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osachiyo · 10 months ago

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𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐎𝐘, 𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 — dazai, chuuya, Fyodor, nikolai, oda

˚➶ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — fem!reader, sfw content, so much fluff, children, nikolai is actually a good father in this i swear, swearing in chuuya's, best viewed in dark mode

˚➶ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — wdym do i have baby fever why would u even ask that? also im begging for some fluffy asks </3 not proofread

𝐬𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 . . . just some cute little scenarios with daddy!bsd men <3

dazai stared at his 2 month old baby girl sleeping in her crib, drooling on the little pink teddy bear you two had bought for her. it was almost 3 am — the time she'd wake up every single night and start crying for milk, effectively ruining both of your sleep. he knew you were tired, you needed rest — but you couldn't just leave your baby crying all night. that's exactly why he offered to do it for you, waking up exactly at 2:30 am, just to watch his baby sleep — waiting patiently for her to stir awake all while admiring his baby's cuteness.

she's got your nose — he thought while smiling fondly, tracing a slim finger over her chubby little cheeks before gently poking her nose, making a little 'boop!' noise while doing so. she stirred a little from the contact, her face scrunched up all cutely as she slowly woke from her slumber. "morning, sweet girl," dazai whispered, gently picking her up from the crib and cradling her — shushing her little cries. at least she isn't going full crier mode — he thought to himself, relieved that he managed to calm her down.

"let's not wake up your mommy, okay hun?" he muttered, pressing a sweet kiss to the crown of her head — a chuckle leaving his lips as he watched her make grabby little hands to the formula filled baby bottle in his hand.

"oh you want this?" he dangled the bottle in front of her eager face — her eyes lighting up as she babbled random words to her daddy, translating to "yes please!"

"sure, baby — buuuut! — you have to give daddy a kiss first," he grinned, moving his awful bed-head out of his face and revealing his cheek to her, ready for a kiss from his tiny princess. and as if she could actually understand him, she placed a kiss on his cheek, though it was mostly her trying to eat his cheek instead, but everyone has to start somewhere, right? at least that's what her father thought.

you slept like a baby that night — but you did find dazai in the baby room in the morning, sound asleep on the carpeted floor with his little bundle of joy in his arms

chuuya knew you needed a break from your mommy duties — like everyone does once in a while. so like the wonderful and caring husband he was, he bought you a ticket to bali — insisting that he would be fine. after all, how hard could taking care of a toddler be?

"fuckin' hell.." chuuya grumbled, gloved fingers through his ginger locks as he clicked his tongue. he was going through some very annoying paperwork that his subordinates apparently couldn't do right — which was so damn frustrating. and he had to keep an eye on his sweet 3 year old daughter, who was playing on the floor, mumbling a random children's song while doing so. chuuya didn't know how in the actual hell you managed to multitask like this — doing all the housework while taking care of the kid? it genuinely impressed him.

"—ak!" his train of throught suddenly got cut off, as he heard his daughter. he looked over at the small child, who was happily waving her doll around. "did you say something, honey?" he questioned, walking over to kneel beside her as he eyed the heap of toys — mayybe you were right, he thought, he did buy her too many toys.

the toddler looked at her daddy, the beaming smile on her chubby face made him want to just scoop her up in his arms and stay like that for hours.

"fak!" she squealed, slamming the poor doll on the floor — as if it were the most exciting word she'd ever heard. chuuya's face went pale — sweat already beading at his temples as he imagined your reaction to your daughter saying the forbidden word.

"nonono don't say that — that's a bad word, sweetheart," chuuya scooped her up before placing her on his lap, as she tilted her head, staring at him in confusion, "..fak?"

"shit — you've got to be kiddin' me.."

"shit?"

"NO — oh god damn it!"

"yes, good girl — put it right there," fyodor pointed at the chess board. the toddler only stared at him in confusion, looking at the chess piece in her stubby hand before looking back at her father. "come on, you can do it," your husband encouraged, never getting impatient.

"i don't think it's possible for a 4 year old to play chess, fedya dear.." you let out a chuckle, taking in the amusing sight of your husband teaching his precious daughter how to play chess. "anything is possible, my love," fyodor replied, trying to stop his daughter from putting the chess piece in her mouth. "riiight... her trying to eat the pieces definitely doesn't help your case, darling," you laughed, rolling your eyes at how silly your beloved could be at times, no matter how many people see him as a genius.

"she's learning," he retaliated, taking the piece away from her before dangling her favourite candy in front of her cute little face — "if you can put this right here, i'll give you the candy, okay? easy enough, right?"

the toddler only pouted, bottom lip jutting out as she whined — "but daddy, you can do it yourself!" fyodor sighed, apparently, she was having trouble understanding why she should do it when he could easily do it himself.

“darling, that’s not the point — the point is that i’m trying to play a game with you and it’s your turn.” the young girl’s frown only deepened, face scrunching up in frustration while she sulked in her seat.

“i think she deserves the candy, don't you, hun?” you smiled, turning over to your daughter — who only nodded in return. “she’ll get her candy after she puts the piece in the correct spot.” your husband clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval at you giving in so easily. “she’s just a child, honey..” you sighed, cheek resting on your palm.

fyodor was about to give another witty reply when you both heard a small sniffle — both of you looking over to the little girl; her lips were wobbling, tears running down her soft cheeks. “oh no no, sweetheart — c’mere,” it’s like he did a total 180, previously annoyed features now softened and evident guilt painting his face. your daughter only seemed to cry harder at that, snot running down her nose as she ran to fyodor, burying her face in his chest. “there, there..” he sighed, frowning at the way her body shook with each hiccup. “told you,” you grumbled, stifling a laugh at seeing fyodor panicking and handing her a good amount of the sweet treats — only for her to stop crying the moment she got what she wanted, a mischievously cute grin gracing her face. like father like daughter — you suppose.

"daddyyyy! — stay still!" the little girl whined, eyebrows furrowing as she combed through nikolai's snowy hair. "you've been brushing my hair for 30 minutes now, princesssss!" he whined back, matching her childish tone. "it needs to be perfect," his precious daughter sighed out loud, acting as if she was stressed — perhaps she learnt that from you, he snickered at the thought.

"alright, alright.." he sighed, straightening his posture — smiling as he felt tiny hands comb through his white locks. at least she's gentle with it — he practically shuddered at the thought of his precious hair being yanked and pulled by a toddler.

"daddy, you need to close your eyes," she huffed, running over to grab her little box of accessories and clips, before returning back to her dad. "whatever the princess wants, i suppose.." he chuckled, closing his eyes — feeling her decorating his hair with whichever accessory she desired. he could never really say no to her.

after a few more moments of waiting, she was finally done — excitedly telling nikolai to open his eyes. "tadaaaa!" she giggled, throwing her arms up in the air as he opened his eyes, a cheshire smile immediately gracing his lips as he stared at his reflection — hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, as various colours of heart shaped clips decorated his head. "you did such a good job, dove!" he grinned, scooping her tiny frame up in his huge arms, as she squealed. he threw her up into the air — making her squeal even louder before easily catching her, both of them howling with laughter.

moments like this makes him glad he didn't leave to get the milk.

"how does your mom even do this every morning.." oda sighed, trying his best to figure out how in the actual hell to do his daughter's hair. and the worst part? he only had 10 minutes until the school bus arrived. hell, he already spent the last 20 minutes brushing and detangling her hair!

"daddy, there's not much time left!" the 7 year old complained — watching her dad struggle with her hair through the mirror. he was debating on whether to call you for help, which he quickly decided against. she's on vacation, she should enjoy it thoroughly without any worry — he thought to himself, clicking his tongue as he messed up what was supposed to be a simple pigtail once again.

"daddy.. there's only two minutes left!" the girl whined once again, kicking her legs as she grew more and more impatient — while her hair situation grew worse and worse. "um, alright sweetheart — how about you just go to school with your hair down?" oda sweat dropped, trying to convince his daughter to the best of his ability.

"you know i can't do thaatt!" she groaned, giving him a pout. "right — well how about —"

the honking of the bus outside cut him off, as the little girl only sighed.

he somehow convinced your daughter to not snitch to you about her going to school with very crooked pigtails. buuut, he did take some hair lessons from you after you came back.

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated♡

tags ・ @hopefulpain @inkmooon @constant-existential-terror @nda-approval @mellieellie @seiiushi @lynxxyyy @kentopedia

@sorasushik1 @himebwrries @nopethenope @neviex @fyodorisbbg @stygianoir @saharei @x-lunawrites-x @munnaitorei @emyyy007 @dearhoney-31 @the-foreigner @angoisfine @osaemu @honeycombflowers-blog @yuiiasathesilly @kaithegremlin @sukiischaotic @squigglewigglewoo @cupidszvlvr @ashthemadwriter-archived @bloobewy @mrs-bakugou @hauntedsol @ask-me-or-not @hanakotateyama @kissesmellow21 @dazaichuuya69 @xxsilverjackalxx @gettinshiggywithit @deaths-presence @sugaredpersimmon @rjssierjrie @iheartpieck @angelof-darkness @dazaisimpletmereadfanficspls @hellokitty-4-lele @scinclaitnoir @aly-insanity @kemis-world @bisexuawolfsalt @thateldribitch

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thatsdemko · 7 months ago

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flights to Tokyo - c.leclerc

masterlist | pairing: Charles leclerc x gasly!reader. summary: on your flight from Bali to Japan there is a certain someone you didn’t want to see. warnings: forced proximity trope + mentions of choking(in a lighthearted and fun manner) + flirting. a/n: hi hi!!! it’s been awhile since I wrote a fic and specifically a fic of this length 😅 I don’t know too much about flights from Bali to Japan so I deeply apologize but I hope you enjoy xx

of course he’s on this flight. it was one of the only few leaving Bali to Tokyo, unless you wanted to miss good food and a great race, you weren’t going to be on the next flight until two months from now.

you suppress a groan from escaping your lips, but a sound still alerted Charles attention from his phone, over to you lurking towards him down the aisles.

he couldn’t help the annoyed look that plastered his face when he watched you struggle to throw your bag over head, and the look deepened when you slipped into the aisle seat beside him.

“yeah I don’t want to be here either, but look.” you shove your boarding pass into his face for proof that you were to be in the spot beside him for the next twelve hours to Tokyo.

the plane was small, only a few could afford to fly private, but even fewer could afford the once every two month trip to Japan leaving you and a few other passengers on this flight.

Charles was sure one of the men would be kind enough to offer their empty rows up for you, but seeing as they looked as grouchy as they came, he suppressed the thought and shoved his headphones on.

if he had to sit with you, that was fine, but having to listen to you? he’d rather be held against his will at the emergency exit seat.

you didn’t have the best past with Charles. with on again and off again sexual rendezvous, and your brother being his best friend, things plummeted rather quickly that they did to skyrocket.

and if Charles didn’t want to speak with you for twelve hours you could live that, but you couldn’t live with his intoxicating cologne clogging your nostrils and his music blasting through his headphones. but you just shoved your headphones in and watched whatever movie the plane provided for the rest of the time.

HOUR ONE

“that movie again?” he grumbles softly with a shake of his head. you’d seen crazy rich Asians more times than you could count, but the movie was too comforting to skip, and you’d bored yourself with a French classic the second the plane took off.

“I’m sorry, weren’t you just listening to your own music on repeat?”

heat creeps against his skin as he turns from your seat and towards the window. wherever you were, the sun was setting, and across the sky was beautiful blue and pinks.

if you were attempting to avoid Charles, you were doing horrible. because you hated how beautiful his face looked with the pink and gold dancing across his face. why did he have to be so beautiful? couldn’t he have been a gremlin with a tiny dick? but no, god had to make him beautiful in all aspects.

“I think the view is a bit past me.” a smirk lifts against his face, and if you had anything valuable to throw at him, you would. but a pair of headphones, a neck pillow, and your phone weren’t worthy.

“you’re such an asshole.”

“you’ve got eleven more hours of me, cherie, unless you want to sit with one of them.” he directs your gaze towards the rows of elder gentleman passed out snoring,

a scowl holds your face as you turn to him laughing, “you think you’re so funny,” you shove his shoulders, “I hope the flight attendant spits in your food.”

HOUR THREE

you could tell he was becoming restless. Charles very rarely slept on planes, and if he did they were his own private planes with his group of friends. however, he couldn’t find comfort cramped beside you.

he’d moved seats, leaving one in between you both, but that wasn’t enough. he was large, he took up more room than you, and that seemed to always stop him before he extended his legs across the seat.

you begun to notice his tiredness, but you didn’t dare say anything and stuck to your movie, top gun, and continued to read when possible to ignore him.

except Charles was an awfully loud distraction to your peaceful hour three of the flight.

“oh my god, what is your problem?” you ripped off your headphones and give him a glare of annoyance.

“I can’t get comfortable.”

“well find a way.” you growl back slipping your head phones back on. Charles wiggles around a bit more. a gasp escapes his lips that pulls you away from your book. wherever you were, heavy clouds covered the sky, but there stood the icy mountain tops peaking through.

you leaned across Charles lap, phone in hand, you snapped as many pictures as you could before your senses alarmed you how highly inappropriate this was.

the smell of his cologne was stronger. his breathing was as ragged as yours, and if you turned your head just slightly, your lips could practically touch.

this was bad, but every part of you couldn’t pull away. the scene in front of your eyes was beautiful, but the man you’re stretched across, is ten times more powerful. it took every bit of you to not look his way.

“cherie,” he whispered so faintly you could’ve sworn you were dreaming. his fingers ghost your mid, one hand pressed against your back, “I think snacks are being served now.”

warmth spread all across you, sweat built up on your forehead as you slip into the seat beside him and accept the small bag of peanuts before the flight attendant scurried down the aisle.

“you embarrass so easily.”

“I hope you choke on a peanut.”

HOUR FIVE

everyone was asleep but him.

even if he wanted to sleep he just couldn’t, and with you beside him it made it even more impossible to do so.

your hair curled over your face, a hoodie pulled over just above your eyelids, and your head rested on the seat in between you two.

how could he sleep when he was watching you?

he remembers nights when he used to just crash beside you and never take the time to notice how angelic you looked. now, he wishes he took in that moment.

because despite all the shit you went through— the longing and hating— Charles could never shake you from him.

“are you thinking ways to poison me in my sleep?” you stir awake to the vibrant of the plane’s turbulence, eyes fluttering open, you spot Charles greenish blue eyes masked over darkness, but staring into you.

“maybe,” he grumbles in response.

sitting upward, you glance down at your phone, seeing it’d only been a few hours of rest, “Pierre wouldn’t have it. his only sister dead by Charles.” you yawn and take the opportunity to move closer, your head just barely resting on his thigh.

all movement stopped in his body. like if he were to make a sound or a sudden change you’d resort back to your seat.

your breathing was shallow and even. your eyes flutter close and you find all comfort in him beside you. like you didn’t spend the first hour in agony over this seating arrangement.

Charles knew that whatever was rummaging through his mind about you Pierre wouldn’t like, and that was enough to force his eyes shut and relax under your touch against his legs.

HOUR TEN

two hours to go.

breakfast was being served and Charles was starving. you were taking your time to butter your biscuit, carefully having plucked his butter as extra, he waited impatiently for your knife.

“for the love of god,” he muttered taking the plasticware out of your hand and beginning to cut up his food without giving you a spare thought.

“patience has never been a virtue for you has it?” you snatch the knife back with a low growl and continue working butter onto the warm biscuit while carefully taking bites.

the flight made you appreciate a few things: 1. You and charles had much more of a friendship besides sexual encounter 2. while Charles was still a dick, you appreciated his humor to keep you sane throughout 12 hours.

“what’s your first time in Tokyo?” you ask.

“a comfortable bed, what about you?”

you nod in agreement ready to even out the kinks you’d formed in your neck, “same.”

“I was thinking,” Charles says, snatching the knife from your hand again, this time only to grab your attention from your breakfast, “do you maybe want to travel around Japan with me?”

shock waves ripple down your spine. you hadn’t done much together in broad daylight— at least nothing acceptable for the sun to see— it would be the first time you and Charles do something appropriate without Pierre involved.

“you’re really missing joris’ company that much?”

he scoffs at your response, “what if I just want to be with you and your shitty remarks? ever think about that?”

butterflies attempt to swarm out your stomach, but you refuse to let them slip. you couldn’t fall for Charles again, mistakes of the past were made, but you could change the future.

“and what do I get out of it?”

“food and great company. just friends,” he smiles taking the quick chance to reach over and eat the last of your biscuit in your hand, “and a new one of these.”

exhaling a long sigh, you lean back against the uncomfortable seat, “fine. but you owe me a biscuit.”

“not if I choke on it first.”

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milkywayrollercoaster · 8 months ago

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Curves

Bali

Indonesia

photo cjmn

#bali #indonesia #street photography #stairs #men #asian men

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heartysworld · 5 months ago

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Family Tradition || LN4

Lando Norris x Reader

A/N: Honestly, I don't even know where this idea cake from I've been feeling nostalgic recently and I thought back to when I myself watched a wildlife documentary and it made me feel bad for the poor babies. Also please know that this hasn't been proofread yet so it's possible to have a mistake here and there!

Hopefully you enjoy this one, feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

W. C.: 1k+

MASTERLIST

"Baby look at him, he's so cute!" You exclaimed, looking at the tiny creature that sat at the palm of your hand.

Next you, Lando was just as smitten with the baby turtle in his hand. You could see the tender look of his eyes as his pointer finger went over the shell of the tiny creature whose fins moved in all possible directions.

" How do you know it's a him? For all we know it could be a she!" Your fiance said with a small laugh.

"Call it female intuition.''

"Okay everyone, it's time to get these little guys back to their natural habitat. On 3, everyone can release their baby turtle and we're going to move back a bit so that they have the space they need to craw towards the water!" One of the men responsible for the release of the baby turtles explained while everyone got ready.

All this began as a silly joke between you and Lando about a year ago when you watched a documentary about sea turtles and the hardship the newly hatched babies face when it's time for them to go into the water.

When Lando came home from the gym to find you crying like a baby in front of the TV he couldn't help but laugh when he heard the reason for your tears.

" Oh baby come here." He said as his arms embraced you in a warm hug, the aroma of his freshly applied cologne invading your senses.

"Look at them! They're so sweet and tint and most of them won't even get a change to feel the water!" You continued, sobbing like a baby. " I wish I could do something to help them." You added just as another sob escaped your mouth.

Your then boyfriend felt bad even though he had to fault for the emotions that you were going through. One of his hands ce up to your cheeks, wiping away the falling tears with a tender touch and followed by a gentle kiss on your temple.

"Look at me, baby. I know that's something we can't prevent. But how about this, one day I promise you that we'll go to one of those palces where they help baby turtles find their way to their home. What do you say?" Lando asked, his chin coming to rest atop your head while you nuzzled your face closer to his chest.

"Really? You'd do that for me?" You asked, your voice a bit unclear due to Lando's sweatshirt being in the way. You felt him nod before both his hands took a gold of your face, making you look him in the eyes.

" I'd do whatever I can to make you happy, baby. You should know this by now. Or should I be worried?" He asked playfully, making you swat at his chest for what he just said.

Ever since that day the topic of doing what he promised always somehow found its way in your conversations. That's also how it came to be Lando's present for you after your engagement. A trip to a resort in Bali, but not just any resort but one that specifically offers the chance for those interested to volunteer on the process of releasing baby turtles in the ocean.

"Come on little guy, it's time to go home." You said as you watched the baby turtle crawl off your hand and slowly start swatting at the sand that surrounded it. Meanwhile Lando watched your expression and the reactions that followed, having already released his baby turtle.

A small tear fell down your check and he wasted no time pulling you close to him go provide you with the comfort you needed during such an emotional moment.

"Don't worry Lan, this time these are happy tears." You murmured close to his chest while his hands caressed your soft hair.

" That's all I need to know,baby. Your happiness is what matters most." He said as he felt a sense of pride bloom inside his chest. He was happy to finally be able to do something he knew would make you truly happy and content. A small thank you for all the support and sacrifices you've made to remain by his side during the time you've been together.

"Maybe we can make this a family tradition. You know...come here one day with our children and do this all over again." He suggested, making a small smile appear on your lips as the thought of him being a father and you a mother, sharing such a precious moment with your family, popped up in your mind.

" I like the way you think baby. I like it a lot." You said, patting his chest as he let out a quiet laugh.

Who would've thought sobbing over a wildlife documentary would lead to the appearance of an unique and memorable family tradition for decades to come.

Feel free to send any requests through my asks!

#f1 fandom #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x female reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris x oc #boost post #f1 masterlist #f1 au #formula 1

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mrsparrasblog · 6 months ago

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Layover in Glasgow

Summary: You're living your dream working as a flight attendant after a very bad breakup. On your layovers, you meet all sorts of men from a special Taskforce, each trying to charm their way into your heart. Who will succeed in finding his way into your heart?

Rating: E

Pairing: Soap x plus size readers

MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI

TW: Oral sex, p in v sex dirty talk , a tiny bit stalking

Next part: Layover in Liverpool

why does he remind me of Johnny

Layover in Glasgow

Being a flight attendant has always been your dream. You have already seen many places; unfortunately, not anything outside of Europe since Ryanair couldn't give you the luxury of layovers in LA, Shanghai, or Bali. It was still more than enough. This time, you could scratch Scotland off your bucket list.

And it was just like you imagined: cold, rainy, and beautiful. Instead of admiring nature, you found yourself in one of Glasgow's most famous pubs with your crew, drinking pints.

After a while, your best friend left, sneaking off with the captain to the bathroom—typical.

You wanted to pay your tab before a pretty handsome guy walked towards you and said, "Let me invite you to a drink before ya leave, bonnie."

God, he was the most handsome man you’d seen in a while. He was a bit short for your liking, but his ripped muscles and icy blue eyes definitely made up for it. "Sorry, I need to go; start early tomorrow,“ you sighed, not being able to flirt a bit more with this man.

"Where urr ye aff tae this late, anyway?“ He asked curiously; he was already ready to offer you a ride, but you looked like one of those girls who would call the police if he asked.

"Hotel,“ you replied shortly. If you were a bit less drunk, you’d probably tell him a lie, like to your boyfriend, so he would toss off, but he was cute, and your best friend left you for the captain anyway.

"Yer not from here, then, are you? You got a bit of the tourist in ya," he muttered.

"I'm not a tourist,“ you replied, bratty. Well, kinda you were, but kinda not, though.

"What brings you here, then?" Soap asked curiously as he shifted his weight on his legs, glancing down at the bar. He already liked you, beautiful and snarky. God, he was down for you. "Business? Family? A lover?" He asked, his voice teasing a bit as he looked back at you. He really hoped and begged God that you hadn’t a lover over here.

"I'm a flight attendant.“

"A flight attendant..." Soap repeated slowly at first, taking a second to process that before a grin split across his face, imagining you in your uniform and how he would rip it apart. "Oh, so you're one of those ones who get to travel the world. Yer a lucky lass.“

„Mhm very lucky, my first layover in Glasgow“

Soap grinned at this, his blue eyes brightening with amusement as his gaze wandered back to you. "Yer first time in Scotland, eh? You have no clue how lucky you are.“ He leaned forward, almost into your personal bubble. "The accent, the history, the food—the women are a bit crazy, though," he admitted with a sheepish chuckle. Oh, how he could brag around having a girl like you by his squad; you had the exact body type Price would kill for, the exact attitude Kyle loved from a lass, and the height and confidence the Lt preferred.

„And the men aren’t crazy here?“ You raised a brow; he seemed seemingly crazy with his mohawk and the way he was able to walk into your personal space. Thoughts about how you could pull on his hair while riding him lived rent-free in your head.

Soap burst out in a deep, rumbling laugh as you asked. "Oh, they're even crazier," he grinned, a cheeky glint in his icy blue eyes. "I don't reckon you'd like 'em all that much, to be honest. Most of 'em are either drunk, dumb, mean, or a combination of all three," Soap chuckled, his head tipping to the side.

"And you are drunk, dumb, or mean?“ Fuck, his eyes already got you memoized. Would it be really wrong to take him to the hotel just for a little fun? Maybe you could ride that beautiful face.

"Well I cannae say ah'ament a' o' th' 'boon at time, but, ah reckon a'm' the most braw." Soap asserted, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

„You think of yourself as the most handsome?“

Soap smirked. "That's fur a'm." He maintained absolute confidence. "I could be the most arrogant person alive, and it'd still be true," he laughed. "I bet I'm the most handsome bloke you've ever seen.“

„So what's your name, arrogant handsome guy?“

"The handsome, arrogant guy in question would happen to be John 'Soap' MacTavish," he answered with a grin. You didn't even question that his nickname was a fucking cleaning product.

„Nice to meet you, John.“

"Aye, same here, but whit dae I get the pleasure of cawin ye?"

You didn't want to answer this; you weren’t open to a relationship too much, and you were already hurt by your last ex-boyfriend idiot pathetic way too tall military guy.“Let me be honest, I'm not really into anything serious with my job, but if you want to come with me in my hotel room, I wouldn't mind.“

Soap blinked at your bluntness, the corner of his lips twitching as a grin spread across his face. "I wasn't looking for something serious, but I'm sure your hotel room wouldn't be too bad.“ Sleeping around was never a problem for Johnny; he was the one to get the most lays around his squad, mainly because Garrick didn't participate, Ghost scared lassies, and Price was too afraid to hurt the woman he liked. Soft little things with wide hips and round faces weren’t for his callused hands. He kind of wanted more from you than a lay; you were just so damn perfect, but he was sure you were just like every girl he slept with, telling him it was a one-night thing, but after six screaming orgasms, they all wanted to become Mrs. MacTavish.

You walked with him towards your hotel, his hand always around the end of your back, slowly gliding to your ample bottom, squeezing it through the tight skirt you wore.

Before you arrived at the hotel, you gave one last warning: „I don’t do relationships, only sex.“

Soap grinned at your bluntness. "Good, 'Cause that makes two of us; I'm not the kind to fall for someone. I'm too busy for all the emotions and nonsense crap," Soap said bluntly. "Just good fun. Nothing else.“ He practically copied his LT words, but you don’t need to know this.

Soap followed you into the hotel room with a satisfied grin, closing the door silently behind him as he pressed you back onto the bed, one hand resting on your upper thigh as he leaned in for another kiss. His large hands quickly began running along your sides, tracing up along your back as his lips gently tugged at your bottom lip. “Ne'er bin wi' someone as tall or muscular as me?“

You laughed at that, unfortunately hurting his ego "You're the shortest guy I ever had sex with,“ and you didn't even lie, especially not after your 6’10 bastard of an ex-boyfriend.

Soap laughed aloud at this, his accent practically rumbling as his grin grew. "There's no way you're tellin' me there's been a load of men taller than me. I'm six feet tall!" Soap complains, "Am I really the shortest?" His face grew kind of insecure, but if you only knew your moments, they would make him want you more.

„Yes, but don’t worry, your accent makes it up.“

„Mhm, like my accent?“ He smiled, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

„Yes“

„Good thing my accent is not the only thick thing about me,“ he replied with a smirk, removing his shirt and showing off his perfectly thick Lucious abs. You traced along the happy trail, eager to remove his pants, and he was right; he was incredibly thick. He wasn’t by any chance the biggest you had with his 7 solid inches but by far the thickest. His dick didn't spring up; it hung heavy and low with his angry leaking tip. You licked your lips, eager to finally have something other than your finger inside of your pleading hole.

„Like what you see, hen?“ He smirked, an arrogant Corky bastard, but somehow you liked it.

He pulled you onto your back, pulling off your tight skirt and that long-sleeve top you wore. When he saw your body, all the dimples and curves and the beautiful stretch marks around your hips, he was gone. „Fuckin hell, bonnie could have told me what you hide under those clothes,“ his hand nervously fiddled over the lacy fabric of your bra, smirking when he saw your nipples hardening under his touch. „So eager for me?“

Without a thought, he wrapped his mouth around your clothed nipples, sucking them in and gently biting on them. You wanted to remove your bra, but he stopped you. „Shh, hen, that's a sight for next time.“

„There will be no next time, John.“

„Thalere wull always bee a next time hen,“ he said, and before you could argue with him, his lips were already around your clothed mound, licking over the blue lacy fabric. „Didn't need tae dress sae cute fur me hen,“ he lured against it, pressing his thick palms deeper into your clit making you moan and whimper like a feral cat.

You couldn’t remember if you had shaved or not the last few days. "Johnny, I'm not entirely shaven down there." You warned him, afraid of his reaction. For most guys, it was an immediate no. Yes, for fucking, but no for licking, but he just looked at you with a devious smirk: „A'm mair hairy than a bear myself sae a dinnae mynd a bawherr locks aroond mah meal.“ With that, he removed your thong, completely placing the soft fabric of your thong next to his jeans so he could steal them on deployment, wanking himself on something better than the porn he had saved on his mobile phone.

„Mhm, such a bonnie cunny you have,“ he purred and started to lick thick stripes from your hole to your clit, you weren’t the patient type, so you pulled on his mohawk directly to your clit, where you pressed him inside of you. „Not very patient, hen“

He finally stopped all the teasing and used his mouth for God, licking at your clit slowly sucking her in while working your pleading mound open, his thick digits always pressed against your gummy wall.

„Fuck Johnny“

„Mhm, so wet for me, hen.“

He licked at your cunt like it was the last meal he ever had. He slurped and moaned, God, he was a messy eater, his fingers pressed against the plush fat of your hips, holding you down so you didn't run away from the orgasm he tried to give you. As he inserted a third finger, pressing against the sweet spot, most men didn't find - it was over for you.

You clenched around him, milking his thick finger for all of its worth, and experienced one of the most intense orgasms in your life. He pated some taps on your clit making you shake from the overwhelming feeling inside your tummy.

„God yere looking so bonnie when you cum,“ his eyes sparkled in admiration. He knew he had to have you for more than just a one-night thing.

„Do you have a condone, Johnny? I don’t have anything in your size.“

He could have just cum from that praise; he knew he was thick, but this was so fucking good to hear from you. "Aye,“ he said, wrapping the condom down on his shaft. His dick was a bit sad about not having the chance to fuck the most beautiful cunt he ever saw raw, but better than nothing.

He slides his thick member across your mound over and over again, wetting him with your arousal. But you weren’t in for missionary, so you pulled him to his back and sat down on his lap. You wanted to glide on him, but the unconscious fear of being too heavy hit you.

„Dinnae worry ah dae hip thrust hen“

With that, you straddled him, your legs working overtime to stretch around his big hips, and you glided yourself down on his delicious curved cock. He was surprised you could take him without any problems. God, could that girl be any more perfect?

You slowly rolled your hips on his, trying to find a movement where he hit the exact right spot. His hand grabbed your plump ass, guiding you up and down, needing to get some more friction out of you. He was already a needy whimpering mess, and you didn’t even begin fully.

„Please, bonnie move faster,“ he whimpered, and who were you to deny his cute whimpers?

He guided your hips up and down at a mean pace, searching for his orgasm; his dark black curls rubbed against your clit with every movement pulling you closer and closer to your awaiting release.

Feeling you close to orgasm, Johnny moved a hand between your legs, rubbing your clit firmly as he continued to pound into you. His fingers circled your swollen bud, teasing it until you cried out incoherently. „Johnny"

Johnny groaned, feeling himself getting closer as well. He picked up the pace even more, slamming into you harder as he leaned forward to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and biting gently through the fabric.

„Johnny, please, I'm close.“

Hearing your enthusiastic moans, Johnny let out a groan of relief as he felt his climax building. With one last hard thrust, he erupted inside of you, his cock pulsing as he shot his hot cum deep inside your wet cunt.

He panted heavily as you continued to ride him needy to reach your own orgasm. The familiar knot in your stomach started to build inside of you, and with a final slap of Johnny's finger, you came screaming his name as you began to squeeze his thick cock.

You collapsed into each other, and he wrapped his thick arms around your body. "That was intense, bonnie“ his mouth kissing around your neck.

„Yes, it was great. Would you mind leaving now? I have my flight in for hours.“

„No cuddling?“ He said he was disappointed, and as you saw his puppy eyes, you almost couldn’t resist changing your mind, but you didn’t.

„No, sorry,“ you said sternly.

He pulled his pants and shirt on, leaving a paper with his number on the bedside table: "Call me, hen.“.

——————————————————————————————————

"Stop looking at your phone. She won't call you,“ the lieutenant said to Johnny. He annoyed them the whole last week, showing your picture all around and telling everyone how good he fucked you. Ghost couldn’t deny that he found you incredibly arousing, exactly like Price and Gaz.

„She will!“

„Maybe she needs someone older.“ Price chuckled.

On his bedside table lay a small paper Roaster July 2023 Y/N.

Layover Glasgow

Layover Milan

Layover Liverpool

Layover Paris

Layover Manchester

Layover London Stansted

Whoever and wherever you are, doll, you can't escape us. Maybe you can leave Johnny, but you can't outrun me. In the end, you will choose one of us. I hope, for your sake, it's me. See you on your next layover.

Did I just made Reader a flight attendant since I always dreamt off being a flight attendant in London but Brexit said no ? Yes

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hotvintagepoll · 8 months ago

Text

Propaganda

Ginger Rogers (Swing Time, Top Hat)—Look I’ll level with you, I’ve never seen her in a musical and I know that she’s an amazing dancer and she’ll be even hotter when I finally watch Top Hat but I’m not submitting her as a dancer I’m submitting her as an ACTRESS. Her comic timing is impeccable!!!!! She’s full to bursting with life and in every role she seems to be having FUN, you can practically feel the twinkle in her eye. With her natural warmth it’s like she’s letting you in on the joke, y’all get to have this fun together! Making me laugh is hot!!! [If you'd like to see Ginger dance, videos below the cut]

Dorothy Lamour (The Jungle Princess, Road to… movies)—Ok, to be honest, I get if no one wants to vote for her--she's kind of like my ~problematic fave~ because she started in the Road (Singapore, Bali, Hong Kong, etc) movies with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, which are full of all sorts of exoticism tropes and usually have her playing very side-eye type roles..island princesses and things...yeah. also she banged J. Edgar Hoover. not very hot. but your honor i still think she's pretty despite all that she's pretty please look at her and tell me she's prettyyy

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Dorothy Lamour propaganda:

She started in jungle and South Seas movies and became famous in the Road series. She learned quickly to improvise when facing Bob and Bing. Road to Bali almost has her character marrying both of theirs, since she's island royalty and nobody had a problem with it - a nearly poly relationship, an epiphany for a viewer who didn't even know that that could happen! She was a popular pinup girl during World War 2, and was the first singer for the popular standard "It Could Happen to You". She sang often in her movies and has a lovely voice!

Ginger Rogers propaganda:

She needs no introduction! An undeniable powerhouse on the dancefloor, and no less talented an actress. I once watched a compilation of cinema's greatest dance scenes and one of her and Fred Astaire's dances was featured, and one of the talking heads said he pitied her for 'having to keep up with him' - or something to that effect. Bullshit, I cry. Ginger Rogers was his absolute equal, and underplaying her incredible skill is downright criminal. I want the 'Cheek to Cheek' sequence from Top Hat to be permanently burned into my memory.

"Backwards in high heels", as the saying goes (though the pedant in me must point out that she in fact spent her fair share of time leading or dancing side-by-side). One of the earliest twinkle-toed ladies of the silver screen, and in terms of acting/persona, her balance of wide-eyed cuteness and movie-star glamour has never quite been replicated.

we all know her beloved string of musicals with fred but ginger also has an extensive and varied non-fred filmography that she's great in! a few ginger moments that are important 2 me personally ginger singing “we’re in the money” in gold diggers of 1933, complete with a verse in pig latin bc this whole movie is kinda mocking the concept of anyone actually being in the money in 1933; ginger and una merkel singing a verse of “shuffle off to buffalo” in 42nd street, providing some statler & waldorf-esque commentary on newlyweds from the upper berth of a railway car (interesting that belly was apparently a risque word in 1933 - maybe its bc the lyric is innuendo-ing about out of wedlock pregnancies - and that panties was a term for men’s underthings!); a favorite fred & ginger number

Ginger Rogers could do everything! She could sing, dance and act. She was hilarious in comedies, moving in dramatic roles (she won an Oscar for Kitty Foyle in 1940) and absolutely gorgeous!

Listen, no shade to Fred Astaire at all, but she both kept up with him step for step and then later went on to WIN AN OSCAR FOR ACTING. (which he did not.) truly a double threat!!!

One of the best dancers in Hollywood! Her work with Fred Astaire is just incredible.

ONE LINE: "Everything Fred did, Ginger did backwards and in heels" AND THEYRE RIGHT! Rogers was a total dance badass, and a lot of movie buffs know the story, but the Never Gonna Dance number from Swing Time took almost 50 takes, and allegedly by the end of filming it her white shoes had been stained pink because her feet were bleeding. As a note, she looks crazy gorgeous in this number. Watching these two dance is insane. They match up to each other in a way my mom describes as "divine" and she's right. DANCE NUMBERS!

youtube

Let's Call The Whole Thing Off (Shall We Dance, 1937, dancing starts at 3:14, they're in ROLLERSKATES)

youtube

(Ginger Rogers is the hottest woman ever to live in this number. seeing this as a teenager altered my brain chemistry)

youtube

(also watch her feet and how she moves opposite Astaire in this one. We all know our boy Freddie had that precision demon but jesus christ Miss Rogers, let a girl live!)

Pick Yourself Up, Swing Time 1936 (Everyone's seen this one but by god you are going to see it AGAIN!)

youtube

Shall We Dance, 1937 (duet begins at 2:34)

youtube

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Roberta 1935 (There's just something about Ginger Rogers in a slick black dress man)

youtube

The Continental, The Gay Divorcee 1934 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cjv6nmF7wdk God she's MAGIC in this one.

youtube

Gay Divorcee's Ending Montage 1934The infamous table and chairs spin happens at about 0:49. Pay CLOSE attention to her in this bc it looks like witchcraft and I feel lightheaded whenever I watch this movie bc shes THAT awesome.

youtube

She is a miracle to watch. Sorry for the sheer amount of clips. My entire family is like madly in love with Ginger Rogers.

#dorothy lamour #ginger rogers #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 1 #Youtube

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tropes-and-tales · 1 month ago

Text

Of Every Kinnë Tre

(Pero Tovar x F!Reader)

CW: Angst (death); smut (dubious consent, maybe, but I don't know if medieval times cared much for intoxicated sex acts; loss of virginity; oblique talk of sex; fingering, PiV, unprotected), 18+ only.

Word Count: 8370

AN: This was originally requested by @justreblogginfics!

AN2: The title of this is taken from an anonymous medieval love poem called, in modern English, "Of Every Kind of Tree."

AN3: Tropes is playing fast and loose with historical fact here (and geography, and linguistics, etc. etc).

Pero Tovar never counted marriage as something written into his fate.

Starvation? Possibly. Plague? There was a chance. Death in war or battle or in a misunderstanding on the road to China and back?

All too certain.

But marriage? Never.

Until it was foisted on him, quite unexpectedly, as he made his way back to Europa from his trials at the Great Wall.

-----

Tales from Pero Tovar’s time were largely passed down through the oral tradition: great speakers and orators stood in front of captive audiences, or ordinary men and women sat around fires and told stories to while away the dark hours, the cold hours. To brighten their lives.

These stories usually began like this:

Lo! We have heard of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ achievements!

Harken, my brethren, while I tell you the tale of Igor, son of Svyatoslav.

Pwyll Prince of Dyved was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyved; and once upon a time he was at Narberth his chief palace…

So we will begin our tale the same way, as the people of Pero’s time would have told it: around the fire, in the deep of winter’s cold—for it is a love story, and love is most appreciated when the days are short and the nights are long.

-----

Gather, friends, as I tell the tale of Pero Tovar, an orphan in want of a heel of bread, who became a sell-sword in want of coin, who became a lord who possessed the greatest treasure of all.

Pero was born in Galicia, and his entry into our world was what harried his dear mother into the next. Motherless, the babe Pero was given to a cousin to care for him, though she had her own children and gave Pero only the remainder of anything she had. Pero’s father, a brute of a blacksmith, was dispatched by a horse’s kick to the head when Pero was just a boy, and so he found himself an orphan.

The cousin’s house was meanly built, and the cousin’s husband was a miser who counted every peseta thrice before tucking it away in the pouch he always kept on his person. Pero was often cold, more often hungry, and when he reached the age of ten, he heard of a boy’s army that was forming to retake the Holy Land for the Christians.

Pero ran away from the cousin’s house, and while he never made it to Levant, he found that he had a talent for survival in the rough company of sell-swords, and it became his life for the next decades.

Unlike his fellow sell-swords, though, Pero had a talent for saving his coin. His compatriots caroused, whored, drank themselves stupid the moment a coin crossed their palm.

Pero? Perhaps he had learned a lesson from the cousin’s miserly husband. He held his coin, he spent little beyond the care of himself and his horse, and he saved. He had an idea to leave his life as a sell-sword before he lost it, to retire to some quiet green place and toil in the earth for whatever years remained to him.

To this end, he kept his coin safe with a certain prior in a certain priory. For a portion of what Pero earned, the prior tucked away the rest and guarded it, kept it protected in an iron box secured with a cunning lock that only he had the key to.

Pero saw much of God’s earth and beyond: into the Emirate of Mosul, the Buyid Emirate, where leagues of golden sand stretched beyond one’s vision, and where a lush green paradise could be found over the next rise. Then Sena, Bagan, the Kingdom of Bali—where he could not fathom the tongues in which they spoke, but where work could be found, as it seemed men across all lands always needed swords for coin. Then further east where the Song Dynasty ruled, and here Pero faced monsters from Revelation and survived.

With the coin he earned from fighting beasts, Pero calculated that he had enough now to retire from this life. He could find a patch of land and till it. He could hitch his warhorse to a plow and plant seeds that would sustain him, and when it was time for him to die, he could lay down in the furrows and pass with the blue firmament over his head.

-----

When Pero returned to the priory to collect his accumulated wealth, however, he found that disaster had struck.

The old prior, a gentle and pious man, had died, and his successor was the son of a bishop, a wastrel and spendthrift whose first order of business had been to set an inventory of the prior’s wealth. This inventory included the iron box where Pero's savings where stored.

The new prior's second order of business was to take that wealth and spend it on sinful pursuits.

Which meant Pero found himself with little beyond the payment from the Song people, a handful of treasures from his journeys, and a stretch of long years in front of him where he’d have to continue selling his sword to survive.

-----

Which was how Pero found himself outside of the Holy Roman Empire, to the east where the people spoke Latin but with a thick tongue, where many kept with the old gods and customs, and where the borders changed every fortnight as men grappled for land, consolidated their holding of scattered tribes and strongholds into what would pass for a kingdom or duchy further west.

Pero took work that winter, guarding the storehouse of a league of merchants who strove to protect their wares from both marauders and quarreling nobles alike. In this way, Pero came to understand the local tongue and customs, and he learned of the Princeling named Radomil, whose eldest half-brother had just died.

“They say Radomil murdered his kin as he slept,” spat one man in a tavern. “Just as he slayed his own father, years before.”

Another man lifted his hand, two fingers forked to ward off the Devil. “There will be hard times ahead, should he gain control.”

In this way, by keeping his head down and his ears open, Pero came to learn of the cowardly murderous Prince Radomil, now King. He came to learn that the people feared what this murderous king may do to his half-sister.

In some way that Pero would never learn, though, King Radomil came to learn of him in turn, and within a score of days, Pero found himself summoned to the squat stone fortress for an audience with the new King.

-----

The proposal was simple, once it was put to Pero in a tongue he could grasp better.

King Radomil wanted to see his half-sister wed. A kindness, it was said, in light of her recent loss. She was a widow with a small babe, and King Radomil in his infinite love and benevolence, saw fit to arrange such a match. Pero had been measured and found just such a match.

Pero, always blunt, asked, “why me?”

The King’s advisor talked at length, and though Pero was not especially versed in court intrigue, he knew enough of flattery and lies when he heard it.

“You are a noble man,” the advisor said, bowing his head at Pero. “We have it on good authority that you are descended from the family of Alfonso el Monje, King of León. Ancient blood proves out, despite your meager circumstances now.”

When Pero tried to argue and claim that he was from Galicia, son of a drunkard blacksmith, the advisor waved him away.

“We have priests who have studied your lineage and found it to not be so,” he said.

It was only later that evening that another advisor, an older man with a bald pate but a long beard set Pero straight in hushed tones and darting glances.

“The King cannot kill his sister,” he told Pero. “She is beloved by the people, and the killing of a woman would unravel his already tenuous hold on the region.”

“Why kill her at all?” Pero remembered that the sister was a widow, and he imagined an old woman, hunched back, white hair tucked under a veil. He could not fathom the risk she posed, but then again, he was in unfamiliar lands.

“She is a tool that others would use. Her father the King was beloved as well, and her mother had an ancient claim to royalty in her own right. The Princess could be snatched up by a rival for the throne, and her blood could bolster any claim. But if her brother the King could marry her off to a nobody, no one else could claim her.”

Pero remembered a certain game from his journey to the east, a way for the idle to while away the hours. It was war in miniature, a board with pieces, and while he watched it played many times, Pero never quite grasped how to win at shatranj. But he knew enough to recognize it now.

“Marrying her to me would remove her from the field,” Pero replied, understanding at last.

The old advisor nodded. “And it would keep her alive. Consider it seriously, Tovar. You would save not just her life but the life of her babe, and you would come out of it a wealthy man. You could claim her inheritance that her mother the Queen left her.”

“What inheritance?”

The old advisor glanced into the shadows, then said, “on her mother’s side, she is nobility. There is a handsome manor far from here, further north, that belongs to the Princess. It would be yours, should you marry her.”

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be married.

-----

The marriage took place on a rainy evening, and the ceremonies were doubled: one performed in the Latin rite by a priest in a grease-stained cassock, the other performed by a wise-man of the local custom. The latter, it must be said, was more boisterous—it involved winding a cord around the hand of the Princess and Pero’s, linking the two together in the eyes of the local gods. Then, to seal it, a feast where Pero and the Princess fed each other and gave each other drink. The drink was a local concoction, dark plum spirits that went down easier with each subsequent sip.

The Princess only took a mouthful when Pero held the cup to her mouth.

Pero took deep swallows and drained the cup when she held it to his.

Then there was dancing, and the dancing led to the great hall spinning, and from the spinning Pero found himself being carried away, up and floating away from the music, borne by the king’s men. When he turned his head, he saw the Princess - his wife - being borne away beside him, the newlyweds floating, and he did not realize—as she did—that this was the bedding ceremony.

How could Pero know? He had never laid with a woman before.

*****

You understood your circumstances.

You have always understood your circumstances.

Your mother died when you were young. Too young to make any memories of her beyond a general impression of loveliness, of gentleness before the fever took her and your unborn sister to the underworld. Your father remarried soon after, and he had a son with your stepmother, but she was a scheming woman, grasping, and your circumstances were clear forever after.

Your father, at least, lived long enough to marry you off to an ally. Your first husband had been much older, silver in his beard, but kind. Extraordinarily kind, in fact, and you wondered sometimes if your father knew he had given you to a man who made you a woman gently, who made you a mother to his daughter just as gently, and who died from an ague only last summer.

It was the only time he hurt you, dying as he did.

Your second husband? Well, you understood your circumstances. You knew it was a farce, a noble lineage hung on the shoulders of a sell-sword. You knew your brother’s motives when he and his advisors found you and informed you of your impending marriage. You knew it would keep you safe, being tucked away with some rough peasant, but as you observed this Tovar—his rough looks, his rougher manner—you wondered if death would perhaps be a kinder fate.

-----

Like your first marriage, you did not properly meet your intended until the ceremonies themselves.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not seem to understand the potency of the rakija. Unless he was a drunkard as well as a sell-sword.

Like your first marriage, you did not properly exchange a word beyond the ceremonies until you were locked in the chamber for the bedding ceremony.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not say, as your first husband had, “please trust in me, little princess. I will do you no harm.”

Instead, this Tovar stared at you, swayed on his feet, and mumbled, “fuck, how did this happen?”

Your first marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with far more pleasure than pain—the former a revelation that your body could produce such sensations, and the latter just a faint ache between your legs.

Your second marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with neither pleasure nor pain. You left it with confusion, at first, then understanding, then a bemusement that would one day cede to love.

This Tovar understood enough to undress himself. He shed the embroidered surcoat, the fine-woven shirt, the doe-skin trousers. The linen smallclothes. He stood before you unabashed, naked, swaying still on his feet. His manhood stood to proud attention, and you studied him. He was not unappealing, you thought, so long as he didn’t spew from the drink.

But he made no further move, and you lifted your hands to undress yourself too. You lifted away the headdress sewn with seed pearls and small gems. The outer robe, heavy with brocade. The inner dress, the woolen slippers, then the shift, and you stood as proudly as you could but felt a shyness overtake you, so you wrapped your arm around yourself and hid what you could.

Perhaps you misunderstood the sell-sword, though. A man, you thought, would take what was his, but this Tovar only stared at you—his cock twitching—and he made no further move.

“Perhaps,” you said, tentative. “We could lie down on the bed?”

He nodded and gestured for you to lead. You stretched out on the coverlet, but when he joined you, he only laid beside you, like two corpses in the tomb. The moment grew long, and there was no noise other than each of you breathing and the distant merriment of the wedding feast in the great hall.

“Tovar, we must…you must bed me for it to be legal,” you finally told him. Quietly, though. He was drunk, and you knew enough of men to know that drunkenness made them violent. And at your words, he shook his head and turned to face you, and his expression was dark.

“Pero,” he whispered harshly. “My given name is Pero.”

“P-Pero.” You didn’t mean to stammer, but his face was like a thundercloud, like the storm god that men worshiped here—

Saying his name made his expression soften in an instant, though. The thunderhead passed, and his face was like dawn’s light.

“My mother named me Pero,” he explained. “Tovar is what my father gave me.”

“Your mother…is she kind?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh.” You bit your lip and studied him; the darkness was edging back into his expression, so you added, “mine is dead too.”

“Mine died in my birthing.”

“Mine died when I was young, as she birthed my sister.” You paused, added, “she died too.”

Pero’s eyes had a glassy quality to them, whether it be the drink or the sorrow of his mother, so you reminded him, just as gently, that the bedding ceremony needed to be complete before your brother the Usurper would let you both leave. Before he returned your young daughter to you and let the three of you leave for your mother’s homeland.

To aid Pero, you reached out a hand to him, thinking you could lead him to you, but he misunderstood. He took your hand in his, much like at the wedding ceremony, and he raised it to his mouth. His mustache tickled against your skin as he pressed wet kisses to the back of it, to your wrist, to the inside of your forearm.

His kisses were sloppy, like a child playing at love. You thought it was the drink.

Little by little, you led him, or tried to. An hour passed, you judged from where the tall tapers burned in their pewter holders. Each moment saw the man get nowhere closer to consummating the thing; he only pressed his mouth to your hands and arms, and when he got breathless, which was often, he gazed over at you. Sometimes he touched your face with his calloused fingertips, and once he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in your unbound hair, but the time passed, and you felt your daughter—your freedom, your life—slipping away bit by bit.

“For the love of the gods, man,” you finally snapped. “Finish the thing!”

It made Pero rear back his head from where he nuzzled against you, and his expression was not thunderous so much as baleful.

“It is uncharted waters,” he muttered.

“The terrain from one woman to another is much the same, I imagine,” you retorted, then you reached for him in earnest, took him by his shoulder and urged him to climb onto you, which he did, clumsily. It felt so much the same, though, the warm touch of another’s body against yours, and the first real flower of desire bloomed in you.

“Perhaps,” you thought, “this may be a successful marriage.”

But Pero seemed confused still, still too addled by the strong plum brandy, and he moved awkwardly, muttered near your ear that he could map the hillocks and dales of this territory, but was unsure of the way home—

“Here,” you breathed into his ear, and your hand found where he strained, hot and heavy and ready to join to you. You took him by the root and tried to lead him to you, but your touch alone made him groan against your neck, made him mutter some word you didn’t know, and then you felt him go rigid above you.

Your second bedding ceremony, then: your new husband’s slack weight against you, his spend, hastily given from the mere touch of your palm, cooling against your hip.

Still, it was enough for your brother the Usurper and his flock of advisors in their dusty, moth-eaten robes. The usual inspection of the bedchamber come morning, the usual sly smiles and off-hand jokes…and then you were away, your daughter restored to your arms and your new husband—and his aching head—off to the lands of your mother.

-----

“What is her name?” Pero asked, startling you out of your thoughts. When you glanced at him, he nodded at your daughter dozing against your side.

“Vesna,” you replied. “It means ‘dawn.’”

He stared at you both for a long moment, this woman and her daughter that he got at a bargain.

“Her father…was he a good man?”

You nodded. “He was.”

“How did he die?”

You turned away and looked at the landscape from the narrow window of the carriage. “A fever took him.

“You cared for him?”

You nodded again. “I did.”

Pero made a noise at that, a grumble at the back of his throat that you couldn’t discern the meaning of. “Why did you care for him?”

“Why would you ask?” It was an impossible question to answer anyway, how you cared for your first husband and why. Because he was strong and wise, but gentle in equal measure. That he sat in council with your father, then your elder brother, his face stern and grave, then returned home and played with your daughter, pulled faces and allowed her to ride him as a pony, her small chubby fists tugging at his hair.

Pero must have heard the edge in your voice, because he answered softly, “I only hope to model my behavior on his own.” He paused. “I’ve never had a wife. I should like to do well by you.”

Vesna grumbled in her sleep and turned deeper in your side before she settled. “Will you do well by her too, Tovar?”

“Pero,” he corrected you gently. “And I would. I would be a father to her, and I would have her call me father as I would call her daughter.”

You laughed, the bitterness heavy in your mouth. “Sweet words, until you have a child of your own. Once you have your own blood, you’ll seek to cast her away.”

The man scowled but shook his head. “You have the wrong of it, wife.”

“I’ve yet to meet a person in a second marriage to do otherwise.”

“But you’ve met me,” he snapped. “And I am not your father’s second wife, nor her treacherous son.” His face softened, that ebb and flow of darkness that you recognized now from your wedding night. “I am just a blacksmith’s son, an orphan in my own right. I would not make an orphan of her, no matter what you think.”

He sounded so injured, stung from your accusation that you nodded at his words, then reached across the carriage and laid a soft hand on his arm.

“Peace, Pero,” you replied. “I meant no harm.”

“No one would blame you if you did. But I will prove you wrong, with both her—” Here, he jerked his chin in the direction of your sleeping daughter. “And with our own children. My hands may have slain many men, but I would cradle any child of yours, or any child of ours, as softly as a bird’s egg.”

You could not help the smile. “You have a gift of language, husband.”

He smiled back, though it looked uncertain, like he was unfamiliar with the motion of lifting his lips into the expression.

“Perhaps you already carry my child,” he said, a bit shyly. His gaze drifted to your belly under its thick woolen cloak. “Perhaps I bred you on our wedding night.”

You could not help the laugh this time. “I think not.”

At that, his smile fled. “Why not?”

“Because…” You watched him, uncertain. Perhaps he had been so drunk he didn’t realize. “Because you did not…complete the act.”

“I did!”

You shook your head. “Pero, you drank so much, I trust you must not remember, but you did not.”

“I…” He hesitated, glanced at Vesna to see that she was still fast asleep. He dropped his voice to a rough whisper. “Wife, I spilled my seed. I remember as much. The King’s advisors confirmed as much.”

“You did, but outside of me. Not inside.”

You realized it far too late, but you would be forgiven for never considering it. How many men had you ever known to enter their marriages as virgins? Especially a sell-sword who had traveled the world, who had likely been tempted by women of all shades and hues, of all sizes and temperaments.

You realized it when Pero, your husband, looked at you. Bewildered, he asked, “does not that count, wife?”

-----

“I do not understand how you could not know,” you told him that evening. You were lodged in a lord’s house, a friend of your late father, and Vesna had been tucked into her cot in an adjoining room.

“I did not.” Pero sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed. He looked much like a petulant child, not unlike Vesna when she was in a sulk.

“But you are a grown man, and you’ve kept rough company.”

“I have fought with rough company and traveled with rough company, but I’ve never fucked with rough company.”

You winced at the crude word for it. “You have never laid with even a woman for coin? Not once? Or some sweetheart, back in León?”

“Galicia,” he muttered. “And no. I fled home before I could grow hair on my balls, and I held my coin too dear to waste it on pretend love.”

“And you never traveled with a woman, perhaps? You were never tempted in the rough travel to curl up with a woman—”

“The only women that ever traveled with us were whores and wives. I would not waste my coin on the first and I would not waste my life on the second.”

You were unsure how to proceed. True, your marriage was not consummated, but that hardly registered with you. You did not know this Pero Tovar, in truth, beyond the handful of days you had spent together on the road. You knew little—just the few conversations, but it was more of his actions that spoke to who he was.

There was a moment early in the journey, just a half day’s ride out, that he had caught Vesna when her little boot caught in the carriage step. How Pero had swept her up, some fatherly instinct that made it a game for the little girl, a moment to pretend she was flying instead of stumbling.

When you fell asleep and woke to find his cloak tucked around you.

When you entered an unproven tavern for a late meal, how Pero had stood between you and Vesna and the rest of the room, like a loyal cur protecting its flock.

He was rough in his ways, but there was a gentleness to him, and it was as much what he didn’t do—he got drunk on your wedding night and had been as gentle as a lamb. And now, this line of questioning that frustrated him—he only sat and sulked with his arms crossed, when many men would strike you for being so blunt with his discomfort.

Pero Tovar, you wondered, could perhaps simply be a gentle man who fell into a rough life, and shouldn’t you foster that gentleness, now that he was yours?

“Husband, will you let me show you?” you asked quietly, and when his eyes found yours, you smiled at him. You held out your hands, and after a moment of hesitation, he took them in his own. His calloused hands, only recently washed of all the blood they had spilled.

“Please, wife,” he replied. “Please do.”

-----

The first time that night, it was much like the bedding ceremony: the moment your hand found Pero’s cock, he groaned, then erupted in your palm.

This time, though, he was sober enough to know what had happened.

“Shit!” he hissed, and he rolled away from you. You sensed that this was a defining moment in your marriage, the entire enterprise teetering on a knife’s edge. Fall one way, a life of stilted exchanges, closed-off conversations, miscommunications. Fall the other way?

“Pero, please.” You took a cloth from near the bed and wiped your hand, then reached for his deflated manhood. You wiped him off gently, and you smiled to feel the answering twitch to it, even so soon afterwards.

“The gods did not make us like dogs, rutting in the street, with only one chance in a while,” you whispered to him. “We can rest and try again, as many times as we like.”

“Did your other husband spill like a boy?” he asked, his voice an angry growl. You sensed better the way this may fall, how Pero seemed to compare himself to your first husband and found himself wanting.

“My other husband had been married before,” you replied. You set the soiled cloth aside, and you laid your hand on the side of Pero’s face so you could look him in the eyes. He avoided your gaze, so you sighed and stroked his hair back from his face, ran your thumb over his bristly cheek. And Pero, cur that he was, turned into your touch despite his low mood.

“I was not my husband’s first wife,” you explained. “He and his first wife had many years together, until she died from a wasting disease. But he was patient with me, and he taught me, just as I will be patient with you. Just as I will teach you.”

“It is a poor husband who must be taught by his wife.”

You hummed thoughtful at that, then leaned forward to press your lips to his. You let your breasts brush over his bare arm, and you took in the sharp inhale he made at the touch.

“Such a poor husband,” you chanced to tease. “Yet such fun in the teaching, hmm?”

“Did I marry a princess or a temptress?” he grumbled back, but there was a teasing tone to his voice.

“Perhaps you should take her counsel and decide for yourself.”

Pero turned onto his side and faced you, and his eyes finally sought yours. “I would be a good husband to you,” he said. “I would be a man who could give you pleasure.”

“Would you be humble enough for your wife to teach you then?”

He nodded, and his eyes grew darker with desire.

“Consider me humble. Consider me your pupil.” His voice fell to a lower register, and it sent a frisson of heat through you.

-----

Your lessons, as you came to call them, were strenuously applied and practiced until the pupil became a master in his own right.

You taught him the pleasure of simple touch: of feather-light strokes and firm grasping, of where to caress and where to lightly pinch, where to soothe and where to worry.

You taught him how to use his mouth—such a sulking, pouting mouth with such full lips, and with such a wicked tongue. You taught him how to suckle and lick, how to lap against which parts of you, and you taught him how to kiss with more skill and finesse than that first night together.

You taught him too how to receive the pleasure you could give him beyond the mating. You used your own hands and mouth in turn, and by the time he strained against you again, his cock ruddy and leaking from its broad tip, Pero was a panting, pleading mess.

“Please, wife,” he cried against your shoulder as you stroked him, then stopped, then stroked him again. “Please, show me—”

“Here.” You took his hand and led him to the place between your thighs, let him feel where he should seat himself. “Just here, husband.”

“It is slippery, your cunt,” he whispered, his voice wracked with awe. His blunt finger prodded at you, slipped inside, and his groan was a twin to your own.

“It m-makes the joining easier.”

Pero slid more of his finger inside you, then pulled it out, then sunk it back in. A preview, you supposed, from your eager pupil. You moaned again when he added a second finger, and you felt his eyes on you, peering down at you.

“Does that give you pleasure?” he asked without a bit of guile.

You nodded. It did.

He furrowed his brow. “I would mount you now, but I may spill too soon.”

“I would not care a whit, Pero. We have the time to master it together.”

He nodded, then pulled his fingers from you. He made to climb between your legs, and you parted them for him, spread yourself wide to fit him in the cradle of your hips. When he lowered himself, you felt his cock brush against you, and he reached down to grasp himself.

It only took him two tries. Just as you opened your mouth to guide him, he found your entrance, and then he pushed into you, the searing heat of him finally inside you. Pero groaned to feel you, but he did not spill—he stilled once he was buried in your depths, and he lifted his head to gaze down at you. The look on his face was somewhere between stupefaction and bliss, and you imagined you looked much the same.

“There,” you told him, brushing your fingertips over the planes of his handsome face. “Now we are wed, husband.”

*****

In this way, Pero Tovar became a man in love, who was loved in turn by his wife. Their journey to her mother’s homeland lost much of its earlier speed, and it took them far longer to arrive. Their servants—the carriage driver, the footman, the guards and lady’s maid, and child’s nurse—could guess the reason for their delay. After all, Pero and his wife were newlyweds, and they often stayed abed until late in the morning, though no one supposed they slept.

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be a father, the seed planted on that journey quickening in his wife’s belly months later. The daughter that followed thereafter, and the sons that came after that, and then a final daughter who looked so much like her father that despite the name her parents chose for her, she was forever known as Peročka.

True to his word, Pero never treated little Vesna as anything other than his own child. It had to be said that when the girl was grown and married off to a boy in a nearby city, Pero was the one who openly wept at the loss of her.

In the tales of this time, once the dragon is slain or the kingdom regained or the treasure earned, the tale ends. And so should ours, except to remind that Pero Tovar had traveled the known world only to end up with a treasure beyond compare in his wife and the family they created together. He never found the life he sought for himself—that spot of green land, dirt to furrow, plants to coax into life. Instead, he found a better life with a wife and children, with a community of people who came to value his wisdom…though he did end up with a garden where he tended to a grove of small plum trees and distilled their sweet fruits into a brandy that young men often toasted with on their wedding days.

If there is a lesson to Pero Tovar’s story, then, it’s this: sometimes the life we desire is not the life we need.

And to add that when his wife died from a wasting disease when only a bit of silver threaded through her hair, Pero spared no expense in building her the finest stone crypt to hold her bones. He had her dressed in the gown she wore to marry him so long ago. In her hair, he tucked the small jade and enamel comb that had somehow survived his journey from the Far East when he fought monsters in another life entirely. As was the custom in his adopted home, his children and grandchildren took hawthorn branches—in full bloom, as his beloved wife died in spring—and laid them in the crypt with her.

And to add too, when Pero himself died from a fever years later, his children and grandchildren dressed him in his finest tunic and opened the crypt so he could be laid beside his beloved. As was the custom, they took hawthorn branches —laden with red berries, as he died in the autumn—and laid them in the crypt with him.

And to add finally, Vesna, by then a mother in her own right, reached into the crypt and adjusted the two bodies so that their hands were clasped in their eternal rest. How could she do otherwise? They had loved each other fiercely in this life, and she prayed to the gods that they would do so in the next life too. Her mother and her father both, and she did not hide the tears that fell as her brothers and husband slid the heavy stone lid in place, sealing both Pero and his beloved in their shared tomb.

*****

He only has a single evening, and the surfeit of options in D.C. paralyzes him with choice. The Phillips Collection? The Renwick Gallery? Or the National Gallery of Art?

He mentions it to Ruiz, who laughs and says, “c’mon, man. The National Gallery, obviously.”

“I’d like something a little more off the beaten path,” Marcus replies.

Ruiz studies him, thinks on it. Finally says, “you know, I know a woman over there. She’s curating this huge exhibit that’s coming out next year. You want something unique, why don’t I set you up?”

“The exhibit isn’t even up yet?”

Ruiz waves him off. “Nah, but it might be fun to see how the sausage is made, right?”

-----

Which is how FBI Agent Marcus Pike comes to meet you. Ruiz is on your bar trivia team (he’s your ace in the hole on sports trivia), and when he calls with a favor, the call on speaker between Ruiz and Marcus, you happily agree to show him around your budding exhibit.

“It’s called ‘Stronger than Death,’” you tell him after you hold your hand out to shake. “After the Thomas Mann quote. ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’ Which is cheesy, admittedly, but it’s my first big solo exhibit I’m pulling together, and it’s the culmination of years of research and work.”

Marcus smiles. “I don’t think it’s cheesy at all.”

“Tell Tony that.”

“Eh, Ruiz is just jaded.” Marcus follows you into the storage area where some crates have already been unloaded and unpacked. “Tell me about this exhibit. Ruiz said it already has a lot of buzz.”

If Marcus thought your smile was lovely when you introduced yourself, he finds it utterly beautiful now, because you are passionate about your exhibit. An intersection of art and architecture and history, across time and distance, focused on the two most human emotions, you explain: love and grief.

“No matter when or where, it’s the two constants, you know?” You gesture widely, taking in the breadth of the crates, but even further too: the breadth of human history across the globe. “If you’re talking about humans in fourteenth century Iran or Berber tribes in the twelfth century or a Lutheran and Catholic couple during the heart of reformation, the story is the same. The details change, but the love is the same, and the grief when death comes is the same.”

“So the exhibit is…” Marcus trails off, and you take a deep breath. You’ve gone breathless in your explanation, a fact that charms him. Then you continue. Your exhibit is everything that encompasses that central idea of grief when love is ended by death, and how grief is an outpouring of that endless love. You have everything from big pieces to ephemera. There’s Victorian memorial photography. There’s a gravestone from a Catholic cemetery that edged against a Protestant one, the stone bridging the two graves because neither church allowed the couple to be buried together. There’s a letter found in a grave from the 1500’s in Korea, where the woman pours out her grief and love for her husband who is buried there.

You show him the artifacts already unpacked and catalogued. You hand him a pair of cotton gloves and allow him to touch some of the sturdier pieces, and you’ve pulled him into your wavelength because as he touches each piece, he feels weak in the knees, heavy with kinship he feels with strangers separated from him by centuries and thousands of miles.

“Here’s an interesting piece,” you tell him, and you lead him to a smaller crate that’s been opened, its packing material piled in a small snowdrift around the box. On the table beside it, there’s a smaller box. You open it and pull out a delicate-looking piece, and Marcus holds out his palm, flat. You lay it there, and he studies it in the light.

“Jade?”

You hum in agreement. “And enamel. It’s consistent with craftsmanship from the Song Dynasty.”

Marcus reaches back through his memory to his eastern histories and civilizations course. “Is that…. eleven hundred A.D.?”

“In part. It lasted over three hundred years.”

Marcus peers at it closer. “It’s amazingly preserved.”

“It was found in a grave in Latvia last year.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Seriously? How?”

“Trade wasn’t unheard of then, east from west. It was far more popular in the Holy Roman Empire, though. This part of Latvia was rural in that period. A collection of city-states and loosely-stitched tribes.”

“The comb must have been buried later then.”

You shake your head and take the comb from him, lie it gently back in its box. “That’s the story. It was buried around the year one thousand A.D. Archeologists found the grave five years ago. A bunch of kids were riding dirt bikes around the countryside in Latvia. One kid hits something, goes flying. It turns out it was a stone, but when they look at it, it’s carved. Too square, right? Has markings on it. It turns out, it’s this perfectly preserved medieval town. The archeologists did all their digging and carbon testing. They are still digging, honestly. But it looks like through soil samples, the best theory is that a tributary to the Daugava flooded at some point in twelve-hundred A.D and buried the entire place.”

“I never heard about it.”

You snort. “Yeah, a rare well-preserved medieval village will never hit the front page when there’s war and political scandals.”

You reach for a large envelope on the table and open it. You pull out a sheaf of photos, high resolution, and Marcus sees the link between the delicate jade comb and the overall theme of your exhibit.

The photos show the grave, a carved stone tomb that the river mud preserved for nearly a thousand years. It is simple by today’s standards, but Marcus can guess the care and expense of it. There are flowers and trees carved into the lid of it, a flat-faced woman who was probably a saint or local goddess to the time.

Then the photos cede to shots inside the opened grave. Again, the river buried the village and preserved it for Marcus and you to stare at it now: the pair of skeletons, on their sides and facing each other, their empty eye sockets seeming to stare at each other, the tiny bones of their hands a jumble as they were clearly buried together.

“They died together,” Marcus muses. “Plague, maybe?”

You shrug. “Who can say? But if it’s plague, it was several years apart. That’s why I’m putting them in the eastern corner of my exhibit. The archeologists spent a lot of time on this tomb, since it’s such a rare find. The skeleton on the left was a woman, roughly forty years old when she died. She was buried with the comb, and the archeologists found hawthorn branches with her.”

You tap the other side of the photo. “This one was a man, died around his sixties. Also buried with hawthorn branches.”

“So, how do we know they were buried at different times?”

“That’s the punchline. Archeologists found flower petals on her branches, but berries on his. They were buried at different times of the year, at least. Which means that the tomb was reopened to put the latter one in, and they were turned to face each other. Their hands were clasped together. It’s significant, especially when records seem to indicate that many burials of that time and place were cremations.”

Marcus turns to the next photo, a closeup of the hands. Sure enough, he can see the dusty, dried remnants of blossoms, the wizened berries. His eyes drift to their hands, the delicate bones a jumble to where he could not tell who’s belonged to which skeleton.

“Can you imagine the love they must have had for each other? First to build such an elaborate tomb for such a rural area that likely lacked craftsmen of this caliber. To choose to bury instead of cremating. And then to reopen the tomb and place the second body in, to turn them towards each other instead of facing up to face heaven or down to face the underworld. The jade comb is only a device to open the story, but the real story is the most common one across time. It’s love, and grief when the love is ended by death.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice low. “Sad, but beautiful.”

“We’ll never know their names, you know? We’ll never know what they looked like, or even really what language they spoke. If they had children or what they did. But we know…” You pause, take a breath. “We know they loved each other, and they died but the proof of that love can be witnessed by us a millennium later. And here we are with smart phones and airplanes and dating apps, but if you boil us down, we are just the same as them. Exactly the same.”

What can Marcus say to that? He agrees with you completely. When your voice cracks on the word exactly, his own throat grows a lump in it. He’s always been a romantic anyway, but the scope and scale of this project makes him feel like he could easily be pushed into tearing up too.

“This exhibit is going to be amazing,” he finally tells you. “Honestly. People are going to love it.”

You grin at him, and your eyes are a little glazed with tears, but Marcus wonders what would push you to take such an interest in this topic. Many curators home in on a much narrower niche, but yours is universal, so broad it could be sloppy or unfocused. But you seem to be taking a broad cross-section of artifacts, an attentive lens at different times and places and cultures.

“Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.” You turn and slide the photographs back into their envelope. “Ruiz didn’t say much about why you wanted to check this out.”

Marcus follows you out of the storeroom. “I didn’t, really. I’m only in town for the evening. I fly out in the morning.”

“Where to?”

“Texas. I live there. I’m just in town for an interview.”

You lead him back to your office where his coat is stashed, and you hand it to him. You grab your own, grab your purse, and lock up. Together, you walk out of the building and into the evening. D.C. glitters: it must have rained while you were inside, and the lights sparkle on the wet pavement and buildings. You walk together for a few blocks, chatting amiably.

“Ruiz said you were FBI too?”

“Yeah, I’m in the Art Squad.”

You laugh. “Art Squad. I love it. You armed with an FBI-issued oil pastel?”

When Marcus starts to explain that he investigates stolen art and artifacts, you elbow him gently and cut him off. “I was teasing. I know what you do.”

He chuckles, shakes his head. He can feel his face flush a bit. “Anyway, there’s an open position here, and I thought it might be a good move, career-wise.” He pauses. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Texas to D.C. It could be a fun move.”

He agrees, but before he can stop himself, he’s talking about Teresa, how he has fallen in love, how he has a ring picked out and an idea of proposing—and you listen to it, nodding sympathetically, cooing when he sings Teresa’s virtues. Agreeing when he says his life is finally shaping out the way he always wanted: career and love, both moving forward in wonderful ways.

“That’s really great,” you reply. “I’m happy for you.”

He feels slightly asshole-ish, rambling about his life. He asks, more charitably, “what about you? Married?”

You laugh, a dry single ‘ha.’ “No.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.” You glance at him. “Let’s just say I’m married to my work and leave it at that.”

He lifts his palms in surrender and in apology. “Fair. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” You pause. “But Teresa sounds great, and you’re lovely, so when the two of you come to D.C., look me up and you’ll give you both a private tour, okay?”

Marcus smiles at the thought of him and Teresa together in the capitol, hand in hand at your wonderful exhibit. “Deal.”

You stop in your tracks and point at the intersection. “I’m this way. It was really nice to meet you, Marcus.”

He holds out his hand and you take it. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I enjoyed it.”

“For one of Ruiz’s buddies? Anytime. And for real—you and your girl. Private tour, on me.”

The private tour, obviously, will never happen with Marcus and Teresa. Marcus will move to D.C. and Teresa will never follow. He’ll go through a dark period that he assumes will last the rest of his life, but it hardly lasts at all because by then, the city is plastered with advertisements for your exhibit, which is as big as Marcus predicted.

The private tour will happen with just Marcus, and it will hit different to see it laid out with the lighting, the flow, the signage.

It will hit different considering his recent breakup and recent heartache.

It will hit different when he shakes your hand again, when he takes in your soft, steady voice as you explain every artifact, as you offer him that lovely smile that turns beautiful as you talk about your work.

And it will hit different as you lead him through the history of love and grief, the history of what makes him no different from, say, a man who lived and loved and died a thousand years earlier. A man, perhaps, who thought his life would venture into one direction but instead went in another: how the life he desired was not the life he needed, but how it ended in love all the same.

In that way, Marcus and Pero, separated by a millennium are the same.

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and #tropes and tales #pero tovar #pero tovar imagine #pero tovar x reader #the great wall

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