – the first time that you come for him – that a part of your mind begins to understand exactly what is happening. The moment your climax floods your body, the most curious feeling tugs at the edge of your awareness. It is as though your pleasure is not confined to your own body. As molten fire races down your spine, as your muscles spasm and your limbs lock and your head falls back on your neck, you get the distinct sensation of all of that energy flushing through your nerves and then slowly, steadily leaking from your pores. You can feel it curl around you, holding you, caressing you, then leaving you, flowing smoothly, easily…into him.

And fuck, does he like it. You watch through bleary, heavy-lidded eyes as his black eyes roll back in his head, as his grip on your thighs tightens almost unbearably, as his shoulders knot and strain with every pulse of your orgasm. He isn’t coming, but it is clear that he feels your ecstasy as if it is his own, and it seems to strengthen and fortify him in a way that you wouldn’t have believed unless you had seen it with your own eyes.

As you come down from your high, you look down between your legs to see him staring back at you. Watching him lick his swollen, pouty lips clean of your glistening slick, you notice that his tongue seems abnormally long – almost too big for his mouth – and shockingly agile. The whites of his eyes have disappeared entirely, leaving only smooth, glossy black behind.

“Have you figured it out yet, dulzura?” he rumbles, and with a chill, you realize that his voice has changed. Whereas before it was rough and rasping, now it is akin to the sound of steel grinding against rock – sharp, multi-tonal, and resonant in a way that has you feeling the vibration of it down to your bones. “Do you know what I am?”

A single word rises through the dense fog of lust clouding your mind, a word you had first learned in a mythology class ages ago but had encountered again recently in that god-forsaken book gifted to you by this very man. It had been your favorite of the short stories you had read, and even though you are still recovering from your climax, your cunt twitches and quivers at the memory of how hard you had come against your own fingers after finishing it.

Incubus.

You can see the moment you put the pieces together in the way his smile widens, and something prideful has him puffing out his chest, drawing himself up to his full height between your spread legs.

“Muy bien, cariño,” he purrs, and damn you if the sound of his praise in that cursed voice from the deep doesn’t have you reaching for him pathetically, trying to pull his body back down onto yours. Your weak, limp flailing has him laughing, and although you know that the sound ought to have frightened you, the chill that wracks your frame is one of arousal, not terror.

“I knew you would get there eventually, you clever thing,” he continues. Reaching one hand behind his neck, he grips the collar of his worn black poet’s shirt and pulls it over his head, leaving him bare-chested.

You can hardly bear to look at him, he is so beautiful – miles and miles of muscle, golden tan skin, and the finest dusting of dark hair trailing from his bellybutton down into the waistband of his breeches. There is nothing sharp or defined about him, not like the male models you are accustomed to seeing on billboards or the fashion brand fliers you get unsolicited in your mailbox. He is built like a warrior of old, like a figure out of a fairytale – thick, strong, powerful. You could easily see him in a shirt of chainmail, wielding a sword in battle, returning slicked in the blood of the enemy, crowing with victory.

You wonder, for the first time, whether this is his true form or if he has tailored his appearance to specifically appeal to your sensibilities. Does he know the way you have always swooned over the heroic figures of your story books? Has he fashioned himself to look like he just walked out of one? You should not find the idea touching, and yet…

And you were right in your earlier assessment – he is bigger here in this place that is not quite consciousness and not quite sleep. His size would be striking in the real world; heads would turn as he strolled down the sidewalk; you were sure of it. The thought has your throat going dry. You didn’t often have the opportunity to feel small or delicate in your daily life, but with his imposing form looming over you in the dark, you feel fragile in a way that has you blushing from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes.

The burn of your flush only intensifies as his hands drop to his breeches, and with quick, dexterous fingers, he undoes the line of silver buttons that hold them shut.

“Are you ready for me, dulzura?” he asks. His cock springs forward as he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pushes them down off his hips. The sight has saliva pooling in your mouth, and you lick your lips unconsciously as you take him in – dense, dark curls, thick shaft, swollen, red tip glistening with his own arousal. He’s big – almost too big, bigger than you’ve ever taken – and you find yourself sending a quick prayer to whoever will listen that the…logistics of what is about to happen are more forgiving in this dream world than they would be in reality.

It's as though he can hear your thoughts. The moment the silent prayer passes through your mind, he looses a wicked snarl and wraps his fingers tightly around your knees. He drags you bodily across the bed, pulling you so close to him that your ass presses to the front of his thighs, and when you are close enough, he drops onto his palms above you to stare directly into your eyes.

“Silence!” he hisses, and for the first time since his lips collided with yours, you feel a bolt of fear zip down your spine. The scent of brimstone thickens in the air around you, and between your legs, the slick, blunt tip of his cock presses insistently against your throbbing entrance.  He notches himself into you with a swift dip of his hips, and you cannot silence the moan that rips its way out of your chest at the stretch.

“You will find no gods here, nena. Here, there is only me. And I am not finished wringing every – ” He thrusts deeper into you, feeding his cock to you inch by agonizing inch. “ – last – ” Deeper still, you feel your walls parting, softening, spreading for him, making room for his length inside your aching cunt. “ – ounce of pleasure from your sweet little body. Ahora. Dámelo.”

And then the haze returns, and you are overcome.

He is relentless, unforgiving, almost animalistic in the way he fucks you. Distantly, you register the sound of your own rhythmic whines and whimpers – ah! ah! ah! – every time he bottoms out inside you, but you cannot bring yourself to feel self-conscious. With every thrust, he overwhelms your senses. You have never felt so full, so stretched. You have never experienced anything like the way his cock drags against your walls, the way he presses and kneads on every sensitive spot as though you had given him a map to them all. That combined with his low grunts, his filthy words, and his lips sucking dark, tender bruises all across your neck and chest have you capitulating embarrassingly fast. All you seem to be able to do is grip his wrists on either side of your head and hold on while he fucks the life from you.

“Eso es, dulzura,” he growls. “Know you want it. Know you need it. Needed it for so long – weeks and weeks, huh, nena? S’okay. Es tuyo. Sólo tómalo.”

Deep within your abdomen, you can feel it growing. It burns – like lava, like lightning, and shit, it’s so fucking tight. Like a spring, it coils, winding around and around as he pounds you into the mattress. It won’t be long now; you can already tell. He is going to make you come, and it’s going to happen pathetically quickly.

Again, as though he registers your thoughts, the incubus chuckles sinisterly to himself and gives you a cheeky wink. He leans down and wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking hard and then trapping it between his teeth, and the sharpness of the sensation bolts straight to your clit.

“Fuck!” you gasp, arching into him, grinding your clit against his pubic bone as he continues to thrust inside you. “God, please – ”

One of his hands flies to your throat, and before you can react, you feel firm pressure on either side of your neck, squeezing your pulse points, making your brain go soft and fuzzy almost instantly. “What did I say, dulzura?” the creature snaps, and you think you see the angles on his face get sharper, his mouth get wider, his brow get more deeper and heavier. “God isn’t here. He can’t save you now.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, your fingers wrapping instinctually around his wrist. You think you want him to let you go, but at the same time, it feels so good – floaty and hot and almost euphoric as he continues fucking you.  “I won’t say it again, I swear!”

“Good,” he snarls. His hand lets up from around your neck, and the rush of blood to your head has you sucking in oxygen and moaning long and loud. “The only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth while I fuck you is ‘yes’ and ‘more.’ Understand?”

You nod hard, eyes rolling back in your head as he switches up the angle of his thrusts, this one somehow even better than the last. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Good girl. Ahora, déjame sentirte.” Dropping one of his hands down to where you are joined, he swirls your dripping wetness in firm, steady circles around your clit with the pad of his thumb. “Come for me.”

As though your body is his to command, you do exactly as he says. Hands flying to his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin, knees hitching up around his hips to drag him closer, you careen over the edge with a shout.

Just like the first time, the energy of your pleasure leaving your body is a physical thing. It lingers long enough for you to feel it, for you to luxuriate in it, and then it passes through your skin into his, and this time, you feel him receive it. His body ripples under your grip, his muscles spasming, his skin trembling, his cock somehow swelling even more inside the warm, wet clutch of your cunt. That is all it takes for him to join you in your rapture. With a few final, frenzied thrusts, you feel him twitch and seize inside you, and a hot rush of cum fills you so thoroughly that you can feel it leaking out around him, dripping down your ass to pool beneath you on the sheets.

“Dulzura,” he murmurs into your collarbone, the tip of his hooked nose tracing delicately across your skin as he comes down from his high. “Eres tan perfecta. You did so well. You knew exactly what I needed, didn’t you? Tan buena.”

The two of you lay like that for some time, you smothered against the mattress with his body weighing heavily on top of yours, his slowly softening cock still wedged inside you, his face buried against your neck. Absently, you run your fingers through his hair, and you notice that in spite of the exertion, he has not sweat at all. Perhaps not the most bizarre thing you have learned about him tonight, but you make note of it, nonetheless.

“The ecstasy you have gifted me tonight will keep me nourished for a long while,” he says after a time. He drops a wet, sloppy kiss onto the underside of your jaw. “You have my gratitude.”

The sentiment has you snapping to awareness, the fog of sex suddenly clearing almost instantly. Pulling back to meet his gaze, you find a warped version of the face you have come to know staring back at you. Had you not already figured out that he was a demon, his appearance now would have given it away – flat, black eyes, prominent brow, sharp cheekbones, large, pointed ears, a wider mouth, sharp, vicious teeth. He is the same man you met in the coffee shop all those weeks ago, and yet he is also very much not. You think, perhaps, that that ought to frighten you, but you feel no fear. Instead, you are struck with the realization he seems to have gotten what he wants from you.

You may never see him again.

“So,” you whisper, throat dry, voice hoarse from overuse, “that’s it, then?”

The incubus frowns. “Does that displease you?”

…Does it?

“…I suppose it does.”

His frown dissolves then, and he draws himself back up onto his knees, hovering over you with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t tell me my dulzura is going to miss me,” he taunts, and your cheeks burn.

“I’m not going to miss you,” you reply quickly, careful to keep your tone indifferent. “I’m just saying, maybe the next time you need to…feed, you could…” You shrug, your flush deepening. “You could find me again. Now that I know what you need, you know.”

The wicked smirk on his face eases as he takes in the sincerity in your words and instead melts into something that looks suspiciously like fondness. “Bold little thing,” he purrs. “I like that. Perhaps I shall. But until then…” He reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers across your eyelids, closing them with a delicate touch. “Rest. Sleep. You have earned it, sweet girl.”

Just as with your orgasm, it is as though his words have command over your body. The moment your eyes flutter closed, the world around you falls away, his touch dissolves on your skin, and you slip into a deep, peaceful sleep.

When you wake, the sun is streaming through the gaps in your curtains, casting soft, warm columns of light across your sheets. You glance over at the clock on your bedside table and find that you have slept in much later than usual, though where normally you might feel guilt for this, instead you simply feel sated. You cannot say when you have last had a more restful night of sleep. You feel entirely refreshed.

Stretching luxuriously against your pillows, you take stock of your body. You’re surprised to find that your T-shirt has made its way back onto your body, and with a frown, you notice that you are still wearing the cotton panties you had gone to sleep in the night before. They cling to your body wetly, the sensation cold and a bit unpleasant, but as you run your fingers over the fabric, you confirm that they appear to never have been ripped – they are just as whole as when you had pulled them on.

You find no soreness between your legs, no sign of the vigorous, almost violent activities of the night before. Peeling back your blankets, you lift up your shirt to scan your skin, and you find no trace of the dark purple marks the creature had left behind with his mouth. Your body is entirely unmarred. It is as though nothing had even happened, and you would be lying if you said you were not a little disappointed by this turn of events. A part of you had been looking forward to feeling the ache of him today, to seeing the evidence of his touch on your skin. You feel as though you have been denied any souvenirs of your encounter, and you aren’t sure what to make of the hollowness that echoes in your chest at the realization.

However, before you have the opportunity to feel too melancholy about it, a dark shape lurking at the edge of your vision catches your eye.

You immediately roll over to face it, thinking for a wild moment that it might have been him, that he might have already come back for you. But instead, all you find is that leather-bound book, Sins of the Flesh, resting conspicuously on the other pillow next to you.

You certainly did not leave it there when you went to bed. It had been tucked away in the bottom drawer of your bedside table for weeks.

Reaching out with tentative fingers, you run your hand over the soft, worn cover of the book, and once again, you are struck by the sensation of warmth emanating from the oxblood leather. You feel a tug deep in your abdomen, an urge you can’t quite name, but suddenly you know that you are meant to open it. With a frown, you pick up the book and flip open the cover before you can consider it further.

There, on the cover page, directly below the gothic typeset of the title, you notice a detail that you have never seen before. A name written in an archaic-looking script, inked in watery black as though from the tip of a quill.

Pero Tovar

A rush of satisfaction passes over you even as the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The demon had given you his name.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Bread (Pero x wifey!reader)

Read on AO3

Sequel to Seed and Sprout. (Series now very cleverly titled Pero x wifey!reader)

Fandom: The Great Wall

Tags/warnings: Pero eats it from the back, PinV sex, Pero goes a little hard, some cum play, breeding kink blink and you'll miss it.

Words: 1,806

Summary: You mean to bake bread while the baby is napping, but your husband Pero has other plans.

A/N: Thanks to @pazizz for the idea, and sorry to keep you hanging for so long!

The rain is pitter-pattering against the windows, and you gaze out at the gray world outside. Autumn has arrived, and with it a slowing down of things, chores, life. You welcome it, after a hot summer that, in addition to your normal chores, included taking care of a baby. Not that little Tomás was too difficult: you strapped him to your body and carried him while doing your chores, it was as simple as that. He slept uneasily during the nights, but Pero gladly walked around with night after night, rocking him in his arms, patiently despite the crying. An upside to this was that the baby slept well during the days, and now you have a bread dough that has been rising since last night, and at least two hours to bake.

Sleeves rolled up, you spread flour on the table and begin to knead the dough. The baking oven spreads its heat in the kitchen, and soon your hairline is damp and your cheeks rosy and shiny. Still, you hum to yourself as you work the dough, rejoicing in the feeling of your strong arms, the smell of the dough, the warmth of your home. You loosen the laces that adjust your neckline, allowing it to widen enough to drop down one shoulder. You are still breastfeeding, and Tomás ate well before his nap, so your breasts feel wonderfully light.

The door opens and Pero steps in, bringing with him a gush of autumn. Stepping out of his boots and hanging up his coat, he is then left standing at the door for a moment, watching you. Looking up, you smile at him.

”Everything okay?”

”Yes.”

You go back to the dough, and Pero walks to the bedroom door.

”Is the baby asleep?”

”Just went down.”

”Good.”

Pero comes up behind you, hands low on your hips as he kisses your sweaty neck.

”Seeing you like this makes me stiff,” he murmurs, trailing his lips down your neck. You don’t stop kneading for one second.

”Like what?”

”Sweaty, disheveled, tits out.”

A shiver runs down your spine at your husband’s low voice, and when he presses himself against your ass – oh, he is stiff indeed! – your hands come to a stop, and a tiny whimper escapes you.

”Pero, I don’t have time, I need to do this before he wakes up...” you protest feebly, fingers thick in the dough as you turn your head to allow Pero better access to your neck.

”I’ll watch him if he wakes up before you’re finished,” he vows as he slowly moves his hands to your front, cupping your tits and pushing them up.

”The oven is hot now, I can’t keep it this warm for long...” you try, eyes closing when Pero’s hands roam further, one up to your neck, fingers softly closing over your wild pulse, the other down between your legs, cupping you over the fabric of your skirts.

”The oven will be fine, I however will perish if I don’t get to taste my wife...”

Your dripping cunt makes the decision for you, and you turn your head more, finding his lips, and give your consent in a desperate kiss. Pero pushes you against his hand, against the table, hard cock rubbing your buttocks through layers of clothing. You mean to turn around, but he keeps you in place.

”You said you were in a hurry,” he grins into the kiss, and releases your neck to quickly gather up your skirts. A strong, broad hand between your shoulder blades guides you to bend over the table, and he kneels behind you.

”Open up for me, wife,” he breathes ruggedly, hot breath burning your uncovered sex. You obey, parting your legs more, and hold your breath in anticipation, release it in a low moan when Pero finally kisses your cunt.

How could you ever say no to your husband? During your recuperation time from childbirth, Pero had respectfully waited, given you all the time you needed to be ready for intimacy again. He never rushed or pressured you, but you could tell after a couple of months that he was aching for you. And truth be told, so were you.

You know Pero better than anyone, know the man behind the scarred glare the rest of the world saw. You know so very intimately how that glare can soften, how lovingly the callused hands can caress.

And still, seeing Pero with his son opened up a whole new understanding of him. He is so gentle with the baby, so careful and patient. And his devotion to you has grown more than you thought possible since you gave him your son. He loved you, adored you, respected you before, now he worships you.

How could you say no to such a man? A man who sees you bake bread, and immediately grows hard in his breeches? Who is now on his knees behind you, devouring your cunt?

You don’t. Instead, you push back, stoking his hunger and your pleasure when he sucks at your bud, as gluttonous as the baby suckling your breast. He kneads your buttocks like you kneaded the dough earlier, fingers pushing and pinching into your soft flesh. You scratch at the table like you’re trying to hold onto the surface, flour powders your sweaty chest and the front of your clothes but you don’t care when your toes start to curl inside your socks as Pero’s lips and tongue take tighten the spring deep inside you. You mewl, your thighs shake, and Pero growls into your cunt, latches on and sucks hard. You slap your hand over your mouth to cover the loud moan that your climax pulls from you, and your nostrils are filled with finely ground flour that makes you snort and giggle, all the while Pero lavishes your dripping cunt with kisses.

”My love, my beautiful wife,” he murmurs between the kisses. ”So beautiful, so wet for me.”

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand and mumble something in reply. Pero kisses your buttocks, both of them, before standing up with a grunt. He pulls you up and holds you flush against him, back to chest, and seeks your lips for a kiss. He, however, stops when he sees your face, then smiles widely.

”You have a little flour on you, wife.”

With one big thumb, he gently brushes at your lips and cheeks before kissing you. He tastes of moss and sea; the flavours of your sex, your release, and you push back against him, eager for more.

”What is a little flour spilled compared to knowing my husband’s big cock?” you quip, earning a low chuckle before he presses his lips to yours once more. You reach behind you, find his belt and tug at it to let him know that you need him, and you sigh into the hungry kisses when Pero unbuckles his belt and opens the front of his breeches. His cock springs free, immediately seeking its way between your upper inner thighs, like it can smell you. You reach down, finding him and leading him right. Pero groans when the thick head slides in, his grip on you tightens momentarily, and you whine when he pushes on, further in, until you’re trapped between his hips and the table, your cunt full of his thick, hard cock. The kisses have ebbed out, you’re just breathing heavily against each other’s lips now, and Pero swallows audibly before pressing his forehead to your shoulder. You lick your lips and move back, hissing at the fullness.

”Husband, I need you,” you beg breathlessly, ”take me now, hurry.”

Roused by your plea, Pero takes a firm hold of your hips, and starts to rut into you. It’s in moments like these that you feel his strength, sense his violent past as a warrior. He grips you hard, teetering on the edge of too hard but never crossing the line, and ravages you in a way that doesn’t seem to belong in this quiet life, this sheltered village by the sea, where nothing ever happens and people are farmers and fishermen.

But being fucked like this does belong in your life, and you relish it, love the way he claims you, love the adventure of his force, and the way it frees you, makes you feel like something wild and untamed. You’re not ashamed when you ask him to go harder, and you lean over the table, hands clamped over your mouth when he does. Your hips will be bruised later from hitting the edge of the table over and over again, your front is covered in flour, Pero is growling somewhere behind and above you, and you claw at the table when it’s almost too much, but your still want more.

When he reaches his climax, he pushes all the way in, shoving the table forward an inch, and he lays down on you with a loud groan. You feel his cock pulsate inside you, your insides stained with rich, thick cum, and you turn your head to chase his lips for a kiss. His facial hair grates at your cheek and chin as you try to kiss but it’s mostly just panting into each other’s mouth. Still, you need it, need his breath, his weight on you, his hand that you only just now realize is around your neck, thumb slowly stroking your jugular. You swallow, and he feels it.

”Was I too rough?” he asks hoarsely, hands all soft and gently searching your skin for sore spots. You shake your head, smiling blissfully.

”No, husband, never. It was divine.”

He chuckles tiredly against your ear, one hand leaving your body to push himself up to stand. Your hum, the angle changing how he feels inside of you, and you realize that he’s still hard. He pulls out, however, and caresses your buttock.

”Being inside you is divine,” he tells you gruffly, and you hum, slowly rising up. Pero’s seed starts to ooze out of your cunt, and he places a hand on your lower back, stopping you. You feel the tip of his cock against your folds, catching the cum that seems so cold when outside your body, and then he slides back in, pushing his cum back inside you with a whimper. You catch your lower lip between your teeth in a throaty exhale.

”Pero...”

”I know, my love, I just don’t want to waste it.”

He pulls you up and brings you against himself in a soft embrace, dry lips on your neck. Shivering from the overstimulation, he still doesn’t stop his slow movement inside you.

”Don’t want in anywhere but inside your juicy cunt...”

You moan again, wanton and shameless, like a bitch in heat.

”Then fuck it deeper, husband.”

[mybworlds]

Beyond the Walls

Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!reader (no Y/N)

Summary: You are a princess, you should act like a proper damsel, but you are not and you don't want to be. Luckily, you have an ally on your side.

Warnings: use of you, typical sexism, the main character has female features, but I don't describe her in detail, the image is only meant to represent the moment, nothing else. Fighting against the conventions of the time, the main character wears both women's and men's clothes. Tovar in this story is the protagonist's bodyguard and a knight. Violence graphic.

A/N: Okay, here I am, I woke up with this new idea and here it is. I don't know if I should make it a one-shot or a miniseries, if you want and like please let me know, you know I appreciate your comments.

You run, you urge your horse to increase his pace, you have to lose him. You stop for a moment, but then you think again and decide to cross the fields.

You will do it quicker.

The farmers are not at all enthusiastic about it, some snort as you pass by, others curse you. You smile, you feel so free and light on Callus. Even today you will arrive before him, a triumphant grin bends your lips upwards, you reach and pass the walls surrounding the castle when suddenly he appears in front of you, cutting you off and making your faithful steed rear up.

“I won, Princesa” says your bodyguard giving you a smirk and dismounting from his horse.

“Oh, fuck, that’s not fair!” you blurt out, getting off your stud. “You cheated!”

“Never.” he answers you by taking the reins of his horse and leading it to the stables, you do the same “I went through the main road, you wanted to cheat by going through the fields and destroying all the work of those poor people.”

You laugh, “Please, let’s do it again.”

“Qué? Do you want to destroy the fields again, my lady?” he teases you coming out of the stables.

“Of course not, Pero.” you say “But, you know how I feel when I run, when I'm free to ride a horse, when I can practice swordsmanship with you, when I can be who I really am.” you add.

A few moments later, your mother joins you. Pero kneels, you nod and say “Mother”.

She sighs and shakes her head, “What have you done to yourself, my daughter? Dressed like that, your hair tied up, your face dirty.” She puts on a disgusted expression, “You are a princess and you are a woman. You have some duties to fulfill and you can't afford such obscenities. Dressed as a man!” She tsks “Now go upstairs, I’ve already had a bath prepared for you.”

“You know how I feel!” you reply to what she said. “I want to be free.”

“Daughter,” she uses an annoyed tone “you know that certain liberties are not granted and that only your husband will do this later.”

“I don’t want to get married!” you exclaim while your mother widens her eyes in complete astonishment at your words “I don’t want an old gentleman deciding for me! I am a woman, it's true, but that doesn't mean I want to deprive myself of my life, my choices, my dreams.”

For your mother these are just whims dictated by your age, but according to her you will soon change your mind and indeed you will be happy to marry someone powerful who can give you everything you want and then give yourself the freedom you talk so much about.

What Tovar thinks matters only to you, for everyone he is just your most faithful bodyguard, he is just someone who keeps you safe, who prevents the worst from happening to you, but for each other you are much more than just any princess and her protector. No one knows and it's okay.

For Tovar, you are the bravest person he has ever met and he has met all kinds of people, but no woman has your courage and when you hold a sword you assume that expression so focused and proud that he can't help but feel a deep pride swelling in his chest, when you ride you are absolutely free and you get that expression of absolute bliss and he feels so lucky to still be in this world to enjoy such a spectacle.

You two spend a lot of time together and it was he who offered you that breath you longed for, that freedom that no one else had granted you and for this you are always eternally grateful to him.

Tovar believes that you should be the one to choose what to do with your life, but he also understands that in your case it is not as simple as it seems. So when you confide in him, Pero avoids telling you things like do what you want and run away because he knows you would be capable of it. He offers you long horseback rides on the beach, teaches you how to shoot a bow, has taught you how to use a sword, and on more than one occasion you have gone to the village in disguise. And you loved every single moment of what Pero showed you.

If there was some discomfort at first, now you are fine together. You are so fine that one afternoon when you were out in the woods and you were completely soaked after an accidental fall, Pero offered you his cloak and to thank him you stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Pero was so surprised that he looked you in the eyes for a long time as if to understand if it had been a casual gesture or if you were aware of what you had done. No uncertainty or disturbance changed your gaze, you knew what you were doing.

You have never gone beyond that, although you do not want to submit to certain constraints or duties, you have always and in any case preserved your virtue.

You meet his gaze, sigh and then you go up the main staircase followed by your lady-in-waiting.

“Tovar,” your mother says to the man, “you are an excellent knight and a valuable asset to our house,” the woman continues, “however, I believe you are being too accommodating to her.” She smiles faintly at the knight “I hope you wish to return to those ranks you agreed to honor, but if it were too much for you to do and you couldn't get her to respect you, well, that would mean we would be forced to deprive ourselves of your presence.” the man swallows, the woman is his lord's wife and if he were to be chased away from there too, his wandering would begin again and perhaps something even worse would happen to him. He decides to bite his tongue and simply nods and with a nod of his head takes his leave.

Your maids are supposed to wash your hair, your face, your body, but you dismiss them, asking to be left alone.

You want to be free, you want it so bad. You take a deep breath and then go down into the tub full of rose petals. Everyone — your family — wants to remind you of who you are and where you belong, but your indomitable spirit won’t give up, not like this.

You emerge and decide to fight. You know you won't be alone. You can always count on Pero Tovar.

You dress in a cream-colored tunic, you are determined to go to him, but without wanting to, when you pass in front of the library, you glimpse a light and then hear footsteps: you stop and strain your ears, you open the door slightly and see one of your father's most trusted men and another man you've never seen before, They are apparently not doing anything wrong, but it's the manner and tone that you don't like. They have something in their hands, it's shiny and when you realize what it is, you jump, making a guttural noise that makes you step back and slam into a suit of armor worn long, long ago by your father.

The noise attracts the attention of the two and almost immediately they are at the door, you take another step back, “What are you waiting for?! Kill her!” shouts your father's advisor to the other who he points the gun at you.

Your eyes widen in shock, just then something whistles through the air, then something fast passes in front of you and this movement is followed by a cry of pain. Your attacker lost a hand, chopped off by an axe. You and the councilor turn and see Tovar standing at the beginning of the corridor, you take advantage of that moment of confusion to run to him and take refuge behind him.

Following this event, the castle seems to wake up all at once, excited voices seem to come from every corner.

“Come away, Princesa,” Tovar tells you trying to get you to walk away, but you stare at the other man and are about to tell him that you're going to tell your father what happened and that he won't get away with it, but then the unthinkable happens: two guards appear across the corridor and the counselor shouts “Get them, they were plottin’ something with this man and then they killed him.”

“That's not true!” you try to say, but you know the strong influence that man has on everyone, especially your father. He would be able to say anything and everyone would believe him.

“Run, Princesa, come!” Tovar shouts, dragging you down the stairs with him. You barely have time to leave the castle because they close the gates. When you're apart you look back and for the first time you realize that you're beyond the walls and you're wanted.

You don't know what will happen to your life, your future, your dreams, or your freedom, you just know that the only one who will always be by your side will be your tireless bodyguard, teacher and friend, Pero Tovar.

[nobedofroses]

October 14th

pairing: Pero Tovar x fem!reader

warnings: reader has given birth in the last few months, mentions of nursing

words: 743

a/n: Hmm I don't know that I can count the word "cottage" as a prompt from @illfoandillfie since I had to come up with everything else (lmao ily). Little bit of missing Pero, little bit of reuniting

Directory, Day 13

🎃🎃🎃

A year after your last autumnal visit to the market, Pero was there selling another horse and you were not. You had wanted to go and he had so wanted you to go, but your tiny baby girl, Alma, was too little to travel yet. With tears in your eyes and an oblivious three month old in your arms, you bid Pero goodbye with a sweet, loving kiss that you kind of hoped would be enough to keep him there. It sadly didn’t work, but he did look back several times as he rode away. 

Pero was only going to be gone one night since he wasn’t going to be spending extra time with you in the market and had even offered to make the trip in one day, but you didn’t want him traveling that late or for that long. 

It was surprising all the ways you missed him for just one day. The way he always got up earlier than you so he could build up the fire and bring your housecoat from where you left it by the washbasin like you always did. How he would scoop up Alma after she was done nursing to burp and take care of her so you could rest and relax. The way he spoke to her as he patted her back, telling her about what the plan was for the day with the horses and asking what she was planning to do with her day. 

Thinking about all of this when you fed Alma after he left made you a little misty-eyed as you took care of her by yourself, more out of absolute love for Pero than being sad that he was gone for a day, but it was pretty close. 

You ate your meals with William and Charlotte in the inn so you could have some adult company and because it was strange to cook for one. Plus they loved every second they had with their niece. 

That night, when you were getting ready for bed, you had to build up the fire a little extra. The nights were getting colder and colder and you wouldn’t have Pero to keep you warm. 

In the morning, you went through your normal routine, pointedly trying not to think about the differences you had anticipated yesterday, and instead focused on the fact that Pero would be back in a couple hours. And with him would be goods for not only your home, but some medicines and things for whoever wanted to buy or trade for them in the village. You also knew there would probably be a book or two and something for Alma, which was exciting. 

At lunch, Charlotte half-jokingly offered to take Alma until dinner so the two of you could have a proper reunion. You laughed but said that Pero would want to see Alma as soon as he got home. And he’d have to unpack. And take care of his horse, Fred. Then she suggested taking her after dinner until you came and got her for her last feeding and bed and you readily agreed. 

Pero came back within an hour after lunch. Alma was napping in her bassinet, so you rushed outside to be able to embrace him as soon as he got off his horse. Possibly you had been watching out the window for him. 

His strong arms were around you in an instant. You buried your face where his neck met his shoulder and said, “Pero, oh darling, I missed you so much.” 

“A mi también, querida. So much.”

You loved being enveloped in him like this, but you knew Fred should be unburdened and you shouldn’t leave Alma alone for much longer. 

“Alma’s napping, but I’ll bring her out to you if she wakes up before you’re done,” you told Pero, knowing he’d want to see her as soon as possible. 

“Yes, perfect. I’ll be in as soon as I can,” Pero said before bringing you in for a deep kiss that you weren’t expecting. 

When he released you, you stood there for a second, dazed, until Pero grabbed your shoulders and bodily turned you back to the cottage. You walked back, a little wobbly, and when you got to the door and turned back to look at Pero, he was watching you with a grin. 

You felt your cheeks flush with heat but wondered if maybe you should’ve taken Charlotte up on her first offer.

🎃🎃🎃

[flightlessangelwings]

Ktober 2023 Day 1- Overstimulation

Pero Tovar x fem!reader

Word count- 1.3k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), f receiving oral, established relationship, reader wears a corset and is a waitress, no use of y/n

Notes- Starting the month off with an idea I've had in my drafts for some time so it's the perfect opportunity to use it! Prompt list made by me! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is myupdate blog so please follow that too and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on my new fics!

~

The tavern bustled with life and laughter, and you hurriedly ran drinks to the many tables. Men eyed you up and down as your tightly fit corset accented your body perfectly, but you paid them no mind. You just filtered back enough to get them to leave you a little something extra in the way of coin when they left. No, there was only one man you wanted to share your bed with.

And he just walked through the front door.

“Señor Tovar,” you purred as you sauntered up to him, “What will it be tonight?”

He smirked as he rested a hand on your hip, “You, querida,” his tone was low as he eyed the other men who had jealousy clear on their faces.

“This way,” you set down your drinks and slid your hand in his, leading him upstairs…

“Ay… Fuck… Pero…” you moaned as the mercenary laid comfortable between your parted legs. In private, you were on a first name basis, among other things.

It took Pero no time at all to strip you of your garments, and he quickly became an expert at unlacing your corset. It was something he was particularly proud of. Pero growled as you laid bare for him, spread out on the bed with your legs parted, just the way he liked it, and he wasted no time in diving in.

There were few things Pero enjoyed more than eating you out. He spent hours between your legs, licking and sucking you until you cried for mercy and begged him to stop. The taste of you was the sweetest nectar he had ever had, and from the first moment his tongue touched your pussy, Pero was addicted.

“You taste so good, querida,” he purred in that tone he saved only for you.

Heat quickly built up in your body as your mind swam in pleasure. You arched your back and moaned loudly as Pero’s tongue flicked and licked at your clit, knowing exactly what spots drove you absolutely wild. His large hands dug into the flesh of your thighs as he kept them parted to allow him better access to your body.

“Fuck!” you cried out as you buried your hands in his hair, “Pero… I’m gonna…”

He groaned into you as you yanked at his thick locks, but he never let up. Pero ran his tongue along your clit over and over again, nodding his head as he pushed you over the edge. His cock twitched as he listened to the screams of your climax- music to his ears. He savored the way your legs shook on either side of his head and you couldn’t hold back your moans even if you wanted to.

Just as you let out a whimper, Pero pulled away with a loud pop and looked at you with dark, lust-blown eyes. He hissed a curse in Spanish as he watched your breasts rise and fall with your heavy breaths as you came down from your peak.

“Que hermosa,” Pero groaned as he waited for you to open your eyes.

When you did, you saw him staring down at you with a look you had never seen before. Sure you saw the lustful gaze in his eyes, but underneath, there was something else… something more. It was subtle, but you had known him long enough to notice slight shifts like that.

But, before you could address, Pero growled and dove back into you, licking at your pussy with renewed fervor. Your head dropped back down to the bed as you screamed even more loudly as he devoured you like a man starved. 

Pero used his strong grip to push your legs apart even further, too consumed with need to care about anything other than the taste of you. He felt your legs tremble under his grasp as your second orgasm hit quickly and just as strongly as the first one. 

This time, however, Pero did not break away.

He kept going, licking and sucking you as if you were his last meal on earth. He savored your cries, your moans, your whimpers, your screams as you soon came again under his expert tongue. Pero’s cock practically screamed him to fuck you, in need of his own release, but he ignored it. He was completely lost in you, in your pussy, to even think about himself.

It was the first time that had happened to him.

Pero continued his attack on your pussy as he moved one hand to push two thick fingers into you. You bucked your hips and screamed as you felt the calloused digits enter you, hitting your sweet spot inside with accuracy. 

“Pero! Ah!” you cried out as you clutched into his scalp for dear life.

He groaned your name in between kissing your pussy as he thrust his fingers in and out of you at a fast and harsh pace. The long fingers hit deep inside you, making you see stars as your eyes rolled back and tears fell down your cheeks. It only took a few more thrusts for you to cum again with another loud scream.

Your body trembled uncontrollably as you came down from your peak, Pero slowing down for a moment to allow you time to catch your breath, “Pero…” you breathed as you sniffled, “I can’t…”

Pero hushed you with surprising gentleness, “Yes you can, querida,” he purred as he slowly thrust his fingers once more, “I am not finished with you yet.”

“Please…” you begged as fresh tears filled your eyes.

Pero whispered your name as he stopped all his movements. He wanted for you to meet his eyes before he spoke again, “I think you can give me one more, querida,” he paused, “Can you?”

You swallowed hard as you caught your breath. Your body felt like it was on fire, and your emotions spiraled in your head from the many consecutive climaxes. But the way Pero looked at you gave you newfound strength. You trust him, after all, and you knew that if you truly had enough, all you had to do was say so and he would stop.

You nodded.

Pero smirked, “That’s my good girl,” he cooed before he dipped back into your pussy.

Instead of a harsh and rough pace, however, Pero was slower, gentler, as if he was making love to you with his tongue. You moaned loudly, your body already trembling under the pressure of his tongue. Tears spilled down your face once more, but they were also different this time. It was overwhelming in the best way, and suddenly you craved more just as he did.

It didn’t take long for your last orgasm to build within you. “Pero…” you sighed as you arched your back, parting your legs as much as you could, offering yourself to him completely. 

“That’s it querida,” he praised in between licks and sucks as you fell apart under him once more. Pero savored the taste of you as you gushed into his mouth and squeezed his fingers with your inner muscles. At the same time, you cried out his name and clung to him wherever you could grab. He liked it when you clung to him like that.

When your climax was completely ridden out, Pero finally broke away from you and trailed a line of open mouthed kissed up your body until he took your mouth with his. He swallowed the moan you let out and he wiped away any stray tears as his tongue tangled with yours.

“Thank you for the meal, querida,” Pero smirked as he crashed down onto the bed and pulled you into his arms.

You let out an exhausted laugh, but then you paused, “What about you?” you asked.

“Hush, querida,” he murmured, “You need your rest first.”

A smile lit up your face, though Pero couldn’t see it from the way he held you; underneath all the tough and gruff exterior, you knew that Pero Tovar had some kindness in him. But, what you didn’t know was just how much fondness he held for you. Perhaps someday he would tell you out loud. Until then, Pero’s actions spoke loudly enough, and that was just fine for both of you.

[absurdthirst]

The Songbird and the Spaniard {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13K

Warnings: Mafia AU, 1960s, threats of violence, greed card marriage, mentions of communism (McCarthy-ism era), violent assault, anger, rough sex, loss of virginity, communication issues, mentions of infidelity, confessions, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Comments: Pero Tovar has a problem, he's being deported. So he solves it by threatening you to marry him. A marriage for a green card, quickly complicated by the possessiveness of the mob boss and the rough taking of your virginity.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The lounge is reminiscent of a 1920’s jazz club. It was the vibe that he wanted and what Pero Tovar wanted, he got. The velvet cushions on the chairs were always bearing the weight of people who wanted to come and have a good time. To gamble, smoke, drink and sometimes fuck in a club that was taboo because it had rumored ties to the mafia. Only people that know that it’s true are the people that work there. As one of the headliner singers, you are well aware of how dangerous the man you work for is, and you despise him. 

You smile at the crowd as you sing, your nerves fading as you serenade the drinkers, the gamblers, the lovers. You have been working at the club for a few years, hired by William, and you love it. The 60’s is in full swing and your mini dress sways around your thighs as you sing. Pero is sitting at the booth in the back, his dark eyes crinkling as he laughs at something William says to him, whiskey in his hand and cigarette in the other. “Boss. There’s a man here for you.” Rita, the coat check comes over to Pero, nervous since he has been cold to her since he fucked her a few nights ago in the cloak room. 

“Why don’t you send him over?” Pero asks, tapping his cigarette on the side of the ashtray. Rita nods and gestures for the man to come over. The man sits, setting his hat down on the table, “you’re a hard man to find Pero Tovar.” He says and Pero narrows his eyes slightly. “And who has been looking for me?” 

The man chuckles, “my name is Mr. Taylor. You’ve received letter upon letter from US immigration. You’re being deported. You arrived from Spain in 1937 as a refugee from Franco but you have failed to disclose if you’re a communist. You have ten days to book your ticket from the US otherwise we will remove you ourselves.”

Pero growls, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning over to grab the wad of cash out of his pocket. “How much to stay?” He demands. “I am no communist, I’m a business owner. This club.” He tells the bureaucratic prick. “I cannot go back to Spain, my life is here.”

Mr. Taylor snorts, “no amount of money will fix this. You have evaded me for too long. You have a week to get your affairs in order before I come back to escort you to your plane. I cannot be bought. We cannot have a communist here and you have not applied for citizenship. You will be leaving the US next week.” Mr. Taylor says as he stands up and hands the letter to Tovar. “One week. I’ll see you here or you will be arrested and detained.” He says before he spins on his heel and exits the club.

“Fuck.” Pero hisses, itching to reach for his gun but it would only make matters worse. William, knowing his friend and business partner, reaches over to take the gun from him under the table so none of the guests will see. “I told you that you shouldn’t ignore the letters.” He snorts, shaking his head and smirking slightly as Lin Mae watches from her sit across the room. His lovely bride is the security for the place and is far better at keeping the peace than even the threat of the mafia. “It’s an easy fix.” He tells the Spaniard easily. “Marry a citizen. Then you can stay.”

Your eyes find Pero and William, a man walking away from their booth, and you see the thunderous look on Pero’s face. He’s pissed off. You smile against the microphone, loving to see Pero not getting his way for once. The band finishes the song and you smile at the applause. “Thank you. I’m going to take a break but I’ll be back in five.” You announce and step off of the stage to walk over to the bar, ordering your vodka soda.

“What about Rita?” William suggests, the bastard laughing at the entire situation and making Pero want to smash his fist into his perfectly straight teeth. “Fuck no,” Pero snorts, motioning for the waitress for his section to bring him another whiskey when his eyes land on you. “Bitch’ll think that I really want to marry her and spit out babies.” He had avoided her after she had been clingy after the fuck in the coat closet, he doesn’t like that kind of shit.

“Thanks, Frank.” You smile at the bartender who  hands you your drink. You sit down on the stool and have a sip, glancing around at the club. It’s busy for a Wednesday but not as busy as the weekend. “What about…?” William jerks his chin over to the bar where you are sitting. “She definitely doesn’t want to have your babies.”

Pero snorts, his eyes sliding along the sleek lines of your dress and caresses every curve hungrily. “She would rather cut my heart out with a spoon.” He grunts, admiring the hatred you seem to harbor for him. It just makes him want you more. To possess you and watch you spit and hiss under him until you start to moan and writhe in pleasure. “That’s perfect.”

You set your empty glass down and make your way back to the stage but before you make it, Tovar steps in front of you. “Excuse me, Tovar. I need to get back on stage.” You huff, wondering what your boss wants. He’s been chasing Rita around the club lately so you don’t know why he is stopping you from getting back to your set. “I need to talk to you in my office.” He grunts and you roll your eyes, “don’t you want me back on stage?” His dark eyes stare at you, showing he’s not interested in an argument and you huff again. “Fine.” You stride onto the stage, whispering to the guitarist to keep playing until you come back. “Boss wants to see me.” You explain and Rico waggles his eyebrows. "As if." You wrinkle your nose and make your way off the stage, down the hall to Pero's office.

Sitting behind his desk, Pero wonders exactly what he needs to say to get you to marry him. Hating that he finds himself in this damned situation, but he needs to stay. He hasn’t been to Spain in nearly thirty years, his home is here and he’s not leaving.

“You know, I was in the middle of a set. William won’t be happy that I’m not out there getting the old men horny so they buy more booze.” You shut the door behind you to see what he wants.

“This is more important.” Pero motions to the chair in front of the desk and makes a show of pulling his gun out from the holster at the small of his back and setting it on the desk before he lights up a cigarette and stares at you for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell you. Being blunt is his nature and he decides to go with that. “You will need to be here tomorrow at ten in the morning in a white dress.” He orders, pointing at you with the cigarette held hand. “We are getting married.”

You stare at him for several seconds. “You’re fucking joking, right?” You choke. He stares back at you and you laugh, throwing your head back. Your chortles echo off of the walls of his office until you notice he’s not joking. “You’re not joking.” You choke again, “you’re not joking. Why- what the hell, Tovar? Explain.” You demand, shifting closer to his desk.

“You want to keep your job?” Pero growls, shooting you a dark look. “Fuckers from immigration are trying to deport me. You’re a citizen. We get married, I can stay and you can keep singing in my club.” He snorts. “And I don’t have to worry about you wanting to stay married after I get my green card.”

You shake your head, “I could go and get another job in another club. It’s the 60s. Women have freedom. I don’t have to be married and shoved into a kitchen anymore. I could easily get another job.” You scoff, unable to believe he has the gall to demand you marry him. Pero picks up his gun and aims it at you, making your eyes widen, “you can’t easily get another life.” Your stomach twists at the look in his eyes, cold and emotionless like he could pull the trigger and carry on about his day. If you don’t do what he wants, you’re dead. “O-okay. I- I- I’ll do it.” You whisper, eyes still fixed on the gun that you know has killed many men.

It should upset him that you would believe that he would shoot you, but it doesn’t. He’s getting his way and that’s all that matters. “Tomorrow.” He growls, slowly setting the gun down. “We get married so that prick can kiss my ass when he comes back to try to kick me out.” He smirks and takes a drag off his cigarette. “You can go finish your songs now.”

You narrow your eyes at him, knowing that you’ll do everything you can to make his life hell when you’re his wife. He doesn’t know what he’s signed himself up for. You won’t be some little wife cooking his meals and cleaning his apartment. You stand up and spin on your heel, not saying another word as you leave his office and go back to the stage but not before grabbing another glass of vodka soda. 

****

You sigh as you stand there, the only white dress you own goes down to your calves and it sways as you stand in the club, waiting for Pero who is late. He walks in and you huff,  “you’re late.” He chuckles and you hate that you like how he looks in the blue suit with his hair slicked back. He looks good. “I had to celebrate my last night of freedom.” He smirks and you scoff, “like you’re not going to fuck every whore from here to Harlem anyway.” You shake your head and grab your purse, “can we get this over with?”

“Eager to be my wife, hermosa?” There are witnesses milling around, so Pero grabs your waist and hauls you close to him. He can see the way your eyes widen slightly, your breath catching in surprise. You’re scared of him and while it might annoy him later, right now it’s useful. “Don’t worry, soon you’’ll be mi esposa and I will have you in bed screaming my name.” In order for Pero to stay, immigration must believe that the marriage is real, so he’s already sent guys over to your apartment to pack it up. You will come live with him.

“Screaming to get away from you.” You whisper, knowing you need to sell this otherwise you’ll be going to jail and he will be deported. Or you’ll be killed. His arms tighten around your waist in warning. You lean in to caress his cheek. He’s shaved and you press your lips to his cheek, your eyes open as you do it. “Let’s go get hitched.” You say with a smile on your face but your eyes burn into his.

The entire process is fairly simple, and it doesn’t take long before the two of you are standing in front of a magistrate. Pero holding you close and plastering a happy look on his normally dower face to prove that he’s wanting to do this and not just stay in the country.

You recite your vows, your hands on his and you are surprised when you see the ring he slides onto your finger. You didn’t imagine he’d have one and he hands you the one for you to slide onto his left hand. The magistrate declares you husband and wife and you don’t get a chance to prepare yourself as he leans in to press his lips to yours.

Your lips are soft, much softer than he imagined and the surprise parting them allows him to take complete control and kiss you like he wants to. His tongue sweeps into your mouth to take possession and map the inside with strong, determined strokes while your fingers dig into the jacket of his suit.

Your mind blanks when he kisses you so thoroughly. You never imagined him to be such a good kisser and you are disappointed when he pulls back until he offers you a cocky smirk that makes you barely refrain from glaring at him. After you sign the marriage certificate and Pero hands over some money, “to expedite this beautiful creature having my last name,” you leave the courthouse. “So, I guess I’ll wait until we meet with the immigration agent. I’ll see you at work.” You say, adjusting your purse and spinning on your heel to get away from him.

Pero snorts and grabs your arm, dragging you back against him. “Where are you going?” He demands. “I cannot have someone thinking this marriage is a sham.” You snort but he smirks at you. “My men are packing up your dresses and panties, hermosa. You live with me.”

Your eyes widen, “living with you? Fuck no.” You hiss and he shakes his head, “you have no choice. Unless you want to be six feet under.” His smile drops and you swallow harshly, “fine but I get my own room. I’m not sleeping with you. Or fucking you.” You growl, pressing your chest against his to show him he can’t control you.

While he might not have expected you to fuck him, Pero doesn’t like rejection. He likes to be the one to call the shots. Grabbing your chin, he hisses at you, his dark eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Who said I wanted you?” He spits. “I like soft women, warm and pliant, not a cunt so cold it would freeze my dick off.”

You wince at the way he grips your chin, keeping you close to him. “You have plenty of options you can pay for.” You hiss at him, “you can’t buy me. I’m doing this to stay alive.” You remind him, “let’s go. I want to change out of this dress and prepare for my set tonight.”

Pero lets go of your chin and snorts as he steps back from you. “That’s right.” He straightens his suit jacket and pins you with a dark look, almost glaring at you. “Remember who you are married to now.” He warns you. “I won’t tolerate you being a whore while you wear that ring.”

You want to spit back at him that you’re a virgin. You wanted to give yourself to the man you love but it looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon. You snort, “you don’t own me.” You try to rebel even under the dire circumstances. “That’s where you’re wrong, esposa. I do.” Pero declares and you huff, striding off to his waiting car without looking back at him.

Pero watches you walk away, admiring your ass and hissing between his teeth. You’ve made it very clear that you cannot stand him, yet out of all the women at the club, you are the one he craves. To tame you, temper you. Or maybe he just likes the spit and vinegar you give him, instead of just falling to his feet. Now he has you in name, but he cannot touch you.

You slide into the car and Pero follows, immediately lighting up a smoke when the car pulls away from the curb. “Can you open the window?” You ask and he rolls his eyes, rolling down the window but he exhales away from you. When you arrive at his apartment building, you’re impressed. It’s in a nice part of town. Certainly nicer than your place in Brooklyn, and you sigh when the driver opens your door after he pulls up to the curb. You walk in and the doorman greets you. “Harold, this is my new wife.” Pero introduces you, the cigarette long snubbed out but the smoke clings to his jacket. “Wife?” Harold is shocked and you lean into Pero to sell it, “we wanted to keep it private, you know, because of the baby.” You say, sliding your hand down to your belly and Pero hisses through his smile. “Come on, esposa, let’s get you settled.” He says and his grip on your waist tightens as you head into the elevator. “What the fuck did you say that for?” He growls and you giggle, leaning against the wall. “Wanted to have some fun.” You smirk and Pero shakes his head, “he’s going to know when you don’t get bigger.” He points out and you shrug, “shit happens. He doesn’t need to know.”

Pero lets go of you and stares at the numbers on the elevator as it goes up. Annoyed that you caused more drama than you needed to. Starting to regret this, but then he remembers that he has to have you as his wife, for his future here in America. “Mierda.” He hisses to himself and sighs when the door opens on the top floor, the penthouse suite of the building. “Home sweet home, esposa.”

Your eyes widen as you step out of the elevator, a view of Central Park ahead of the floor to ceiling windows and you are in awe of the luxury he lives in. "No wonder you don't want to leave." You murmur, taking note of the expensive furniture. You walk into the living room and find the door to the kitchen, gasping at the beautiful appliances and space that is almost the same size as your apartment. "Oh, I want to cook in here." You squeal, excited by the fridge and the top of the range stove.

Pero smirks, shucking his jacket as he listens to you go through the kitchen, exclaiming over the latest modern appliances. Even the microwave with the turntable and an electric can opener. He chuckles at your change of attitude but he doesn’t point out that it’s a wife’s job to make meals for her husband, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate that.

You turn to look at Pero as he walks over to the bar cart, "you want a drink?" He asks and you nod, "gonna need one after this morning." You take the glass of whiskey after Pero pours it into a crystal glass. You take a sip, "so where is my room?" You ask and he doesn't say a word as he escorts you down the hall to your bedroom, your things already there. "How did you- never mind." You scoff, knowing he's powerful enough to move mountains...just not regarding his immigration status.

He had anticipated you asking how the hell your things are all here, but you apparently figured it out. He smirks slightly and pulls out a key from his pocket to set it down on the table near the door. “This gives you access to the penthouse.” He tells you. “Don’t lose it.”

You turn to look at Pero after he sets the key down, “I won’t lose it.” You promise and he stares at you. Those dark brown eyes. If he wasn’t such a demanding asshole who chased women, you’d want him, but he’s too wild to tame. “I’m going to settle in.” You declare, hoping he gets the hint, and he does. You shut the door behind him and sit down on the bed. Your ring catches the light and you wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

It’s strange to have a woman in his apartment. He never has before. Not to sleep. His liaisons normally happened at the club or a lesser apartment he kept for activities, preferring to keep his actual home for himself. He pours himself another drink and listens to you start to move things around in your room and he huffs to himself. Deciding that he should just go back to the club and work so he won’t dwell on the fact that he has a wife and a sham marriage.

****

When you arrive at the club, Tovar is already there. He left hours ago and you thought you had to figure out how to get to the club on your own but you’re soon told by the doorman that there’s a car waiting for you. You arrive at the club and walk in, his ring on your hand, and your head high when you see Pero talking to the bartender, a glass of whiskey in his hand. You walk over to him, “hello, husband.” You greet him, wondering if he’s told the rest of the staff about his new status.

Pero lifts a brow, unsure if you were wishing for the staff to know and glances back at the bartender to see his reaction. “Vodka soda for my wife.” He grunts at the man. “Twist of lime.” He knows your drink, watching you more often than you realize and turn back towards you. “I’ve moved your set up.” He tells you. “You’re performing first tonight.”

“Why?” You huff, knowing that the crowd is always difficult for the first person on stage. He has the jazz trio who usually go first and they warm up the crowd for you. You hate being first. Frank hands you your drink, his eyes flicking down to the ring on your hand and he raises his eyebrows. You shake your head and sip the drink, turning back towards your husband for his answer.

Of course you would be annoyed. “So you can leave early.” He had thought he was doing you a favor, letting you leave the smoky club before the wee hours of the morning when you normally finish, but you aren’t appreciative.

You huff, knowing he only wants you to leave early so he can chase Rita or one of the cocktail waitresses around. “Fine. I’ll go on first.” You down the rest of your drink and make your way to the stage, speaking with the band who are confused that you’re up first. “Boss’s orders.” You tell them and a few minutes later, you’re singing. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you from the front row. It’s not Pero watching you. It’s another man. His eyes burning into you, licking his lips as you croon to the song. You try to ignore him, finishing up the first set and you make your way over to the bar for another drink. 

“You sing beautifully.” A voice coos in your ear and you turn your head to see the man from the front row of tables. “Thank you.” You offer him a polite smile and he leans closer. “Can I get you a drink?” He asks and you hold up your still full glass. “Already got one.” He nods, “maybe when you’re done with that.” He gestures to Frank to get him another round. “So…what’s a beautiful woman like you, doing singing in a club? You should be in an expensive home, my home, having my babies.” He smirks, thinking you should be fawning over him but you wrinkle your nose. 

“I have a rich husband.” You flash your ring at him and he grabs your hand, “that’s a piece of tin. I could get you a bigger rock. And a bigger cock.” He chuckles, his other hand finding your back and his palm slowly slides down until it’s on your ass.

Pero had watched from his booth until the stranger had ordered you a drink. Growling under his breath when the bastard sends you a cocky smirk that makes him get up and start striding over to you. Feeling jealous and territorial over you, even if you are only his wife on paper. You flash him the ring but the bastard just scoffs. His mistake is when he touches you, making Pero see red as the hand reaches your ass and he decides he will break every one of the bastard’s fingers. Not bothering with niceties, he grabs his hand off your ass, not saying a word until the man turns in surprise and then cries out in pain when Pero snaps his wrist before letting go and slamming his fist into his smug face. “Didn’t your mamá teach you not to touch another man’s wife?” He growls, grabbing his neck and slamming his face into the bar before he can react, spewing blood everywhere. “My wife.”

You stumble back in shock, eyes wide at the blood splattering on the counter and Pero doesn’t stop. He gestures to Frank, “get it for me.” He demands and Frank nods, not hesitating to grab the hammer from under the counter. Tovar grabs the hand that touched you, keeping it pinned to the counter and the man cries out in pain from his broken wrist. “You need to learn you should not touch what doesn’t belong to you, cabrón.” Pero growls and grabs the hammer, bringing it down on the fingers of the man who dared to touch you. You can’t breathe, can’t do anything but watch as the violence continues, your husband smashing the man’s digits with the hammer while he screams in agony. 

“Pero.” You choke out, knowing you shouldn’t say anything for fear of your own safety but you need to stop this before he kills him. “Enough. That’s enough.”

Pero doesn’t stop until he has smashed all five fingers with the hammer, aware that the music has stopped and everyone is gapping in horror at the scene. The man’s hand is mangled, bloodied - ruined. His dark eyes slide over to your terrified face but he looks back at the bastard who has pissed his pants as he sags against the bar. Pero drops the hammer and grabs his jacket lapels to yank him closer, ignoring the man’s whimpers of terror and begging for his life. He’s pathetic and no longer the cocky braggart of a few minutes earlier. “Touch her again and I will kill you.” Pero hisses. “Look at her and I will carve your eyes out of your skull.” Sobbing, the man shakes his head. “I won’t, I won’t, please- just- just let me go.” Pero grunts in disgust and pushes him away, letting him fall to the floor as his men surround him. “Get him out of here.” He growls and grabs your hand to drag you towards his office.

You let him drag you to his office, still in shock from the display of violence. You’ve seen hints of it. A punch here, a shove there, but you’ve never seen anything like that. Pero shuts the door behind you, his chest heaving and you stare at him. “Why did you do that? I had it under control.”

“His hand was on your ass and you had it under control?” Pero roars, grabbing you by the arms and pushing you against his desk. Crowding you with his body and trying to get himself under control but he’s failing. Losing his mind at the idea of that bastard touching you when not even he has touched your ass. “No one touches my wife.” He growls, crashing his lips to yours violently.

You should push him away, you should scream at him, but the possessive way he kisses you, the way he owns you. It has you pushing yourself against him, gripping the labels of his jacket as you kiss him back.

He would stop if you pushed him away. That’s what he tells himself as he grabs your hips and throws you up onto the surface of his desk. Hungry for you, his veins still swimming with violence and passion, fusing together and coming out as lust. His cock is already hard and he drags your panties down after pushing your slinky dress up to your waist. Pero’s tongue maps your mouth brutally and he swallows your moans and grunts as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other between your thighs and pushing two fingers inside your cunt.

Your cry echoes off the walls of his office as he pushes two thick digits into your shamefully wet pussy. You should push him away, tell him no, but you can’t. His display, his animalistic claim over you has you needing more and when his fingers curl in your pussy, you gush with need and desire for your newly minted husband. “Fuck me.” You beg, not knowing what you’re asking for other than to feel more of him.

Your words snap what little self control he has. Growling as he tears his lips away from yours, he bites along your jaw and down your throat as he pulls his cock out of his trousers, the same ones he had worn when he married you and slots himself between your thighs. He doesn’t ease into you, he can’t. He drives into you with one harsh, demanding thrust and groans your name as he claims you.

Your scream is smothered as you bury your face in his neck, the pain of his intrusion fading after a few moments but he doesn’t stop, pulling out to thrust into you without giving you a second but you cling to him. The pain fading and you moan when he starts to feel good as he moves inside of you.

“You’re mine.” He hisses in your ear. “My woman, my wife.” He knows that after this moment of insanity, you will be spitting and striking at him again, pushing him away. For now, right now, you are his to take. To protect. His lips continue to kiss and his teeth continue to nip your skin. Gorging himself on you while he fucks the tightest little cunt he’s ever had. Groaning your name when you flutter around him, it just makes him fuck you harder, the desk shaking under you from the intensity of his thrusts.

Your nails dig into his back as you slide your hands behind his back under his jacket. His cock pistons in and out of you, his eyes black as he stares at you, words of possession falling from his lips and you shouldn’t find this as hot as you do. He’s an animal but your walls are taking him eagerly, gushing around him with each moan of your name. Your hands let go of him and you lay back on his desk, arching your back as you knock the pen holder and papers from the surface, your eyes closing as the pleasure builds in your belly, his pelvis rubbing just right against your clit in this new angle.

You are gorgeous and pliant under him. Yielding to him in a way he never suspected and he can’t even stop to tell you how sexy you are. Grunting as he holds tight to your hips and uses you as an anchor. He watches you, wanting to push more of those moans out of your pretty mouth as he rocks into you. Looking down to watch his cock push in and out of your cunt, he twitches and ramps up the pace, knowing he will cum soon. 

Your hands find purchase of the edge of his expensive oak desk, your chest pushed up and heaving as he fucks you hard. Any venom you had for him seemed to leave your body as soon as he starts fucking you. Your thighs start to shake and he grabs them, pushing them back towards your stomach, sinking even deeper inside of you. “Oh shit!” You cry when he hits something indescribable inside of you. “To-Tovar. I’m going to - I think it’s-” You can barely speak as his hips hit the back of your thighs and seconds later, you’re clamping down on his cock.

He hisses, eyes rolling back as your walls grip his cock like a vice, feeling the tingle at the base of his spine. Happy that he had made you cum and soak his cock before his own orgasm. You are so tight around him that he can only give another three thrusts before he is pushing deep, kissing your womb with his cock as he starts to paint your walls with his seed. Grunting and groaning as he fills you. 

You open your eyes to watch him as he cums, jaw clenched and eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as his cum fills you up. You relax, slumping on his desk as he rocks through it until he stops, his hands caressing up your thighs and you shift to sit up as soon as he pulls out. You stand on wobbly legs, his hands gripping your waist to steady you and you manage to pull together enough balance to bend down and grab your panties, pulling them up your legs to keep his cum from dripping down your thighs. “I should - I need to get back to my set.” You choke out. His hand comes to grab yours but you manage to evade his grip, “wait-” He says your name but you’re already slipping out of his office, heading to the bathroom to process the fact that you just had sex with your maniac boss who is now your husband.

Pero frowns as he stares at the door you had left opened, confused by the way you had just run away like he was the devil. You had told him to fuck you, begged him, and now you couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Clenching his jaw, he tucks his cock away and looks down at his hand, the skin bruised on his knuckles from where he punched that asshole. “Hijo de puta.” He hisses, storming out of the office in need of a drink.

You step back on stage after you clean yourself up, another drink in hand, and you are starting your song as Pero stalks through the club to sit in the booth where William is. Your voice seems boxy in your ears as you try to focus on your performance but you’re constantly watching Pero. You shouldn’t have given in to him. Nothing good can come of it. He will be on to the next shiny thing when he’s done with you. When he got what he wanted: his citizenship.

“You made a scene.” Willam comments as Pero downs his first drink and then motions to Rita to quickly bring him another. He cuts his eyes back over at his friend and reaches out to take the Irishman’s drink. “So?” He grunts and William smirks. “Because he touched her?” He asks, making Pero growl, “she’s my wife. You would have killed him if she was Lin Mae.” That comment just makes the other man laugh even more. 

“So why is she watching you now and you are drinking like you are trying to forget?” He asks as the waitress brings another drink over with a sultry smile for the Spaniard that he completely ignores. She pouts as she saunters off and Pero stares down at his drink for a moment before he answers. “Fucked her.” he admits, tossing back the drink in one gulp.

William keeps his expression neutral to not tip you off since you’re watching but his eyes widen slightly, “you fucked her? You know…shit, brother. She’s not the type you fuck and walk away from.” William shakes his head and Pero snorts, slamming the glass on the table. “She walked away from me. Left before I could even tuck my cock away.” 

William sighs, “you better know what you’re doing. She’s not the kind of woman you fuck around. Not like Rita. She’s too good for you.”

His eyes find you up on the stage again, crooning into the microphone and he sighs. “I know it, cabrón.” He admits quietly. “I’ve always known it, that’s why I wanted her.” He pushes his drink away and leans back in his booth, watching you from the shadows as he was meant to do. You had the spotlight on you, he lived in darkness. He had let the darkness touch you because of his own greed and he couldn’t do that again. Not when you wanted to leave just as soon as he got his green card.  

You finish your set and take your place at the bar again, ordering a club soda, no vodka. You need a clear head. Pero doesn’t come over to the bar, and thankfully no one else does. You see Rita rush down the hall to Pero’s office and sigh, knowing that she will always be in his head. She’s a good time and you’re…complicated. When you don’t see Pero, you decide to head home. Grabbing your purse, you figure you’ll use the subway, leave the car for Tovar since he will probably be home late. You have a bath after you arrive back at his penthouse, soaking in the tub with a cigarette to relax and clean yourself after he fucked you. You’re sore, aching, and the hot water does wonders.

“Come on baby- I can suck your cock.” Rita pouts and licks her lips as Pero pushes her away. He had gone to his office after your performance, not interested in watching the band and the clingy bitch had followed him inside. Obviously not getting the hint when he told her to bring him a drink from the bar, she continues to annoy him. Wanting more than he is willing to give. 

“I’m married.” Pero shakes his head, waving her towards the door. “I’m not fucking you again, or letting you suck my cock.” 

“Come on baby. Don’t be like that. She doesn’t have to know. Why the hell did you marry that cold bitch? You could’ve had me. Whenever you wanted. I would’ve given you the world. Kids. Blowjobs.” She smirks, shifting to sit on his desk. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll be yours. You can keep your little wife but I want to be your whore.”

Pero narrows his eyes dangerously, pissed off that she would insult you. “Get the fuck out of my office.” He hisses. “You’re fired.” Her mouth drops open in shock and she gasps. “What? Pero- baby-” Slamming his fist on the desk, he shoots out of his chair. “Get out!” He shouts, making her flinch in fear. “Don’t ever fucking come back!”

She scrambles off of his desk, knowing the look in his eyes is one to not be fucked with. He’d never hurt a woman, his mamá would smack him from her grave, but Rita doesn’t know that as she rushes out of the office, getting her purse and practically sprinting out of the club in tears.

William walks into his office right after Rita runs out, staring at Pero like he’s lost his mind. “Tell me you didn’t-” He starts but the Spaniard cuts him off. “Fire her? Yes, I did.” He grunts, gathering his papers and stuffing them into a rarely used briefcase. “Cut her last check, pay her cash, I don’t fucking care, but she doesn’t set foot back in his club again.” 

William nods, “I’ll get the guys to give her cash. Jesus Christ, my friend. You have got it bad. You need to get this under control before you lose it all. Go talk to her. I’ll make sure everything is closed up here.”

He grunts, sure that his friend is being over dramatic. He’s not going to lose anything. Because of his marriage to you, he will be able to keep what he’s worked hard to build. Still, he nods and strides out of his office, needing to get home and find out why the fuck you ran away from him.

You are in a robe, preparing a cup of tea when Pero arrives home. Much earlier than you thought he would, and he sets his briefcase down on the kitchen counter. “Rita didn’t take long then.” You snort, pouring out the hot water from the kettle as Pero stands there.

He ignores the barb that you throw at him, watching as you make yourself a cup of tea. “You left without letting me know.” He grunts, wondering why you get under his skin as much as you do. Looking softer than you had before, he likes this look on you.

You turn to look at him, “I figured you were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you. I saw Rita heading into your office so I didn’t want to walk in on something I don’t want to see.” You shake your head, turning back to your tea, putting the tea bag in. “Do you need something?” You ask, not looking back over at your new husband.

He frowns at your back, unsure why you keep bringing up Rita like he was still fucking the girl. It was one time. “She’s gone.” He announces, “fired.” Moving over to the cabinet, he gets out another tea cup for himself since you didn’t offer him a cup.

You feel guilty that she’s fired but then you remember how she would brag about sleeping with the boss. “You fired her? She - she used to say that she was sucking your cock every day.” You hand him a tea bag, unable to be too cold to not help him with a cup of tea.

Pero snorts and pours the still hot water from the kettle into his cup and adds the tea bag with two cubes of sugar. “I fucked her one time. In the coat room.” He admits. “She didn’t suck my cock everyday and when she pushed me to fuck her tonight, I fired her.”

You shake your head, knowing you shouldn’t care. Not this much. “Why? She was offering herself to you on a platter. Most men would have taken it.” You stir your tea, looking down at the cup. 

“I’m not most men. I’m married.” 

You frown and look at him, “I never expected you to be faithful.” 

He scoffs, “my mamá would kill me. She taught me that you don’t hit women, you don’t cheat on your wife, and you protect what’s yours.” Your eyebrows raised, shocked at the way he has more morality than most men around. “I- I never would’ve - you seem like the type to love ‘em and leave ‘em.”

“When I was single, I fucked who I wanted.” He shrugged slightly and doesn’t mentioned that he wanted to fuck you and he had to marry you in order to do that. “While you had to marry me and despise me, I will not shame you with affairs.” He promises. “But I expect the same.” That is a warning for you and just a statement of fact. Anyone you slept with, he would kill.

You scoff, “you don’t need to worry about that. I’m not - that isn’t something I do. I was a virgin.” You confess and he frowns, “who did you lose your innocence to?” He asks, wondering why you’re telling him this. “You.” You whisper, staring at your cup of tea.

Pero freezes, dropping his spoon into his cup with a clatter and stares at you in horror. “I- you gave me your innocence on my fucking desk?” He rasps out, feeling horrible that he had not known nor shown you any kind of tenderness when he had touched you. “I- Mierda. I should have treated you better.”

You shake your head, “I didn’t protest and - and I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. I was saving myself for the man I love but with marrying you, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon so I figured I’d get it over with.” You shrug like it doesn’t mean anything.

Your words hit him like a bucket of water being dropped over his head. A stark reminder that you hate him. “Right.” He grunts, picking up his cup. “Now you know what it’s all about.” He spits before he turns and walks out of the kitchen stiffly.

You watch him leave and lean against the counter. You don’t know how you’re going to survive being married to Pero. He’s complicated and you regret your words. You sip your cup of tea and decide to take it back to your room. You’re Mrs. Tovar now and you will need to navigate your complicated faux marriage.

****

“I have to say that I’m surprised to see this.” Mr. Taylor’s lips are pressed thin in displeasure as he inspects the marriage certificate thoroughly, as if expecting to find it to be a forgery. “I was unaware you were engaged.” Pero arches a brow and leans back in his chair, taking this meeting in his office and blows a puff of smoke up into the air. “You did not ask.” He points out, his other arm wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer on the arm of his chair. “But you cannot deny I have taste.”

“You certainly do, Mr. Tovar.” Mr. Taylor says, his eyes trailing along your form and Pero pulls you closer, his possessive nature on display. “He’s too sweet.” You murmur, leaning in to press your lips to Pero’s turning his cheek to ensure you can kiss him properly. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you pull back a second later, pecking his lips. “So…this has become a green card situation. One that I find to be very convenient since this is dated after our meeting.” 

Mr. Taylor tilts his head as he looks at you, “would you say your husband is a communist?” He asks and you scoff, “a communist? Mr. Taylor, my husband escaped Spain to avoid being in Franco’s army. He is a pure patriot to our country. He loves America. He loves freedom. He would never be a commie. He abhors the very ideology.” You explain, shaking your head and Mr. Taylor hums, his eyes darting back to Pero. “Very well. It seems that things are in order but any word of you joining a local sector of the communist party or if I get a whiff of anything amiss, I’ll be back.” He promises, signing a piece of paper and handing it to Pero.

Pero snorts and snatches the paper away from the little prick. “Then it will be a pleasure to never see your face again.” He grunts. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Mr. Taylor stands, packing up his briefcase and you offer him a hand, helping him pack up. “Thank you. My husband is very happy to stay here and I’m happy he is. Especially for our family.” You say, sliding your hand down to your stomach. “Congratulations.” The immigration officer says and makes a quick exit from Pero’s office. 

When he’s certain the man is gone, Pero tuts, “can you stop telling people you’re pregnant?” He huffs, taking another puff of his cigarette. “Why? It sealed the deal. He won’t deport the father of an American born baby.” You raise your eyebrows, “just selling our happy union, baby.” You coo sarcastically. Ever since that night that Pero took your virginity, you’ve barely talked. Just a few words here and there between meals and going to the club.

He snorts and shakes his head. He knows you aren’t pregnant, the box of feminine napkins in your bathroom making it clear you had bled since he had taken your innocence. He had been surprised to be disappointed by that knowledge but he hadn’t said a word. “I should get back to work.” He stubs out the cigarette and looks back down at the paper Mr. Taylor had left. “Are you singing the last set tonight?” He hadn’t taken charge of your times since that first night, giving you control over when you perform.

You nod, “yes. Me and the guys have been working on some new songs. I think the crowd will love them.” You say, grabbing your purse, “so I guess we will be divorced as soon as your green card comes in.” You walk out of his office before he responds, not wanting to hear the answer.

Slumping down into the chair, Pero hisses a curse and reaches for his cigarettes again. The silent stalemate between you two is apparently still ongoing and he doesn’t know what to do. He hates that you can’t wait to be away from him. Hates that you are counting down the days until you are no longer his wife.

You are nearly done with your set when your husband comes out of his office to sit down with William in their normal booth. He gestures for a drink to be brought over and you start the song you’ve been practicing with the guys. “Looking out to the morning rain.” You sing, your eyes sweeping across the crowd as you croon the song, “‘cause you make me feel like a natural woman.” You sing the line and look over at Pero.

His grip of his glass tightens as you seem to sing to him. Leaning forward and watching you with the intensity of a starving man hunting his dinner.  The low whistle beside him turns into an amused chuckle but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. “Still obsessed with your wife, I see.” William teases Pero. “Have you told her you love her?” He asks, making the Spaniard snort. “She wouldn’t believe me.” He murmurs, still watching you as you continue to sing the ballad. “Waiting to divorce me.”

You finish the song to a roar of applause, your eyes still on Pero as he stares at you and your set is over. You take a bow and thank the band before you walk off the stage, making your way over to Frank to get another drink. You feel him before you see him, his body warm behind you as he leans over to snub his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. “Are you ready to go home?” You ask him, turning your head to look at your husband. You’ve been traveling back and forth together since that night you took the subway.

“Yes.” Pero nods and glances at the bartender to make sure he doesn’t need anything. “Are you changing, or wearing your dress home?” Some nights you want to change, some nights you want to get home as quickly as possible.

“I’ll wear it home. I’m ready to get out of here. It’s been a long day.” You tell him and he nods, getting one of the girls to grab your coat and purse while you finish your water. William comes over to bid you goodnight, “have fun, kids.” He winks and heads over to see his beautiful wife who is running security. You snort at the Irishman and Pero holds your coat up for you to slide your arms into it. "Thank you." You murmur and he nods, escorting you outside to his awaiting car. "Did you like the new set?" You ask when he is beside you, the streets passing by.

“It was moving.” He loved it, but he also hated it, knowing it wasn’t for him. You hate him and he’s honestly expecting you to quit the club after you divorce him. “The crowd loved it. You did a great job.”

“Thank you.” You murmur, looking out of the window. You wanted him to say he loved it. It was for him. During your time living with Pero, you’ve come to discover the smallest details about him. He donates money to the families of the neighborhood he lived in when he first came to the States. They are struggling so he helps them out. He has noticed what food and drinks you like, ensuring that the housekeeper has them stocked for you at all times, even your toiletries. He listens to the radio intensely, especially love ballads. Something you never expected. Each day, he chips away at the hatred you had for him and shows you the man he is beneath the harsh exterior, the shell he’s had to build to survive in this city. You could even dare say you’re falling for him. That’s what makes this so sad. He will ask you for a divorce as soon as he’s able and you’ll be back in your tiny apartment in Brooklyn wondering what could’ve been if this was real.

The drive is silent and Pero wishes you would say something. Even if it’s to rage at him. The politely stiff, cold semblance of manners between the two of you irritates him. Making him long for the days that you would rage and spit at him. He drums his fingers on the car door and sighs when it pulls up in front of the apartment building. Neither one of you speaks on the elevator, and when the doors open to the penthouse, you move to step out. “Are you hungry?” Pero asks, breaking the silence and making you turn towards him. “I’m hungry. Thinking about making something to eat.”

You nod, “yes. Starving. I didn’t eat lunch because I was rushing to get my hair done for when Mr. Taylor arrived. I wanted to look my best for him.” You confess, “and for you. As your wife…pretend wife.” You add, making your way through the penthouse to the kitchen after kicking off your heels in the hall.

He hates when you make little comments about being his pretend wife. Rubbing it in his face that you don’t want to be around him but he forced you to. Feeling guilty because you are so obviously unhappy even living in the most luxurious apartment he could give you. He follows you and shakes his head. “You go change.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts to unbutton his sleeves. “I will make us dinner. I know you want to get out of your dress.” You told him once that you enjoy dressing up but you preferred being comfortable and he agrees with you. You look gorgeous in the shorts and little shirts you wear around the apartment. Liking it better when you wear no makeup.

“Thanks.” You make your way to your bedroom, taking off your jewelry and you reach behind you to try and pull down the zipper of your dress. You’d barely managed to get it on earlier in the day. “Pero, can you help me?” You call out, grunting as you try again to pull the zipper down but failing.

Pero had been heating up the pan, the chopped vegetables and chicken the housekeeper had prepared labeled in the Tupperware. He sets everything down and walks towards your bedroom. He has stayed away from your bedroom and it’s the first time he’s been inside since you’ve moved in. Your back is to him and you look over your shoulder, almost giving him a come hither look that makes his cock twitch. “Your dress, hermosa?”

“Yeah. I zipped myself into it. Can’t get myself out of it.” You chuckle softly and turn your head so he can see the zip at the nape of your neck. His fingers grip the zipper and slowly he pulls it down. You can feel his warm breath on your back as your skin is exposed, his knuckles dragging along your spine as he pulls the zip down. “Thank you.” You whisper, closing your eyes at how close he is to you, you can feel the warmth from his body.

“You’re welcome.” He murmurs softly, resisting the urge to caress your waist. He is already half hard and steps back. “Chicken and vegetables good?” He asks, wanting to make sure you just don’t want some eggs or something.

You nod, "that's good. I'm starving." You say and let the dress drop. He is your husband so you don't care if he sees your bare back and underwear. You walk over to the dresser to grab some shorts and a t-shirt, feeling his eyes on you. "Are you going to make dinner?" You ask, turning to look at him after you pull the t-shirt over your head.

“Yes.” Pero spins on his heel and rushes out of your bedroom, cock pressing against the zipper of his trousers and he reminds himself that you haven’t wanted him to touch you since that one night he took your virginity. He goes back to the kitchen and moves the pan back to the flame.

You sigh when he leaves your bedroom and you head into the ensuite to wash off your makeup. By the time you arrive back in the kitchen, dinner is cooked and waiting on a plate for you. "Thank you." You smile at Pero, "this looks great." You take a bite and groan, starving after a long day at work and you practically devour the meal. Pero remains silent, watching you while he eats his food. "That was great. Thanks baby." You say without even thinking about it.

Pero nearly chokes on the bite of chicken, coughing slightly and he wonders if you are trying to torment him tonight. “You are welcomed.” He grunts and tries to not look at you, knowing he will stare at your pretty, bare face and want to touch you. He's thought about nothing else but showing you how he should have made your first time, but you’ve not wanted anything to do with him. Not that he blames you.

You stare at him, watching him eat, and it hits you. You love him. You don't know when that happened when you used to think the man was a monster, beating men up without a thought, and the womanizing. He hasn't been with another woman since you've been married, as per his word, and you believe him. Your eyes widen at the revelation and Pero is none the wiser. "When do you think your paperwork will come through for the green card?" You ask, leaning back against your chair.

Pero has a secret and it’s one that will piss you off. He’s had the paperwork for a week. He’s sat on it because he doesn’t want to divorce you yet. Hoping that some kind of miracle will happen to make you realize he would be a good man to you, you will never believe that. He huffs slightly and shrugs. “Hopefully this week. You will be happy, eh?” He smirks slightly, hiding the way it makes his heart hurt. “Have your freedom back and now that you are no longer pure, you can fuck who you want.”

Your heart shatters at his words, knowing he has used you completely. Your body, your heart, your nationality. “Yeah. I can fuck Johnny the new bassist. He keeps asking me to come over to his place.” You say, venom in your voice as you jab back at your husband.

Pero’s fork clatters to the plate and he pushes back from the counter so hard the barstool scrapes on the floor. Not caring, he dumps the dish into the sink, ignoring the way the plate breaks and he whirls around. “I’m going back to the club.” He growls.

“Why? So you can find someone to fuck? The virgin wasn’t enough for you? I gave you my virginity because I - because I wanted you and you’ve never looked at me since. Haven’t touched me even though I just practically stripped off in front of you. I know English isn’t your first language but fuck, do I need to spell it out for you? I wanted you to touch me. I have - I have been hot and cold but that’s only because I didn’t think you wanted me again and now you have the audacity to be mad because I want someone to want me.” You finish your rant, chest heaving as you stare at him.

Pero clenches his jaw, breathing heavily and he growls when he rushes forward and grabs you. “You think I don’t want you?” He hisses, shaking you slightly. “You hate me. You tell me every chance you get that you cannot wait to be rid of me and I hate that I was not gentle with you.” He confesses. “That I didn’t treat you like the fucking exquisite creature you are.”

Your eyes widen at his confession and you shake your head, “I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I hated how you behaved. The skirt chasing, the way you would speak to me. I never hated you. I - shit - you know what I hate now? The fact that I love you.” You choke, “and I thought you were the one who wanted the divorce. That you wanted to be rid of me so you could go back to your ways.”

“I chased skirts because I couldn’t have you.” He tells you. “I’m not a good man. I’m a killer, a thief, a liar, but you are the only woman I wanted so badly I would lie to her to have.” Your brow furrows in confusion and Pero shrugs. “Would have never laid a hand on you if you had refused to marry me.” He confesses.

You stare at him, absorbing his words, and you can’t help it. “You are an idiot.” You surge forward to press your lips to his, your hands cupping his cheeks and you press your body against his, wanting him to know how you feel.

Pero grunts in surprise, expecting you to hit him, not kiss him. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly tight against his body and kissing you back with a hunger that shows you every time he’s ever thought about you.

You moan into his mouth, your hands sliding up to mess up his slicked back hair, your tongue sliding against his. You’ve thought of him every night since the night he took you on his desk. “Pero.” You whimper when his lips slide along your jaw, “I don’t care about - about - you being a good man. I just want you. The good and the bad. You’re a good man. You don’t let people see it but I do. I want you.”

Pero pulls back and he stares into your eyes. “Let me take you to bed, hermosa.” He begs softly. “Show you how I can touch you. How you deserve to be loved.”

​​You nod, “take me to bed, esposo.” You order, sliding your hands down to start unbuttoning his shirt, you want to see all of him. You want to strip him down and have him on a bed instead of his desk.

He bites his lips and watches you so he doesn’t grab you up and carry you into the bedroom to immediately undress you. “I love you.” He murmurs quietly, his eyes dark.

Your breath catches at his confession. Something you never thought you’d hear him say. “I love you.” You murmur back, caressing his chest once his shirt is unbuttoned. “I want you to make love to me, like a husband does.”

Nodding, he reaches for your hand and leads you towards the master bedroom. His bedroom. He wants you there. “I have never had sex in this apartment.” He tells you softly, hoping you understand the meaning behind it. “You are the only woman to be in this bed.”

Your heart thumps at the news and you smile, leaning in to kiss his clavicle once you’re in his bedroom. “I love you, baby. I need you.” You whimper, sliding your hand lower from his chest so you can squeeze his cock through his pants.

Pero groans and grabs your hand. “No, hermosa.” He growls softly. “You are my precious little virgin.” He tells you with a smirk. “You are going to strip off your clothes and spread your thighs so I can eat your pretty cunt.”

His words make you shudder with lust and you nod, letting go of him and stepping back to reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head to expose your tits to his gaze for the first time.

“Fuck those are pretty tits.” Pero groans, reaching down and palming his cock. “My wife is gorgeous and I am a lucky bastard.” He will try to give you sweet words, knowing you need them.

You love his compliment so you push your shorts down your legs along with your panties, stepping out of them to stand naked in front of him for the first time. “You are.” You smirk, “and so am I.” You walk backwards to his bed, crooking your finger at him before you lay down on his sheets. “Come on, show me what you got.”

Shrugging off his shirt, Pero drops it onto the floor and unbuckles his belt. Sliding it out of the loops and smirking as he watches you as he bunches the belt in his hand. “I should beat you.” He growls playfully. “For teasing me. Taunting me everyday.”

You scoff, “teasing you? I haven’t done anything. I’ve been a good girl.” You shift to sit up on your elbows. “You wouldn’t dare beat me. I’d get William to kick your ass.” You tease, spreading your legs to show him your pussy.

“Your perfume.” Pero groans, flicking open his pants to relieve the pressure. “It fills my apartment, driving me crazy. Your face, clean and make-up free is beautiful.” He reaches out and grabs your ankle, kneeling on the bed.

“Pero.” You look up at him as he hovers over you, his dark eyes burning into yours as his hand trails along your calf. “I want you. I need you.” You murmur, wanting him to know exactly how you feel.

He smirks as he nods. “You have me, hermosa.” He coos, fingers sliding over your knees and up your thighs. Humming as he combs through the neat patch of hair covering your cunt. “Now let me show you what I’m going to do with you.”

You moan when his fingers slide through your folds and your head tilts back, your eyes closing at how he’s making you feel already. “Baby.” You whimper when his fingers rub your clit. You’re already wet for him, you need more from him.

“I’ll take care of you.” Pero promises, flattening himself onto the bed and pushing your thighs farther apart. “I promise.” Winking at you, he lowers his mouth to your cunt and slides his tongue through your folds.

“Oh my - shit.” You hiss when his hot tongue flicks over your clit. “That - that feels amazing.” You confess, sliding back on your elbows to lay flat and you look up at the ceiling as his tongue laps at your cunt. You’ve never experienced this before and it feels better than any book has described it to be.

He hums, curling his tongue around your clit and flicks it sharply. Watching your tits heave and your hips rock down. You are exquisite and he’s eager to taste more. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he holds you open and licks deeper into your cunt.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, a moan escaping your lips as his tongue pushes into your cunt, curling while his nose presses against your clit. “Shit. You - it feels so good. Keep - keep going.” You order, feeling powerful that this powerful man is between your thighs, worshiping you.

He’s not stopping. Nothing in the world would have pulled him away from your cunt right now. He growls into your folds before he pushes his tongue deep into your cunt and presses his nose to your clit.

You cry out, thighs trying to press against his head but he keeps your legs open for him so he can tongue fuck you. His nose presses against your clit and he moves his head from side to side.

He wants to devour you, to completely overwhelm you and make you cry out. He groans and doubles down on how vigorously he licks into you.

“Shit. Pe-Pero. Oh God. I’m - it’s good. So good. Oh baby, I’m gonna - fuck!” You cry out, thighs shaking as you cum, soaking his chin as you fall apart under his tongue.

Pero groans, lapping up every drop of your orgasm with the slow flicks of his tongue. Working you through the release until your moans turn breathless and you are squirming under his tongue.

Your fingers pull on his hair, “come here.” You order and he reluctantly pulls back from your pussy and he shifts up your body. His lips pressing kisses along your stomach until he’s taking your nipple into his mouth. You reach down to squeeze his cock through his pants, wanting to see all of him. “I want to see all of you, baby.”

It makes his smirk turn even more wicked and he pulls up to his knees to open up his pants the rest of the way. Standing on the bed and pushing down his trousers and briefs together to kick off.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his impressive length, uncut, and throbbing. You shift onto your knees, your eyes on him as you grip his cock, pushing the foreskin down so you can flick your tongue over the leaking slit. His groan emboldens you and you wrap your lips around the head, taking him deeper into your mouth:

Pero groans your name, pulling his hips back and making you whine softly. "You should not." He pants quietly. "I won't last."

You pout after you let his cock drop from your mouth. He shifts to kneel, grabbing your waist to lift you up onto his pillows and your hands caress his back, feeling his muscles move as he kneels between your hips. “I love you.” You murmur, “my husband.”

He hums, caressing your waist and he gazes down at you softly. "I love you too, esposa." He leans down and presses his lips to yours. "Now, I will make love to you." He whispers against your lips as he rolls the foreskin back and lines up to slowly sink inside you. Taking his time and pushing in a fraction of an inch at a time.

You moan as he pushes into you. You’re wet enough to take him but there’s still a slight pinch from the girth of his cock. “Oh.” You exhale, eyes closing as he pushes deep, rocking into you inch by inch until his hips are pressing against your thighs, your legs wrapped around him.

"You are so tight." He groans, softly, pushing his arms around your body and pulling you close. "I should have known you were pure."

You caress his shoulders up to his hair, tangling your fingers in to drag his face to yours, pressing your lips to his. His cock twitches inside of you and you whimper into his mouth when he pushes your leg higher up his hip so he can sink deeper inside of you.

Pero groans and kisses along your jaw. Slowly rocking into you and setting a sedate pace. Making love to you rather than fucking you. Kissing every inch of your skin that he can reach while he fills you.

He's taking over your senses, consuming your body with his and you moan when he picks up the pace a little. "Yes. Oh shit. You feel so good, my love. Can't believe - can't believe we wasted so much time. Could've been fucking each other."

He chuckles quietly and nuzzles into your neck gently. “I love you, mi amor.” He murmurs, loving how soft you are for him right now, how you are moaning his name.

He's so different from the man who roughly took you on his desk after destroying another man's hand. This Pero is gentle and loving, a man you're proud to call yours, and you rock your hips up to meet his, finding the rhythm he has set.

The violence is still there, simmering under the surface but he would never hurt you. He would kill for you, hurt on your behalf, but he would never put you through any kind of pain.

His jaw clenches when you start to flutter around his cock. His pelvis drops so he is grinding against your clit, and you grab his hand bringing it to your neck. You want him to squeeze, to show you that he'd never hurt you but he's capable of killing others who would do you harm.

His eyes widen and he nearly drags his hand away but you make a sound of protest. Making him keep his hand there and he starts to squeeze ever so lightly.

You moan when he starts to squeeze, giving you what you want. To know that he'd never hurt you, never do anything to harm you, has you clenching around his cock. You're so close.

You are like a vice around his cock and Pero groans your name, enjoying how dirty you are. How filthy his innocent little wife is. “I could snap your neck right now.” He growls, squeezing a little harder.

His words send you over the edge. The knowledge that he could kill you but wouldn't, has you soaking his cock and you moan his name, shaking beneath him as you cum.

It’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen. Watching you fall apart under him while he slowly rocks in and out of you. Sliding his hand from your neck to your cheek, cupping it gently. “That’s it, hermosa. Cum for me.”

You shudder under him, closing your eyes when the pleasure overtakes your body, and you whimper his name as he works you through it. He slows down, in no rush for this to be over, and you catch your breath. "I want to ride you." You murmur, pushing on his chest slightly.

“Really?” He groans at the idea and slowly pulls out of you. Turning onto his back and reaching for you again. Eager to touch you as much as he can now that things are different between you.

You shift, straddling his thighs and you reach between you, gripping his cock. You lift up to position him at your entrance and you slowly sink down onto him. He feels so much bigger in this position and you gasp, "goddamn." You murmur, "you gotta- show me what to do." You request, not wanting to disappoint him.

You could just sit on his cock and he would be happy, but he slowly starts to grind you down into him. Holding your hips and rocking you onto his cock and twitching inside you. “Fuck, amor.” He grits out. “So tight like this. My wife, riding my cock like a whore.”

You playfully slap his cheek, "only yours. Your whore." You smirk and lean down to kiss him, changing the angle inside of you, and you moan against his lips. You rock back onto him, picking up the movement from his guidance, and you gasp when he smacks your ass cheek.

He chuckles quietly and slaps your ass again. “Ride me then.” He grunts. “Make yourself cum on my cock.” He smirks. “Tomorrow you can ride me at the club. Sit on my cock while I do paperwork.”

"Yesss. Want everyone to know you're mine." You confess, shifting to sit up straight. Your hands on his chest as you rock your hips. "Fuck, Pero. This - it's so good." You confess, throwing your head back. Pero surges up, his hands on your back as his lips wrap around your nipple. He bites and soothes with his tongue, making you cry out. "Fuck baby. I - shit." You choke, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides between you to rub your clit and you're gone. Shaking above him, you clamp down on his cock while he rubs your clit to work you through it.

Pero groans against your breast and takes over. The way you cum for him has him chasing his own end. Bracing his feet, he thrusts up into you harshly. “Te amo, esposa. I love you.” Pero starts to babble, losing control of his mouth. “You’re mine. Always mine. Never letting you go. Didn’t- didn’t want to tell you I have my paperwork. Didn’t want you to leave me.” He presses his face to your chest and moans your name, pushing deep and filling you with his seed in hot, pulsing waves of pleasure.

You collapse against him, panting to try and catch your breath as he fills you up and he kisses along your neck, relaxing beneath you. You take a few moments to recover until you are pulling back to look at him, “wait…you’ve had the paperwork?” You ask, a frown on your face.

Pero’s eyes slide away from you guiltily and he huffs slightly. “My paperwork came in last week.” He confesses, knowing you will be upset at him. “My green card is in the safe here in the apartment.”

You push back from him, sitting up, and you shake your head. "Why didn't you tell me?" You ask, pissed at him for lying to you. "I - I thought you'd leave me. I thought you'd want to divorce and I wanted to delay the inevitable." He confesses, "I didn't want to endure the heartbreak." You stare at his remorseful expression, those dark eyes soft with emotion and you forgive him. His actions were bad, but his intentions were good. "You stupid bastard." You murmur, cupping his cheeks as you lean down to kiss his lips. "No more lies. No more secrets. Otherwise, we are over. I can't handle your lies. I can handle everything else."

“Honesty.” Pero promises, holding the back of your neck to drag your lips back to his once more. He has lied to get you to marry him, hidden his true intentions from you, nearly killed a man for touching you - but the best thing of all is that he has managed to steal your heart. Pero Tovar is a dangerous man, but you are the songbird that has tamed him. He is yours.

[avastrasposts]

Memories made, memories lost

Plot: Before Pero Tovar and his friend William Garin set out in search of black powder, he found himself doing something he never thought he would - falling in love. But what waits for him as he returns from his adventure after all this time?

Mercenary!Pero x female reader

Warnings: Angst and grief, loss of virginity (it's all consensual and it's not the main trope of the fic), explicit smut. No use of y/n, the reader is pretty much a blank slate.

Word count: 7.9k

This is written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Wiriting Challenge where I requested a trope for Pero Tovar and got Amnesia A big thank you to @i-own-loki for the lovely banner! What would I do without my Canva Pro friends!?

Marriage was not something that was ever on the cards for Pero Tovar. 

He left his hometown while he was still a young boy, and after that he never stayed long enough in one place to put down roots. Let alone find a woman who would want to throw her lot in with a mostly penniless mercenary soldier who relied on powerful lords always finding a new enemy to fight. Who would want a scarred battle dog with a permanent scowl and dangerous look to his appearance? And even if someone did, how could he care for a wife? A family? He moved from town to town, from country to country, seldom returning to the same place twice unless the pay was very good. 

But then, one autumn in southern England, when the fighting season was over and the mud was too thick for both men and horses to march in, something changed. He was no longer young but in his fighting prime, hardened, and hard, by years of fighting other men’s wars. He had no other plans than to spend the winter in this small English town with his friend William Garin, wait for spring and the call to arms for another war or rebellion or crusade. He was going to fill his belly, hone his weapons, train the younger men and spend his evenings with a whore or two, and that was it. 

Marriage was not on the cards. 

But fate wanted a different path for him. And you quite literally fell into his arms as you tumbled from your horse on the outskirts of the small town. 

“Curse that nag!” you yelled crossly, struggling to free yourself from his strong grip, “let go, I can stand on my own legs!” You pushed at his chest as the dark haired man let go of your waist, stepping back with a chuckle. 

“And what fine legs they are,” he said, his grin wide.  

You sneered at his comment, “Too fine for you either way.” 

You glared at him as you brushed your dress, “I should thank you, I guess. You saved me from a much greater fall, that stupid mare is spooked by the smallest twig and throws me twice a week at least.” 

With a sigh you looked at your horse who’d decided that the twig wasn’t an immediate threat and had begun to graze the last of the summer grass just a little while down the country lane. 

“If that’s the case, you best go and claim your horse before she decides one of farmer Ned’s cows has fangs and means to eat her,” Pero chuckled. He liked your spirit, and the way your eyes blazed as you glanced at him. 

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” you said with a shake of your head, “I best be off, thank you again, sir.”

Tovar gave a small nod and crooked smile at your retreating back. 

Later that evening, as he’d eaten and gone back to the room he shared with William, he wondered why the chance meeting on the country lane wouldn’t leave his head. He felt as if he might’ve been bewitched, one moment walking down the country lane on his way out to the smithy for a repair of his armour, the next he had a woman in his arms as her bay horse bolted down the road. You’d smelled of apples, a rich, sweet scent clinging to your hair as it brushed over his face when you both landed in the dust. The soft yield of your flesh under the rough linen dress, it was as if he’d put his hands on the softest down pillow, he’d wanted to grab hold of it and not let go. 

As you rushed away from him, scolding your skittish horse, he’d watched the way your hips swayed with each step, bright hair bouncing with frustration. You gripped the horse’s bridle and pulled it around, even at a distance he could see the way your nose crinkled in annoyance as you berated the poor animal. When your anger trickled out as quickly as it flared up, your face softened and you gently stroked the animal’s nose, giving its neck a pat before swinging yourself up into the saddle again. You caught him staring and gave him a quick smile, before turning again and nudging the horse into a slow trot. 

He’d made his way to the smithy and then back to the rooms he and William had rented for the winter. And when he laid down on his bed, the vision of you filled his head, soft curves, sweet smile, quick temper and a sharp tongue. He would very much like to see you again, be that close to you again.   

The next day was a Sunday and he joined William at the church for mass with the rest of the village. He let the familiar Latin incantations wash over him, the rituals the same here as in his hometown as it was in every other town he’d ever visited, irrespective of the country or the ruler. The power radiated from Rome and although the churches looked different, the rituals were the same and it brought a strange, albeit dull, comfort to him. 

When mass was over the congregation filtered out of the church, slow in leaving, catching up with neighbours and sharing gossip. Pero tried to scan the crowd surreptitiously but William caught his wandering eye. 

“Who are you looking for? The mysterious horse woman?” he asked, looking around at the villagers and the mercenaries who were wintering here just as they were. Pero had told him of the encounter, not being able to hide how you’d remained on his mind as he returned to the rooms. 

“I don’t remember seeing her here before,” Pero replied, trying to appear unphased, uncaring, as he continued to scan the open space in front of the church, but without success. When he couldn’t see her, he followed William back to their lodgings. The Lord’s day should be spent in rest and was not wise to anger the local priest. 

But Pero found himself too restless to sit still, fiddling with a troublesome chainmail. He left William to it and ventured outside instead, vying to find a secluded spot in the woods to get some practice in without being scolded by someone spotting him working on a Sunday. 

The autumn forest was golden, the air crisp and clear as the sky stretched endlessly blue above the trees as Pero wandered further in than he meant to. It felt good to be away from people, from the crowded town and the small rooms he shares with William. 

The clank of metal on wood reached his ears and he furrowed his brows, no one would be out here felling trees on a Sunday unless there was some strange business. He moved silently through the underbrush towards the sound, and came upon a clearing, drawing breath at the sight in front of him. You had stripped down to just your slip and a pair of men’s breeches, your arms bare and glistening with sweat as you raised the heavy sword and parried an imagined attack, and hit the thick beech trunk. The sword lodged in the wood and with a grunt you pulled it free, backing up a few steps and repeating the exercise. 

Pero watched you for a few minutes, your technique was good, someone has clearly taught you the basics, but the sword was too heavy for you. 

“You have some skills with that sword, señorita,” he called, just as you dropped your arm, letting the sword hang by your side as you took a deep breath. 

His voice made you jump and swing around, the sword quickly raised. 

“Do not worry, I mean you no harm,” he said, walking towards you with both his arms raised, “We’ve met before, with your troublesome mare.” 

“I remember,” you answered, the tone of your voice betraying your wariness as his sudden appearance, “What are you doing here?” 

“The same as you, señorita, I think,” he replied, “seeking a place away from unwelcome eyes to hone my skill on a Sunday.” 

Unclipping his cloak and satchel and placing them on a log near the edge of the clearing, he then turned and nodded at the sword in your hand. 

“You have some skill, but the sword is too heavy for you.” 

“What do you care?” you snapped at him, the sword still lifted as he approached. 

“I train the younger soldiers, when a sword is too heavy for the user, the technique suffers. And I hate to see a bad swordsman. Or woman.” 

With a fluid movement he pulled both of his swords from his back, the left one spinning in his hand, the handle held out towards you. 

“Let me show you, borrow my sword, it’s more lightweight.”

You regarded him with suspicion, not lowering your own sword. 

“Why do you want to help me?” 

“Why do I want to help a woman become a better fighter?” he countered, still holding out the sword to you, “Because those without swords can still die upon them. I learned that a long time ago. So better the women know how to fight too.” 

You regarded him with caution, the dark haired, dark eyed man with a strange accent and a menacing scar across his eye. But something in his face, the way he looked at you with a cocked eyebrow, encouraging you to take the sword he was still holding out to you, made your trepidation waver. Slowly you sheathed your own sword, and grabbed the handle of his. He gave you a crooked smile and a quick nod. 

“Good. Now show me what you can do.” 

With a quick movement he brought up his own sword and attacked, and you just about parried in time, the two swords ringing out through the empty forest as they met. 

Marriage was not something that was ever on the cards for him. But sometimes fate wills it differently. 

And before that Sunday afternoon in the forest, you’d never considered marrying someone either. At least not for any other reason than your father telling you that a man was needed to run the farm when he was gone. But the dark haired Spaniard with the scowling face, menacing and imposing, he was the one who made you see that marrying didn’t mean settling for one of the local boys. 

His dark eyes glittered with mischief as he taunted your sword skills, easily smacking your arm with the flat side of his blade as you failed to anticipate his next move in the early days of your training. But it was the way he smiled with pride when you managed to disarm him and put your blade to his neck, that smile made your heart melt. He was proud of you for a skill any other man you knew would shame you for, even attempt to lock you up for. It was like taking a deep breath of air for the first time, the way he treated you like an equal in a way no ever had before. 

It was mesmerising how a hardened soldier with such a menacing scowl could transform into the most handsome man you’d ever seen. It stunned you, and locked you in place, the first time you stood toe to toe with him, his back against a thick oak, your sword resting against his neck. Surprise flashed across his face first, then he smiled, his eyes shifting from the hard concentration of battle to soft warmth as his lips pulled up in a proud grin. 

“I knew there was a warrior in you,” he said, holding his sword arm up in defeat as you pulled the blade away from his neck, “with my training, you’ll beat almost any man.” 

“Almost any man?” you replied, your eyebrows lifting as you moved your hand and rested the blade against his neck again. 

Pero chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down on you, glancing down his sharp nose as you made him tilt his head back again. 

“Any man, guerrera,” he smiled and again the pride in his voice made warmth and elation shoot through your body. 

Sweat was dripping from his forehead, you could feel the heat of him against you, the rise and fall of his chest, your own short breaths against him as an errant drop slipped over his lips and his tongue came out to catch it. Your eyes drifted to the pink tip as he licked his bottom lip, watching it disappear into his mouth again. When you looked up, his smile was gone, replaced by something more hungry, his eyes darker as they seemed to study your face. There was no need for you to be so close to him still, the fight over. But as he brought his hand up and carefully pushed your sword away from his neck, you only let your hand drop, not stepping back. You felt rooted to the spot with his eyes on you, the warmth of his body like a magnet to your own. 

“Señorita…” he almost growled, a half whisper from the back of his throat, as he slowly leaned closer, his eyes moving to your lips before his gaze fell on you again. Dark and warm, it was like being pulled in by the last of the dying embers of a fire. Pero glowed and burned hot under your palm as you put your hands on his neck and pulled him to you, your sword falling to the floor of the forest with a soft clatter. 

He wouldn’t let you go, and you clung to him just as eagerly, the dry leaves rustling as you pulled him down, he rolled you over, caging you in under his strong arms.

“Señorita…” he growled again, it was all he could press out before your lips found his, soft, pliant and sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted, addictive in the way they felt against his mouth, his jaw, his cheeks as you found new places to kiss him, your fingers winding through his hair, keeping him locked in place against your lips, taking as much as you wanted from him and he never once stopped you. 

He was lost. So utterly lost. And he’d never felt more at home. 

You plucked last year’s leaves from your hair and cloak all the way home that day. Pero followed you to the edge of the forest as always. But this time you pulled him behind a tree and made him press his hard body against you, pinning you against the trunk. The way he groaned into your kisses made your body heat up, your need for him growing with every slow roll of his hips, hands roaming to feel as much of him as you could, his hands kneading your hips and caressing your curves.

If your lips were swollen and your hair dishevelled, your father said nothing of it when you came home. When Pero came by one Sunday after church and asked permission to marry his daughter, he wasn’t surprised. 

There had been no war or rebellion to pull Pero away from you that year. William left, serviced under a local lord, but Pero stayed and put what little money he had left into buying the small farm next to your father’s. When the time came, the two could be merged and provide a good life for the two of you and any children that followed. When the small cottage was his by law, only then did he go to your father, who said yes without hesitation to the large Spaniard. 

“As if I could deny you the man you’ve clearly set your eyes on, even if he wasn’t a great, big hulking warrior,” your father had said later that same night after Pero had left, “With him in your house, I know you’ll be safer than with me. And if you truly love him too, well then I have no objections.” 

“I really do love him, with all his scowls and menacing looks, he is a very good man underneath it all, father.” 

There had been strange looks from the villagers, but that had hardly mattered. You’d always gone your own way, and marrying a dark haired outsider with a thick accent seemed to be something that the gossiping wives had expected of you. Either way, when you exchanged your vows outside the church on the intended day, you were surrounded by smiling faces, the old priest beaming down at you as you entered the church with Pero by your side to be blessed by by God.  

The feast lasted most of the day but by the late afternoon, you both left your father’s farm and was escorted by the priest, William and a few other villagers, to your new home, the cottage that Pero had worked so hard to turn into a home for you both. His first home since he left the place he was born, and now the place where he intended to live out the rest of his life as a happy man. When the marital bed had been blessed too, Pero closed the door to the cottage and you were alone as husband and wife for the first time. 

“Come here, husband,” you smiled at him as he turned back from the door. You didn’t need to beckon him, nothing would keep him away from you tonight, but you liked the sound of his new title - husband.

“Mi esposa,” he grinned as he crowded you against the sturdy oak bed he’d built with the aid of the local carpenter, “my wife, finally.” 

His eyes went soft, his mischievous grin replaced by a tender look as he cupped your face with his warm palms, “Never in my life did I think I’d call someone ‘my wife’, I never thought this was the way my life would be, and then I found you,” he ran his thumbs over your cheeks, leaning his forehead against yours as your breaths mingled, ”Te amo, mi amor,” he whispered. 

“I love you too, Pero,” you whispered back, your fingers finding his soft curls as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Gently he pushed you backwards, making you lay down on the bed, your bed, as he moved to cage you in under his arms and wide shoulders. Many training sessions in the forest had ended this way, time slipping away as you kissed each other breathless, but it had never gone further. You’d feel the thick weight of him pressed against your thighs, felt how he sometimes rolled his hips to seek a brief relief, but he'd always pull back.

“Amor, I won’t take you on the forest floor,” he’d muttered when you asked him to stop caring so much about your virtue, “I want you in a bed, our bed, when I’m your husband and you’re my wife.”

Now here you were, in your bed, and you called him husband as he slowly removed all your layers, caressing every sliver of skin that was revealed to him. He pressed kisses to your soft breasts, moaning as he felt them pebble under his touch, his strong nose trailed across the downy hairs of your belly, and when you giggled at the way his beard tickled, he nipped at the warm skin of your thighs. The thick slide of his tongue through your heated centre made you arch your back and gasp, your fingers scrambling for purchase in his hair. You could hear him chuckle against you, the tip of his nose circling the epicentre of your pleasure, he seemed to know this part of your body better than yourself and he soon had you moaning his name as you fought to catch your breath. 

When he had you drenched and dripping, he rested his head on your soft thigh and tapped your leg. 

“Amor, look at me,” he invited. Through half closed lids, clouded with pleasure, you watched him slide a finger through your liquid, coating it before he slowly pushed in. It slipped in easily, and when he curled it, caressing your insides, your eyes fell closed of their own volition. Suddenly you wanted more, more of his fingers, more of him and you whined, your hips rolling over his finger. 

“Please, Pero…” you whimpered, your voice hoarse and pleading. 

“What do you want, esposa,” he asked as he moved his finger gently back and forth, making you gasp again. 

“More…I think…more…” you mumbled and Pero smiled. Seeing you fall apart for him, slowly showing you how good he could make you feel, how he intended to spend every long winter evening, it filled him with a happiness he’d never felt before. It was like a hot burning fire inside his chest and it would keep him warm when he had to leave, he knew these memories would be the ones he returned to on long cold nights alone. 

“More?” he asked, “I can give you more, amor.” 

The smile in his voice made you look up at him as he moved to lie at your side, putting his arm under your shoulders and finding your lips with his own. As his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he gently pushed a second finger into your heat. He felt you arch up against him, whimpering into his mouth, your fingers digging into his arms as he slid his own in and out, setting your body on fire with every slow drag. 

He moved so slowly, it was like your body was turning into molten metal, heat flowed through you, all coming from where Pero’s fingers sunk into you. Your hips rolled of their own accord, your core clenching hard around him and a tension was building up inside you. But just as you felt as if you were about to snap, like a thread pulled too tight, Pero slipped his fingers from you and caressed your side, his hand leaving a sticky trail on your skin.

“Amor,” he mumbled, moving over your body so that he once again was caging you in, his warm, dark eyes glowing as he looked down at you, “Amor, I’m going to enter you now, tell me to stop if it hurts, you are so tight.”

You nodded and made room for him between your legs, you knew this might hurt, you’d heard the wives talk and the gossip. But no one had ever mentioned it feeling this good to be with a man, this aching need to be filled up by him. It had you panting with impatience, your core clenching around the emptiness left behind by his fingers. 

Pero kept his eyes locked on you as he coated himself with your silky liquid and lined himself up. Your brows furrowed as he pushed the thick head inside, and he dropped his forehead to yours, taking a deep breath. 

“Does it hurt?” he whispered, slowly rocking himself back and forth, just the tip moving inside you, and you shook your head. 

“No, it was just a little tight, I want more,” you replied, spreading your legs wider for him. He reached down and hooked your leg over his hip. 

“Squeeze me, pull me in if you want more,” he said, gritting his teeth as he felt your contract around him, fighting the urge to push in harder, “you feel so good, amor, so good to me.” 

Your legs wrapped around his waist and Pero rocked slowly, pushing in deeper with each short thrust. His face was pinched with concentration, his mouth half open as he licked his lips. With your arms wrapped around his neck, his forehead against yours, each breath you took was his and your world shrunk down to only Pero. Only his warm body above yours, his hips heavy between your legs, driving himself into you and creating ripples of pleasure through every fibre of your being with each thrust deep inside. Your eyes wanted to close but you forced them to stay open, to see your husband as he looked at you, his eyes hazy with lust, dark and burning, every movement making him groan as your body pulled him in. The tight string started to pull taught inside you again, your body moving against Pero’s, making him pick up his pace. 

“Amor, can you feel that?” he mumbled, his forehead still resting against yours, “can you feel your body getting ready to fall?” 

You nodded, it felt like a lightning storm ready to break, just over the horizon. Tightening your grip around his waist, you pulled him in and he understood, driving himself deeper, a little bit harder into your tight core. 

“Pero…” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he grunted in response, his hand grabbing your leg and finding a new angle. 

“Amor, let me feel you come around me, give me this…” he panted, “the first time…I want it-”

Before he’d even finished you cried out under him, gripping him tight, your body trembling as the string snapped and lighting coursed through you, Pero’s thick cock driving hard into you, pushing your pleasure higher as he gasped and grunted. With a cry he broke, a loud groan, and he spilled himself inside, your legs like a vice around his waist as he rocked himself deeper. 

He was heavy on top of you, the warm sweat of his torso gliding against your own chest as you buried your face against his neck and took long, deep breaths. 

“Pero…my love…” you whispered softly into his ear, his wet kiss against your own neck was his exhausted response as he slowly came down from his high. Your arms were still wrapped tight around him, as were your legs, locking him in place. Not that he wanted to leave, he would stay here, in this bed, between your legs, until moss grew on him like an old boulder that no farmer could move. 

He was home. 

Endless miles stretched out behind them, thousands if they cared to count them. Pero did not. All he could see was the white cliffs in front of the ship, like a beacon, a sign that their long journey was finally coming to an end. 

They returned, not as poor as they’d set out, but not as rich as they thought they’d be, but the only thing that mattered to Pero was that he was returning. He’d fought with his friend, felt betrayed by him, even abandoned him in the end, so strong was his need to return home. It had almost cost him his life, caught by the very army he was trying to escape as he left William behind, brought back and then thrown in chains. He thought he’d die there, locked up in a dungeon, never seeing you again. 

It burned in his chest as the chains gnawed at his wrists, to never see you again, to leave you behind in this world without a word. He could see your face as he closed his eyes, conjured it up in his mind and remembered the tears clinging to your lashes as he pulled back one final time and turned for his horse. Riches or not, he was a damn fool for leaving you, he should’ve been content with what he had. 

In the end it was only by the grace of God, or maybe by William’s good heart, that he’d been freed by the very friend he’d betrayed and allowed to leave and make the long journey home. 

Now he stood on solid ground again, readying his horse for the final stretch home. 

Home. 

A word he’d never thought he’d be able to say and for it to mean something worth fighting for. A woman he loved. A house where he could keep her warm and protected. A place to raise a family. 

Home. He was going home. He knew he never should’ve left. 

The last ride was easy and he drove his horse fast, the afternoon barely past its prime as he saw the cottage at the end of the path, tucked in among the heavy oak trees. It looked well kept, but the door was shut tight and no animals roamed around the yard. 

“Mi amor!” he called, spurring his horse on for the last few yards, “Mi amor!” he called again as he swung himself from the saddle. 

But the door was shut tight and wouldn’t budge and a lap around the small house showed him that it was indeed as empty as it looked. He mounted his horse again, not yet uneasy, and set a fast pace down the lane, towards your father’s farm a mile through the forest. 

Here there was life at least, chickens in the yard, a dog pulling on its leash and the door open. Again he swung himself from the saddle, throwing the reins around the gate post and striding forward. 

“Stay back!”

Your sword was raised. Your sword? No, his sword, the one he’d left with you. Held up by you now, threatening him to not take another step forward. 

“Mi amor, it’s me, Pero,” he smiled, spreading his arms wide and taking long strides to you, wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms and feel your soft body melt against his after so many months. 

“Stay back!” you snarled, taking a step back and settling into the fighting stance he’d taught you and Pero floundered, stopping in his tracks. 

“Amor…Have I changed that much? Don’t you know your husband?” 

“I don’t have a husband,” you replied, your sword still raised, “Now, leave before I set the dogs on you!”

Pero felt a cold dread rise in his chest, confusion clouding his mind, he didn’t understand why you didn’t know him and he dropped his arms, his face a pained mask. 

“Mi amor, it’s me, I left a year ago on a foolish mission, you were my wife when I left and I have fought so hard all this time to get back to you and…” he trailed off as your eyes showed no recognition, no flash of relief. Just a hard stare at him. 

“Tovar!” 

A voice called out, an elderly man coming around the corner of the cottage, his white hair in tufts around his ears and neck and his face concerned. 

“Tovar, it’s good to see you safe after all this time, my boy!” 

The man forced a pained smile at Pero before he reached you. 

“Daughter, lower your sword, he is a friend, he just hadn’t been past here in some time,” the old man put his hand on your arm and gently made you lower the sword, “Go inside and make sure the stew is not burning, I will speak with Tovar and join you shortly.” 

Pero looked on in confusion as you sheathed the sword, smiled at your father and turned back into the cottage. 

“John, tell me what’s going on, why does my wife not know me?” 

“Come with me,” he replied and gestured towards the edge of the farm yard, the low stone wall serving as a seat as he sank down. Pero remained standing, glancing back at the cottage. Part of him wanted to storm into the cottage and grab you, shake you and make you see him, see him, your husband. But John’s hand landed on his arm and pulled his attention back to the old man. 

“It began not long after you and William left, her memories have been slowly going and neither the priest nor the physician know why or what caused it.” 

“What do you mean, her memories are going? She doesn’t know me?” Pero gripped the handle of his sword, not a threat, just a comfort, to hold on to something familiar as he rubbed his thumb over the pommel, “I am her husband, she loves me, how can she forget me?” 

“I don’t know, Pero,” John sighed, rubbing his weathered hand over his face as he shook his head, “she just doesn’t. And it’s not just you, she seems to forget most new things from one day to the next, a new neighbour, the cow giving birth to a new calf, selling a few of the chickens, she just forgets,” he looked over at the cottage where a thin tendril of smoke rose slowly from the short chimney, “She remembers her childhood, her brother and mother dying, after that it all becomes hazy.”

John looked up at Pero again and Pero could see the toll the past year had taken on his father-in-law as pain flashed across his face, his usually bright eyes sunken and dark. 

“I’m sorry, son, she doesn’t even remember meeting you, nothing of your life together, and not you leaving.” 

It hits him like a dagger to the chest, piercing in its pain and wrenching his chest open; he left, she begged him not to, but he left and this is his punishment. Her mind is protecting her from the pain he caused. With a groan he turns around, sinking down on the wall, his head buried in his hands, it feels as if his throat is closing up, a sob tearing its way up, like broken glass cutting him open. 

“I left her,” he groaned, choking around his words, “She begged me not to go, that last night before I left, and I thought I had to and left her anyway. I broke her heart and this is my punishment, her mind has removed me from her so she doesn’t have to live with my betrayal.” 

“Son…” John said, his voice choking too, but he put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “We do not know the will of the Lord, you did what you thought was best.” 

The hand on Pero’s shoulder burned like fire, guilt over taking him and he stumbled to his feet, shaking off the other man’s grip with a shrug. 

“I’ll leave, it’s for the best,” he replied, striding towards his horse without looking back, his jaw tight around his words, “Take care of her for me.” 

“Tovar, wait,” John called after him and hurried to his feet. He grabbed the reins of the horse just as Pero swung himself into the saddle, “She loves you, still. I know she does, she just needs to remember you.” 

“Remember how I broke her heart and left her? What kind of a husband was I? No,” Pero shook his head and gathered the reins, making John let go of them, “Let her have a good life without me.” 

The door of the cottage creaked as he spoke the last words, making him look up towards it. You were standing in the opening, an empty water bucket in your hand, your eyes on him. 

“Are you really my husband?” you asked, glancing over at your father, but finding Pero’s eyes again. Pero felt his throat close up again as he saw the way you looked at him, a complete stranger, not a trace of recognition. 

He just nodded in response, not trusting his voice. 

“He is, my dear,” John replied in his stead,  “Do you remember me telling you about him when your mind first started to go?” 

You shook your head at that, your eyes still on Pero. 

“I’m leaving,” he said, a deep furrow in his brow as he ruefully shook his head, “I caused you both enough hurt.” He nudged his horse to turn around, walking it through the gate and out onto the road, avoiding John’s look of pity.  

“Wait!” 

The call came just as he was about to spur his horse on, away from your empty stare. 

“Wait,” you called, hurrying after him, stopping as he halted his horse and turned in the saddle. You came up to stand by its neck, looking up at him, “Stay at least the night, I…I know I lost so many memories, but...if you’re my husband then you should stay, maybe something will come back.” 

“No,” he shook his head, looking away from you and down the road, “I caused too much harm, I don’t want you to have to relive the pain I caused you.” 

“Please, my life has been cut in half, I can’t remember it, but I know something big is missing. I will gladly take the pain again if I can have the rest of my life back,” you put your hand on his horse’s neck, tilting your face up to him as you waited for his reply, “Please.” 

He couldn’t resist looking down at you and he felt his resolve weaken as your eyes met his. Such a familiar face, the one he loved so deeply. The colour of your eyes was seared into his mind, the small imperfections on your cheeks that he’d mapped with his lips so many nights, the shape of your perfect nose that he’d traced with his calloused fingers when you complained that it was all wrong. So many long, cold nights, picturing this face in his mind’s eye as he tried to do what he thought was right, the desperate moments when he thought he wasn’t coming back to you at all. Facing monsters from nightmares in overwhelming numbers, even as he fought for his life, this face was floating before him. You were the one he was fighting so hard to get home to. 

Now you were looking back at him, pleading with him, and he knew he had no choice. The last time he denied your request, he’d almost lost his life and you’d lost your memories of him. He would stay. The pain he would feel at seeing you look at him like a stranger would be a small price to pay compared to the pain he’d put you through with his greed and stubbornness. 

He gave you a nod, a short movement of his head as you held his gaze. He searched in vain for a glimmer of recognition, a flash of the woman you were before he left, but there was nothing. Just a small, uncertain smile as you dropped your hand from his horse’s neck and took a few steps back. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled, glancing back at your father, “my father will be glad to have you with us too, he’s probably tried to make me remember you so many times.” 

Pero slid off the back of his horse and took hold of the reins as he turned to you. His rough fingernails dug into the palm of his hand as he clenched his fist, the familiar scent of your skin washing over him as he got closer. He could feel every bone in his body aching to reach out and pull you into his arm, bury his nose in the soft skin of your neck and breathe you in, feel your hands on him again. He could feel himself torn in two; the urge to bolt when you took a step back from him, the need to stay near and never leave again. 

“Amor…” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from you as you took another step back, the pain and emotion plain on his face. 

“I’m…I’m sorry…” you whispered, “I don’t know what that means…” 

For a few moments you looked at him as he refused to meet your eyes again, his gaze wavering as his hand closed around the reins of his horse. His knuckles were pulled taught, the tension in his still form clear, and you took another step back. 

“Please, put your horse away and I’ll heat up water for you to wash. Father said you’ve travelled far, you must be weary. There's good stew cooking too,” you raised your hand and gently put it on the neck of his horse, “Come, please.” 

He followed you into the house once he’d put the horse away, your father leaving to bring the small herd of cows in for the evening. Water was heating over the fire and you mixed it with the cooler water from the barrel as Pero stepped over the threshold with his heavy saddle bags by his side. 

“You live with your father now,” he said, a statement rather than a question, but you nodded, wiping your hands and turning to the stew pot. 

“Yes, well, I don’t remember living anywhere else but he tells me the cottage down the road is where I lived before…” you trailed off, putting your hand to your temple as your brow furrowed, screwing up your eyes as if trying to search for a memory. Pero shifted by the door and you turned to him with a surprised look on your face. 

“I-I guess…that’s where we lived?” you asked and a look of anguish flashed across his face. 

“Yes….yes, we lived there,” he replied, still holding his heavy bags, looking like he was almost on the verge of leaving again. “We moved there on our wedding day and I… Do you ever visit it now?” 

You shook your head but hesitated, “Never…but maybe I have been back, but I forget from one day to the next, I know it’s there but if I see it now, it’s like I see it for the first time.” 

Pero dropped his bags on the floor and rubbed his hand over his face, his shoulders slumped as if under a tremendous weight. 

“Amor…” he said to the floor before looking up at you again, “I don’t know if I can do this. We lived there, you and me, they were the happiest days of my wretched life, and now it’s all been taken from us. You look at me like a stranger and I can’t stand it.” 

You didn’t know what to say, the man in front of you was a stranger, nothing in his voice or face was familiar. The only reason you asked him to stay was your father telling you he was your husband, and that feeling in your chest of something missing, that empty space in your mind, a big piece of your life’s memories missing. 

“I’m sorry…” you said again, but he shook his head. 

“Don’t. It’s my fault, I did this to you. And I’m staying until you tell me to leave.” 

“I might not remember you in the morning,” you said, “I often forget meeting new people.” 

New people

It cut through him like the sharpest blade. He’s ‘new people’ to you now, not your husband, or even a friend. Just a stranger in your house. 

He nodded at the large bowl that you’d filled with water, “I’ll get cleaned up now, do you want me to go outside?” 

The cottage was familiar, he’d spent much time here before the wedding, and not much had changed in the year he’d been gone. It had only two rooms, and he presumed you were sleeping in the bed nook against the back wall, your father in the other room. The small cottage didn’t hold much space for privacy. 

You shook your head and turned back to the fire, “I’ll keep my back turned, I need to watch the stew.” 

He stared at you for a beat, the achingly familiar shape of your shoulders, your hips and the way you cocked one out to the side as you leaned forward over the large pot. How many times hadn’t he come up behind you, run his hands over your soft shapes, pushed your hair to the side and pressed kisses to your neck as you giggled at the way his beard tickled your skin. Now you stood with your back to him to not see as he pulled off his clothes, something you’d done to him almost every night. Unlaced his shirt, pulled it from his breeches and caressed his skin with your soft hands. 

The dirty shirt dropped to the floor with a soft sound and you heard him wring the washcloth as you added the last of the herbs to the stew. You couldn’t help yourself, you glanced over your shoulder and stole a look at him. He was a stranger, but supposedly your husband, and either way, he was handsome. Under that layer of grime and sweat, he was a striking man, unlike any you’d ever seen. Or, at least, unlike anyone your mind would let you remember. So you glanced back at him and was struck almost dumb by the sight. Broad shoulders, a muscular back tapering into narrow hips where his breeches hung low as he rubbed the washcloth over his abdomen. 

The back of his neck was tanned golden, his back lighter and marred by a long scar that shone bright in the dim light. It looked like a painful injury, old and long since healed over, and you wondered if he’d ever told you what had happened to him. Had you run your fingers over as he told you the story? You realised you must’ve spent countless nights next to this man in your marital bed, his hands on you, your hands on him. This man, this stranger in your father’s house, would know you better than anyone else, every inch of your body and your most intimate secrets. 

As if he could sense your eyes on him, he glanced back over his shoulder and met your eyes, and he seemed to hold his breath for a moment. Then he turned fully to face you, the washcloth forgotten in his hand. 

“Amor…” he whispered and you bit back a sudden sob. His eyes were so hopeful, you wanted nothing more than to remember him, to have all the memories of him flood back into your mind as he dropped the washcloth and took two quick steps across the floor. 

“I don’t remember,” you sobbed as his arms wrapped around you, “I don’t remember anything about you.” 

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let you go. Instead he let you sob against his chest, holding you close as he rested his chin on your head. His heart was beating wildly, thrumming so hard you could hear it as you pressed your cheek against him, and even though he was a stranger, his arms felt safe around you, the scent of his skin comforting and soothing. 

With a small movement he rubbed your back, slowly up and down, “It will come back, amor, it will. And if it doesn’t, I will make you fall in love with me again and tell you about all the memories we have.” 

You nodded against his chest, your sobs subsiding, but you didn’t pull away from him, and he didn’t let his arms drop. He held you just as tight, reluctant to give up the feeling of having you in his arms again after all he endured to get back to you. 

“Although…I’m still not sure how I made a woman like you fall in love with a reckless mercenary like me, how will I manage that again?” he said, a small smile to his voice and you looked up at him. He’d lifted his chin from your head and was looking at you with a sad smile, tears clinging to his dark lashes. 

“Promise me you’ll try,” you said, your voice low and broken. 

“Every day for the rest of my life, amor,” he whispered, “I will make you fall in love with me again and then we can make all those memories one more time.” 

A/N - I hope you enjoyed this bitter sweet little story! Bonus points to anyone who caught the LotR reference :)

Tagging some of my fellow Pero lovers:

@nerdieforpedro @din-cognito @harriedandharassed @morallyinept @inept-the-magnificent

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @lady-bess @angiewatson @cozylittlepigeon @604to647

@survivingandenduring @for-a-longlongtime @gnpwdrnsnshine @wintersquirrel @grogusmum

[604to647]

Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

First Movement (Adagio sostenuto)

5.5K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: About to make your society debut and enter London's marriage mart, you don't expect an old friend whom you haven't seen in over 10 years to make a surprise appearance at the first ball of the season.

Warnings: None! Fluff! B, C, D, E, F Bridgerton make appearances. It's me so there's a cute nickname (won't spoil). The masterlist includes a few words about how this reader insert is written - essentially, no reader description other than having hair and wearing dresses in the style of this era, reader has a backstory; much of this part is exposition (so maybe a little slow but we'll get there!😊)

A/N: My plan is to post the entire series before Season 3 of Bridgerton airs, because the story is intended to take place in the background of the same season and if things don't make sense after the show comes out then oh well 🤭 I'm also only 2/3 of the way through Julia Quinn's books, so please forgive me if some of my characterizations of the Bridgertons are not wholly correct 🙏🏻

Wonderful Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Series Masterlist

The Duchess of Hastings stands behind you, admiring the reflection in the mirror of the two of you together, “I dare say, if you had debuted with me during my season, there is a good chance that I may not have been the Diamond.”

“Oh, shush, your Grace,” you make a funny face at her in the mirror, to which she laughs and pokes you in the ribs, “Don’t you start with this ‘Your Grace’ business with me.”

That Daphne Bridgerton is your dearest and oldest friend in England is something you consider to be one of the great fortunes of your life, of which, as the daughter of a Count, you have many.  Violet Bridgerton and your mother, the Countess, had been dear friends and as such, much of your early childhood in England had been spent at Bridgerton House, running around with not only the same aged Daphne, but her elder and younger siblings as well.  The Bridgertons are one of the most beloved families of the ton, their good natured and spirited personalities recommending themselves to everyone, and accordingly, your memories of when your two families would gather remain some of the most joyous of your childhood.

Sadly, your dear mother passed away from illness when you were only seven years of age and your beloved father, who loved her more than life itself, could not bear to stay in England much without her.  The Count was one of several nobles charged with governance of Her Majesty’s Royal Naval Fleet; a gentle man, his purview was primarily diplomatic (as opposed to militaristic) and he thus travelled widely, often and always for long periods of time.

Though he did not wish to remain where so many of his memories dwelled, the Count could not bear to leave his only child behind, and consequently, you had joined your father on his travels.  He proudly raised a cheerful, spirited daughter who loved the seas and adventure as much as she did reading and music.  Your father found that exposing you to and requiring you to immerse yourself in so many foreign cultures at a young age led you to be the most sympathetic and kind hearted child, one who others found easy to converse with and befriend on account of your good humoured nature and open minded heart.  Unencumbered by the rigid etiquette requirements (and dress code!) of British high society, you happily embraced many freedoms that other young ladies of your age and breeding did not have the opportunity to enjoy.  Your father taught you much about the ships and business of the naval fleet, subjects to which you took a great interest; to this day, you know your way around most ships better than some sailors.  The Count was especially proud of your affinity for diplomacy, understanding the importance of fairness and tough negotiation both in foreign matters and managing fleets.  You loved all of it – spending countless hours pouring over maps and letters of diplomatic matters with your father and absorbing all you could; as you got older, you took great pride in the way your father would sometimes seek your opinion and advice on business matters and delighting when he would praise you on your ideas.

While he was unorthodox, your father could not be accused of being neglectful; he would not forgo your formal and societal education, knowing that one day, you would have to return to live in England.  Hiring only the most adventurous and brave governesses to accompany your travels, the Count ensured that your literary, numerical, musical and artistic accomplishments and pursuits could rival those of your peers back home.  You learned to dance the dances of grand balls, though you had only the few foreign dignitary hosted events to practice.  Your only other occasion to practice came when you would return for your infrequent visits to England, reuniting with your beloved Bridgertons to spend nearly all your time catching up and laughing with Daphne and her siblings, and take in what you could of British society before once again being swept away on another ship.  Though brief, these reunions with your friends, coupled with your frequent letters were enough to ensure your friendships remained strong and cherished over the years.

Two years ago, Daphne had made her societal debut, meeting and marrying her love, the Duke, during the marriage season and you could not have been more delighted for your friend.  That season should have also been your debut season, except that you and your father were in the Far East and would not have been able to complete the Count’s business and return in time.  Since you had postponed one year, what was two?  If you had your way, you would have made it three, not eager to give up the life of travel and leisure that you’ve grown accustomed to.  However, when the Queen wrote to ask why the daughter of one of her esteemed Counts has not yet been presented, both you and your father had to regretfully concede that your life as a carefree sea farer was over.

And thus, you find yourself in your present circumstance: in a luxurious silk gown the colour of swan feathers, wearing what might actually be swan feathers in your hair, about to be presented to the Queen before embarking on your first social season.  To be honest, you’re not terribly nervous, save for whatever nerves one always has whenever attempting something new, and you have good reasons not to be.

The first being that you are in the very capable hands of your great friend, the Duchess.  The now Dowager Viscountess had promised your mother that when the time for your debut came, it would be the Bridgerton family’s honour to sponsor you.  If anything, you felt that the honour was all yours – not only were you to have the support and backing of one of the most respected and revered families during your season, you would also be blessed with their company.  As fortune would have it, due to the timing of your debut, Violet had prepared herself to take on the duty of presenting not one but two girls: yourself and her third eldest daughter, Francesca. 

Fearing it was far too much work and pressure, you had assured Violet, whom you loved as a second mother, that she need not fret too much over you; you’re a woman of twenty-three with more world experience than most men twice your age, and encouraged her to focus her attentions on her own daughter.  Violet had been aghast at the implication that she didn’t think of you as one of her daughters, and you were about to be on the receiving end of a scolding that only a mother could dispense when Daphne came to your rescue.  As the Duchess of Hastings, she herself had the right to present young ladies at court, and she declared herself delighted to be your patroness this season.  This was decidedly a win-win; not only could Violet concentrate on Francesca’s prospects, you could now look forward to spending the season with your dear friend by your side.

The second reason you’re not overly anxious is that despite being older than most of the girls debuting at the same time, you know you have plenty to recommend you to potential suitors.  No, you are not terribly conceited nor do you hold your own attributes in such high esteem, but rather, very practically, you know most suitors will not let a small thing such as age deter them from the handsome fortune your father has bestowed upon you. 

The Count was forever exasperated with the shortcomings of the laws of inheritance and how they prevented his one child from inheriting his estate, but he made up for it the best he could with the legal avenues available to him.  First, he set aside a healthy dowry for you, so that you would be sure to attract a similarly healthy crop of high society gentlemen from which to choose a husband.  Second, via his will, you would be provided for for the remainder of your life with a generous per annum allowance that rivaled the income of many estates; you were to want for nothing even if you never married. 

And finally, known only to a select few, your father had a vast investment in an international fleet separate from the naval fleet of the queen; a beloved exploration and trade business venture that was the Count’s passion project - you and him spending many enjoyable hours pouring over the plans and movements of this fleet.  The dividends from your father’s shares went directly into a trust of which you (and any future children of yours) are the sole beneficiary, though the capital had to be held by a man.  It was the Count’s thinking that in addition to the income, it was only fair that you benefitted from a venture that you had invested much of your own heart and time into.  Naturally, being a part of your father’s estate, this investment could be passed down to the next Count (a distant relative), but your father had other plans.  If the intended recipient was willing, you father wanted to sell his shares to his future son-in-law, allowing for the dividends to continue flowing to you and so that you may remain close to the business via your husband’s involvement. 

In other words, there are plenty of reasons that potential suitors who might otherwise be dismissive of your age and lack of societal presence, may find you attractive (the least of which were probably your charm and wit); you can afford to be choosy and you fully intend to be.  And while you’re not quite so hopeful to wish for a great love like that of your parents, or even Daphne and her beloved Simon, you dearly wish for a husband that will understand and respect you; one who will celebrate you for your mind, experience, opinions and all the reasons why you’re different due to having grown up the way you did.

Daphne seems to have high hopes that there will be many potential suitors who will live up to your expectations.  You’re less confident than she, but still more optimistic than not.

Flopping yourself down on the chaise next to Eloise, the two of you heave heavy sighs in unison.  After the nerve-racking presentation to the queen earlier this week, the following days have been a non-stop flurry of ribbons, fittings, etiquette lessons and teas with the express purpose of study in the who’s who of the ton.  In just a few hours, all of Violet and Daphne’s hard work and preparations will be put on display when your contingent attends the first event of the season: the Danbury Ball.

Eloise passes a box of candy to you and you select a treat gratefully.  Though Daphne is your closest friend, you’ve sometimes found yourself having a fair amount in common with Eloise and know her to be a trustworthy confidant; this is one of those times.  While you don’t think you have it in you to hate anything as much as Eloise despises the marriage mart, the both of you at least have the good fortune of being able to be picky with your suitors and moreover, wish to exercise that particular privilege.  For Eloise, marriage is a cage.  For you, it’s the not marriage itself, but a union with an imprudent match that you wish to avoid.  If you can no longer be free to sail the seas and wander through the valleys and streets of the foreign lands that call your name, you must insist that the home you’re being called home to roost is at the very least, pleasant.

“I beg of you,” murmurs Eloise, “Please let all the fashionable young men fill up your dance card so that there shall be none left for me.”

You steal another piece of candy, “I’m afraid there’s more than enough young men to go around, El.  Plus, you really ought to beseech Franny for your request, my dance card may struggle for applicants on account of me being such an old maid,” you giggle.

“None of that negativity now,” chimes in Daphne from the open door, “tonight is full of possibilities.”

During the season, you’re staying at Bridgerton House so to be close to all the finery of dresses, jewels, shoes, ladies’ maids and moral support that you may need.  Your father is staying nearby in another house on Grosvenor Square, and comes by most days to see his daughter and dear family friends for breakfast at the very least.  You have loved your life with your father, but at times like these, when you are laughing at and listening to the loving snipes and bickering of the Bridgerton siblings, you often wonder what it would have been like to have a more traditional upbringing.  Pushing that thought out of your mind, you stand and pull Eloise up with you so that the two of you can follow the Duchess to the next room where you’re expected to choose from the glittering selection of dresses laid out for tonight.

As you lean towards selecting a pretty lavender gown, Daphne fills you in on the processional arrangements for your entrances tonight, “Mama, Franny, Anthony and Kate will take the first carriage, then you, Eloise and I will follow in the second.  We will enter the ball in that order as well.”

“What about Colin and Ben?”

“They’re meeting with some friend from Colin’s travels whom he met in… I want to say Greece?  They will make their own way and meet us at the ball.”  You nod agreeably; as long as everyone is together at some point or another, your first season event will feel a lot less daunting.

---

As you walk into the Danbury estate, you cannot but feel a bit overwhelmed by all the elegance and glamour on display.  Though no stranger to luxury and finer things, it’s not very often that you find yourself amidst so much opulence.  Eyes shining as you take in the finery, your voice is full of excitement and genuine awe as you compliment Lady Danbury and thank her for hosting tonight’s soiree.  Hand clasped tight in Daphne and Eloise’s as you make your way down the main hall to the ballroom, you see Colin further down on the right side of the hallway, waving alongside Benedict.  Waiting by the wall with the Bridgerton brothers is a third gentleman, tall and broad shouldered with soft, curly brown hair who currently has his back to you; Colin has on a mischievous grin and he’s speaking to the stranger quietly, eyes flitting back to you and his sisters periodically as you approach.  This can’t be good, you think with suspicion.  When you’re a few steps away from meeting with the brothers, Colin gives the stranger a slight nod and he turns around; before you even have a chance to look upon the newcomer’s face, you hear a familiar sweet baritone voice say, “Hello, Dulce.”

At first, you’re in shock; the Spanish word for candy is not a nickname people commonly call you and it’s one you haven’t heard in over ten years.  Then joy of recognition and realization overtake you and you completely forget where you are, crying out, “Pero!!!”  Your arms behave of their own accord and fly open to wrap around his neck as you launch yourself into the handsome man’s arms.

He hugs you back firmly and whispers low in your ear, “Happy to see you, too” before releasing you, the both of you immediately stepping apart and drop your hands to your sides, remembering where you are and that the eyes of the ton are always watching.  But you can’t help but beam; nor can you look away from Pero’s face. 

Pero Tovar had been your most constant and beloved friend for many of your happiest childhood years spent abroad.  Pero’s father, a Barón of Spain, was in charge of naval governance for his country in a similar capacity as your father was for England and accordingly, their paths crossed regularly in foreign countries.  Both men of gentlemanly dispositions, the Count and the Barón had forged a deep and lasting friendship as they conducted their business.  Another thing that they had bonded over was the fact that they were both widows who uncharacteristically chose to bring and raise their children with them on their travels. 

So, although Pero is eight years your elder and already in his early teens when you first met, being the only two children of sea loving foreign diplomats in the strange lands you found yourselves in readily recommended you to each other and you had become happy and frequent playmates.  Pero devoted hours and hours to your amusement, allowing himself to play more juvenile games of pretend that he may not otherwise with compatriots of his own age, and with his encouragement you grew to be brave and curious, always wishing to keep up with the older boy.  He helped you with your studies, and you played music for him, learning and mastering the pieces he enjoyed the most.  The two of you shared a love of literature and it became your special version of a traditional hunt in each new country you landed in to find foreign language versions of the other’s favourite books so that you could read the translations alongside your worn English copies.  Some of the most cherished copies of your favourite books, ones you carry with you from country to country still, were gifts from Pero. 

As you got older, your shared adventures expanded to include exploring the streets of new cities, trying local cuisines and frolicking on the beaches of the coasts of Italy, Portugal and even India.  The last time you had seen him, he was a strapping young man of twenty and you had been twelve.  His father was returning to Spain for an undetermined amount of time to deal with affairs of his estate, and Pero would be entering university, having postponed his acceptance for two years already.  Although you had each promised to write, the letters were far and few between and eventually you lost track of Pero – you can hardly blame either of you; you were travelling with your father and not always easy to find, and you didn’t really expect a young man concentrating on his studies to have the time to write to a young girl despite having been her very best friend for so many years.

But now he’s standing right in front of you and you can hardly believe your eyes.  He’s impossibly tall and wide, a far cry from the lanky boy with whom you scrambled over rocks on the beaches of Portugal, but he’s still tanned, leading you to surmise that he must still sail or at least get a healthy amount of sun regularly.  And while his face is older, devastatingly handsome with a cutting jawline partially hidden by untamed facial scruff, he’s completely recognizable to you.  An easy clue is the scar that runs from above his left eyebrow down past his eye, though faded from when you saw it last, but it’s the indulgent smile he’s giving you right now that gives him away to you.

“What are you doing at this ball? Did you know I would be here?” you can’t help but continue to stare at Pero wide-eyed, grinning like a fool.

“Oh!  We made the connection earlier this week at dinner,” chimes in Colin, “We were going to bring him over to the house but thought this would be more fun.”

You make to swat at Colin’s arm. “How did you meet this scoundrel?” you jest, with absolutely no malice in your voice, pointing your thumb at the still laughing Bridgerton brother.  As your group starts to move towards the ballroom, Pero falls into an easy step by your side, “We met when Colin was taking in the crisp sea air of Mykonos, and then again last year in the vineyards of Tuscany.  He made for excellent company after a long day of helping the locals prune grape vines.  Naturally, when I arrived in London for business this month, I had to look him up.”

Daphne is now tugging you towards the ballroom by your hand, and in turn, you’ve grabbed onto and are practically dragging Eloise down the hall with you.  You shout back to Pero, “I want to hear everything!” and can’t help the smile that spreads across your excited face when he nods after you.

“Oh!” you breathe, invigorated from the surprise of seeing Pero, as you come to a stop right before the entrance way.  Daphne smiles over at you, “It was so hard keeping it a secret from you!”

You’re astonished, “You knew about Pero as well?”

“Yes, I thought it might give you an additional boost of confidence to have another friend’s support during your first event.” 

You smile at your sweet friend and squeeze her hand affectionately, “Thank you!  It does and I’m delighted to see Pero again.  But in truth, my confidence could never be lacking when I have a friend like you next to me.” 

Daphne gives you her biggest smile and squeezes your hand right back.  A moment later, the three of you step into the ballroom and meet the gazes of the other attendees as you’re announced.

---

The ball is a whirlwind.  It seems you hardly have a moment to even catch your breath, never mind catch up with Pero.  From the moment you walked in to the grand hall, you were pulled in this direction and then that, introduced to new person after new person, some of whose names were familiar from your visits home over the years, and others only from the copious amounts of study you’ve done on the ton over the past week.  You’ve certainly forgotten all their names by now. 

Then it’s dance after dance after dance with the young gentleman that Daphne parades in front of you.  The dancing itself is quite pleasant and a lovely way to shake out some of your jitters, but you find the small talk hardly enough to get to know your partners, and when the dance is over and you’re once again being whisked away to another introduction or meeting that the Duchess has lined up for you.  The few opportunities you’ve had to take a breather and indulge in a glass of lemonade, you’ve been happy to retreat back to Pero and your small familiar group; but just when you’ve started to entreat your old friend to open up about his adventures since you saw him last, another potential suitor will be introduced and the entire cycle starts over again.

It’s only when you’re halfway through the evening that the frenzy has died down enough that you can observe and be amused by Pero’s behaviour at the ball.  While you’re constantly twirling around the dancefloor, you notice that he never leaves his position against the wall and doesn’t dance at all; he mainly scowls and looks displeased, hardly speaking to anyone other than the Bridgertons or you when you have a free moment.  You feel his eyes follow you as you glide across the dance floor with the young men that have asked you to dance, and even when you’re making your way through the room on Daphne’s arm, meeting and making small talk with the other families of the ton.  When you do happen to look up and search for him, you often find him glowering and looking dissatisfied, though if you catch his eye, his expression will soften slightly. 

Once while you were dancing with Lord Whitfield, you had caught Pero’s eye mid-turn and made a silly quizzical face at him, as if to ask What’s going on with you? and you think you see him laugh briefly before the steps of the dance require you to turn away from him.  You wonder why frowns so fearsomely and if there’s a reason for him to be so stoic and curt with the rest of the ton.  It’s so odd to you as you’ve never had so much as a cross word from him in all the time you’ve known him, not even when you had snuck out of the compound in Singapore when you were nine so you could watch the fireworks display.  Pero had come looking for you, his face serious and eyes panicked when he finally found you in the busy square, but he never once got mad.  Instead, he swore not to tell your father, and promised that if you had wanted to see the fireworks up close, he would accompany you.  And then he did just that the next night and the night after that.  But here, when not engaging the company of his friends, Pero’s countenance is positively sour.  Any hopes harboured by the mamas of the ton for snagging a Spanish nobility son-in-law this season are quickly dashed.  Barón Tovar is decidedly not here to find a wife.

With the evening more than half over, you realize that unless you make the point to do so, an opportunity to speak more than a few minutes with Pero will surely not present itself.  And while you are having fun meeting potential suitors, your mind consistently wanders to Pero throughout the evening.  Aside from simply wishing to catch up with him and be in his comforting presence, you do have something important you feel compelled to speak to him on.

After a particularly spirited quadrille, you curtsey your gratitude for the dance to Mr. Sedgewick, and before any of the young men you spy hovering nearby can approach you, you hurry as elegantly as you can toward where Pero is standing awkwardly pressed to the wall. 

Pero, having seen the look of determination on your face when seeking him out, asks with concern when you come up to him, “Is everything okay, Dulce?”

There he is, you smile when you see the kind, gentle expression of the boy that you knew for so many years, “Everything is fine, Pero.  Although I must admit to needing a respite from all the endless socializing.  Do you think we could get some lemonade?”

“Of course.  I would be happy to accompany you in fetching a glass.”

With Pero by your side, any person who previously had designs on engaging you during this brief break between dances now thinks better of it; you chuckle to yourself as his fearsome expression comically paves a clear path for you to the refreshments table.  Once having secured your drink, you ask Pero if you can speak to him privately.

Careful not to lead you from view of other people lest it incite a scandal, Pero finds a quiet place in the entrance hallway and turns to find you looking up at him rather seriously.

When you’re certain you have his attention, you launch into your confession, “Pero, please allow me to tell you how sorry I was to hear of your father’s passing.  I remember him as such a kind, generous man, and such a wonderful friend to my father and by extension, me.  I will always think of him with tremendous fondness.”

“Thank you, Dulce.  I know he thought very highly of both you and your father and forever treasured your friendships.”

But you’re not done and start to shake your head, eyes filling with tears, “And I’m so very sorry that I did not write to you at the time.  I didn't know where you were, but I should have been more diligent in my efforts to find you.  I deeply regret not being there for you if you needed someone.  I hope you were not alone during that difficult time.”

You hang your head in shame.  Pero feels a deep affection for you blossoming in his chest; before him is the same sweet and compassionate girl he knew when he was a boy.  Tender-hearted and endlessly considerate of the feelings of others, you always had more empathy than you knew what to do with; he himself had been on the receiving end of your care and concern more times than he could count.  Pero gently tips you chin up with his gloved finger, “It was a tough time and I miss him a great deal.  But he was an incredible man and I strive to follow the example he set for me everyday.  So, in many ways, he is still with me.  No need for any apologies.”  He gives you what he hopes is a soft and reassuring smile.

In return, you grin, “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?  The boy I knew would have made me pay dearly for even the slightest offense - my portion of dessert for a week, at the very least.”

Unable to hold back his own grin, Pero is finding it easy to slip back into this familiar type of playful banter with you, “Well, I was trying to be a gentleman, but since you think me nothing more than a brute, I shall have no trouble devising an appropriate punishment.  For your transgression against me, I demand… a dance.”

You laugh whole-heartedly and it feels wonderful to laugh loudly at something genuinely funny rather than the quiet polite laughter you’ve been making most of the evening. “A dance?  Well, that is hardly a concession for me!  One dance with you means one less spot on my dance card for some lord I don’t know but who Daphne thinks I might find charming,” you joke.

“Are you finding your potential suitors so far to be villains or are they all just very boring?” smirks Pero.

Giving him a little punch in the arm to show him you’re not really complaining, “I am not so terribly unfeeling.  They are for the most part fine enough gentlemen.  The particular circumstance we find ourselves in just makes them so very eager.  It can feel terribly awkward.”

“None of them are good enough for you anyway.”

“Oh, and you are?” you jest, eyes full of mirth.

“Dulce, I’m the worst of the bunch,” counters Pero, leaning in close.

“I don’t doubt it,” you haven’t smiled this wide all evening.

“Be that as it may, the price you must pay to regain my favour remains the same.  Shall we?” Pero holds out his arm, waiting for you to accept his dance invitation; you hold on to him gratefully and head back into the main ballroom, realizing this is the first dance of the ball that you’ve truly looked forward to.

When Pero takes his place across from you, the tittering from the crowd that the Barón has finally taken to the dance floor can be heard over the opening notes of the music.  You can’t help but giggle, and Pero beams back at you – your light laughter more melodic than any music he’s ever heard.

Hand firmly curling around your waist, Pero sways you to the beat and the two of you carry out the steps of the dance comfortably together.  You hadn’t realized how much stress you’ve been under or how much tension you’ve been holding in until now, when you find yourself actually relaxing in Pero’s strong hold.  For the first time this evening, you’re dancing without nerves or the pressure of having to make polite conversation or a good first impression; you can simply be.  You sigh in contentment.

“What is it, Dulce?  Are my dance skills not to the standard set by your other partners this evening?”

“Hardly,” you chuckle, “I know for a fact that you dance remarkably well.  And if I were to have any complaints, the blame would rest squarely on my shoulders since we learned these dances together.”

“That’s true, we can only be as good as the partners we practice with.”

“Exactly. At least that’s what Madam used to say, right before she would rap you on your shoulders with her rhythm baton,” you muse, nostalgic.

“That weapon had a name?  I have not thought of Madam for many years now, but upon my word if I did not straighten up and stiffen my arms just now.”

You share another chortle as only two close friends with a long history of fond memories and inside jokes between them can.  When you sigh again, Pero cocks his scarred eyebrow at you.

“Do not think me dissatisfied, my Lord.  It is simply just so comfortable dancing with you, as if it has not been over ten years since we last did so.”

“I feel the same way, Dulce.”

You smile sincerely at Pero; although you could explain yourself further, you somehow know that he understands your meaning without you having to do so.  Feeling content, both heart and mood light in the safety of Pero’s closed frame, you find yourself wishing that you could spend the rest of the ball dancing with only him.

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[totallytatum]

“ thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war. “

moodboard ;

Tero Povar x princess!fem or knight!Joel Miller x princes!fem

author’s note ; purely for fun. purely for enjoyment. purely for inspiration. if you have ideas please share, i’d love to give my take on what a moodboard for it would be