#so proud of this mujer

[chronically-ghosted]

iron and charcoal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All in the time in the world – for what? 

To fail? Again?

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

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

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

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

“It’s unlocked, Pero.” 

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the longer without you.

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

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

“He finds them all beautiful.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

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

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

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bows to you.

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

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

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

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

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

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

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.” 

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

“What did you say?”

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

Fuck it. 

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

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

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

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pero, I –,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unless you don’t want –,” 

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

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, oh, Pero—,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me, Tovar!”

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

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

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

“Have you had your fun yet?” 

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

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

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

“You are everything to me.”

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

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

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

“I know, ranita, I know.” 

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

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+

Translations:

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

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

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

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

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

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

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

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

[ribbonprincess]

can you do a fic rafe x latina reader where he meets her family and everyone’s like shocked she’s dating a white boy but they absolutely adore him😭💕💕💕

note: this is such a cute idea!!😭🫶🏻

⋆𐙚₊🐚⊹♡

You're standing next to Rafe on the doorstep of your family's house,a hand wrapped securely around his bicep as he has his own hold on your waist. "okay,you just be...you but a little calmer and you'll be fine,okay? they can be a bit intimidating but I promise they're nice and fun!" Rafe's nod, taking one last deep breath while you ring the doorbell,your uncle is the one to answer the door "oh,Mija! come in" he smiles,bringing you into a hug before noticing Rafe's presence "and who's this?"

"uncle...this is my boyfriend Rafe" you smile,letting the pair stare at each other for a second before your uncle's bringing him into a hug "nice to you meet you,I'm Miguel aka the favorite uncle!" You chuckle to yourself,dragging Rafe around to meet anyone else,they all have similar reactions,a bit surprised at first but immediately warms up...there's only one person you're scared and impatient to let meet Rafe,your abuela.

"abuela... ¿Cómo estás?" your grandma beams happily at your presence quickly smothering you in kisses and big hugs,talking about how "you've gotten so pretty mi amor!una verdadera mujer!" you smile at her,moving to the side to make Rafe noticeable,which is not hard thanks to his height and build. "abuela..this is my boyfriend,his name is Rafe."

Your grandma is scrutinizing him,looking him up and down with squinted eyes and a tilted head as she slowly approaches him "hm..do you like spicy food, Rafe?" she asks him, Rafe quickly throws a glance at you,getting just a shrug of your shoulders as an answer before he nods."Yeah...I really like spicy food" "good...good,come with me" she says,dragging him to the kitchen with a proud smile "you chose a good one darling!" she shouts over her shoulder before disappearing with your boyfriend.

[thewriterg]

𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭

pairing(s): earth 42! Miles Morales x fem!reader, Miles Morales x poc!reader

summary: Overworked and burnt out was an understatement everything was going so well with your internship until you were forced with schedule you could barely handle and Miles is there to take pressure off your shoulders

word count: 1.1k+

request: hi! if requests are open can i pls get one w earth 42 miles who he’s comforting after a long shift they had??

warning(s): Miles is about 18 senior in this, rusty spanish, reader is ready to drop dead, mentions of blood work, child labor?, pet names, kisses, and language

A/n:—GIFs; @lekeyeh24 & @jthmstims—

You stood outside the door of your apartment taking your badge and putting it against the door when you didn’t hear the usual ‘click’ you did it once more the line of thin rope it was on from the retractable keychain until you finally noticed you were home

It was very rare to get the internship you got as high schooler you’d been hoping for since your freshman year and when you application got accepted to work in a phlebotomy lab to get your CPT and make very decent money to be a senior you along with everyone who knew you personally was ecstatic

Your mom and dad had threw a celebration party on your rooftop inviting a few good friends, family members, and of course Rio and Miles the boy couldn’t be more proud of you showing you with more than enough gifts to last you until holiday season

The sudden urge to bash your head against the door was very prominent as you realized you were home and not at the lab as you fished through one of your many unnecessarily full bags to grab your keys unlocking your door one of the biggest gifts Miles gifted you had been the apartment he saw you looking at over your shoulder one day switching between the housing app and your Pinterest board for home inspiration

You deemed the second biggest gift both of your parents allowing you to move in together as high school seniors even if you were legally adults

But thankfully Rio and your parents agreed after much pleading and convincing that it would be a good thing for the both of you and the start of your adulthood even if they threatened you with everything under the sun if you made them grandparents

As you entered your home Miles was up from his position on the couch taking your bags from your hands and arms scolding you as he shut the door from behind you with a grunt

“¿Por qué no me llamaste? Te hubiera ayudado. Give me these” You would gladly let him knock himself out as you took off your work shoes which were just an older pair of Jordans beside the door not having enough energy to put them on the rack before going to sit down on your couch you just needed to sit for a few minutes

You suddenly were aware that your scrubs were on your brand new couch causing you to groan before you put your head in your hands screaming at yourself internally to disinfect the whole thing when you were to get up

“What’s wrong mi vida? Nah uh uh, we’re not doing that, what’s wrong with my baby?” He crouched in front of you now his hands were on your arms his braids falling to his shoulders dismissing the excuse as you hit him with the ‘nothings wrong’

“Its just hard handling school and work and then the family is still up on me about the move and making sure I finish school I’m just ready to quit” Miles knew you weren’t just talking about your new job or school he’d liked to think of himself as a bit brighter than that as he rubbed his hands up and down your arms

“This is our last year, I know you’re gonna finish out strong ‘cause that’s just you. You’ll complain and whine ‘bout it but I know you’ll find a solution to… accommodate everything. Eres súper mujer mami” Miles stated carefully trying his hardest to not come of too insensitive never taking his hands off you before you finally uncovered your face he was quick to wipe under your eye before a tear could escape it muttering something below his breath that you barely caught

“Too pretty to be cryin’ over this shit”

“And tell them to lay off you ‘fore I have to come up there and kick somebody ass” That caused a chuckle to slip past your lips while Miles face broke into a beginning of a small smile

“Go get in the shower aight’? I got the rest.” You sighed before coming to a stand Miles did the same giving you space to move around the half decorated unfinished living room giving you creative freedom to do whatever the hell it was you wanted to the apartment with a simple ‘you do you princesa’

The toffee skinned boy began to order takeout over his phone as you walked further into your home not wanting to worry yourself with cooking anything for the either of you making sure to add a little extra of everything when he heard the water turn on he grabbed his car keys out of the bowl that sat by the door on the decorative table before slipping out the house into the streets of New York

💌💌💌💌

Miles wasn’t the least bit of surprised when he heard the water still running as he returned to your home he made the run as a quick as he could in New York traffic one hand full with two Chinese takeout bags and another with some of your favorite flowers trying to make sure not to crush them as entered through the door

He sat down the flowers on the dining room table before unloading all of the food from the bags and sitting it on one of the trays you had got on a trip to the thrift store and when he questioned what the hell the wooden mini trays were for he was in for an ear full that summed up one statement

“When we’re not eating at the table nobody’s fucking up my couch”

“Oh Miles” Fifteen minutes later you we’re finally out the shower treading back to the living room before you were stopped in awe looking around your living room some of the candles that were placed in various places were now lit, there was food on the table, Corpse Bride one of your favorite movies was paused at the beginning on the Tv, and your boyfriend stood presenting flowers in his hand to you

Without another word you pressed a kiss to his plump lips before engulfing him which he returned with a small chuckle pressing a kiss to your forehead

“Haré cualquier cosa por ti eres mi mundo lo sabes” He pressed one more kiss to your hairline before he urged you to sit making a mental note to put the flowers in a vase as you both made your way to your couch you picked up one of to go boxed along with a pair of chopsticks that Miles didn’t know how the hell you ate with before playing the movie

A little while later You looked up to see the boy beginning to massage your legs and feet as you went to protest about him needing to eat he brushed you off shushing you

“Let me take care of you mami” And so you did

💌💌💌💌

short and sweet domestic earth 42 Miles because I said so 🙀

I’ve deleted like 90% of request from my request from my request inbox

I just need a little creative freedom right now

you’re still welcome to request because I will get to it eventually just not as fast 😊

stay safe writers!

[pedrithink]

psg girl ✩ pedri gonzález

summary: you are a psg soccer player and start dating pedri.

faceclaim: jordyn huitema

Liked by pedri, leomessi, and 2.034.458 others

ynusername merci @psg for the amazing night 🥰

View all 5.023 comments

pedri Wow 😍

ynusername @pedri don't fall in love, little boy 😋🤭

pedri @ynusername Impossible 🫣

user1 @pedri @ynusername WHAT’S GOING ON

user2 y/n and pedri flirting in the comments like they were alone

user3 VISCA BARÇA Y ICI C’EST PARIS

user4 y/n is so pretty omg

user5 COME TO BARÇA

Liked by pedri, k.mbappe, and 503.238 others

ynusername CHAMPIONNES DE FRANCE 🇫🇷

View all 2.012 comments

pedri Congrats 👏🏻 You deserve it.

ynusername @pedri thank you, pepi! 🫶🏻 cheering for you guys in la liga!! visca barça ❤️‍🔥

user1 SO PROUD OF YOU

user2 y/n cheering for barça, MY HEART CANT TAKE IT!!! 😭🫵🏻

user3 pedri and y/n are so cute

user4 i love how pedri praises y/n

Liked by ynusername, pablogavi, and 1.972.012 others

pedri Feliz dia de la mujer a las mujeres de mi vida! 🥰 (happy women's day to the women in my life)

View all 6.527 comments

ynusername happy to be yours 🤍

pedri @ynusername te amo mi amor

ynusername @pedri te amo guapoooo

user1 omg they are so cute :(

pablogavi @ynusername feliz dia 🥰😘

ynusername @pablogavi gracias pablitoooo

user2 it’s so sweet how pedri is a family guy 🥲

user3 “a las mujeres de mi vida” 😭🫵🏻

user4 love you both

Liked by pedri, leomessi, and 1.023.452 others

ynusername some great days in barcelona

proud of you @pedri 😘😙

View all 4.123 comments

pedri Thank you for coming 😍

ynusername @pedri always supporting you! 🫶🏻

user1 you’re so pretty omg

user2 we want you making a celebration to pedri

ynusername @user2 got you! 🫣

user2 @ynusername OMG HIIII

user3 COME TO BARÇA

user4 y/n wearing barça merch… WE WON!!

user5 love you sis

[blancdansnoir]

I won't be that deep on this matter, but the one thing I thought after today's episode events is that what happened to Marta was especially dedicated to all the ones who were taken out from the closet in an unexpected and violent manner. To all the ones who didn't see it coming, who were taken by surprise and were disrespected, humiliated and despised. Many of us went through this at some point (in my case, it was more than 20 years ago, when I didn't really have the tools and maturity to defend myself and not to be a coward), but all I can say is that, eventually, we will all overcome the hard times and end up being strong and proud women. And Marta de la Reina, you were brave, hella brave. And I'm so proud of you, so proud you stood for yourself.

I really hope Marta's attitude today had inspired many women out there to embrace their truth. It's never too late.

--------

No me voy a ir tan en la profunda con este tema, pero solo voy a decir que lo que pensé cuando vi el episodio de hoy es que lo que le ocurrió a Marta fue dedicado especialmente a todas aquellas que fueron sacadas del clóset de forma imprevista y violenta. A aquellas que no lo vieron venir, que fueron tomadas por sorpresa, a la que se les faltó el resto y fueron humilladas y despreciadas. Muchas de nosotras pasaron por algo así en algún punto de su vida (en mi caso, hace más de 20 años, cuando no tenía ni las herramientas ni la madurez para defenderme y no ser una cobarde). Sin embargo, todo lo que puedo decir es que, al final, todas superamos los momentos agrios y terminamos fortalecidas y orgullosas. Y Marta de la Reina, fuiste valiente, tremendamente valiente. Estoy orgullosa de ti, orgullosa de que te hayas defendido.

Espero que la actitud de Marta hoy haya inspirado a muchas mujeres por ahí para que abracen su verdad. Nunca es demasiado tarde.

[missvalentine142]

🎅 December Collection: Holly Jolly Out Now!

December has arrived! This time of the year is to spent with your family, friends or your pets and, furthermore, it’s the last month of the year. Was it a good year?, Did you do a lot of things that you wanted to do? if so, awesome, let’s do more next year, and if not, if this year was rough, don’t worry, there will be a new one just around the corner. So… My wish for you is that we end this year with our heads held high, proud of ourselves and hoping for a better year.

Now let's talk about the collection of December, this theme was decided by a poll I did lol. So this holidays you get sweaters and coziness. Name after one of the kings of Christmas Michael Bublé- Holly Jolly Christmas.

Holly Jolly consists of 11 total pieces 3 exclusives ones (Tier TL) *attach to a different post*

2 Man Tops, 1 Female Pants, 1 Skirt, 1 Child Pants, 1 Child Top, 1 Toddler Dress, 1 Toddler Hat.

Exclusive: 1 Female Top, 1 Child Top, 1 Toddler onesie.

You can download everything in this post (patreon)

TY & LY

“And by golly

Have a Holly Jolly Christmas! “

❤❤

¡Ha llegado diciembre! Esta época del año es para pasarla con tu familia, amigos o tus mascotas y, además, es el último mes del año. ¿Estuvo bien este año? ¿Hiciste muchas cosas que querías hacer? Si es así, genial, hagamos más el año que viene, y si no, si este año fue difícil, no te preocupes, habrá uno nuevo a la vuelta de la esquina. Entonces… Mi deseo para ustedes es que terminemos este año con la frente en alto, orgullosos de nosotros mismos y con la esperanza de un año mejor.

Ahora hablemos de la colección de diciembre, este tema se decidió por una encuesta que hice jajaja. Así que en estas festividades tendrás suéteres y comodidad. nombrada por uno de los reyes de la navidad Michael Bublé- Holly Jolly Christmas.

Holly Jolly consta de 11 piezas en total, 3 exclusivas (Nivel TL) *adjuntar a una publicación diferente*

2 camisetas para hombre, 1 pantalón para mujer, 1 falda, 1 pantalón para niño, 1 camiseta para niño, 1 vestido para niño pequeño, 1 gorro para niño pequeño.

Exclusivo: 1 top femenino, 1 top infantil, 1 mono infantil.

Puedes descargar todo en esta publicación (Patreon)

“Y por Dios

¡Que tengas una feliz Navidad!”

Patreon Full Collection

[thommi-tomate]

Although she lost in the final and her immense frustration was noticeable, Prisca achieved something historic, the first podium for Mexico in Judo, the first to get it with a silver medal, it is something exciting to see and proud that the two medals we have achieved so far are by great women.

Viva México y sus mujeres !!!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

[hyperfixationrn]

Liked by fcbarcelona and 723,273 others

yninstagram vamanos barca ⚡️

See translation: let’s go barca

username i need a barca win

pedri ❤️

username LETS GO MADRIDDDDD

ferrantorres siempre

See translation: always

frenkiedejong 🙏🙏🙏

username they way i just know she has one of his jersey’s packed … i am so jealous

View all 194,362 comments

Liked by fcbfemeni and 568,741 others

yninstagram tan orgulloso de mis chicos 🤩🤩🤩

See translation: so proud of my boys

username yn’s boys <3

username rising stars of barca

username A PEDRI GOAL WITH A GAVI ASSIST BYE

pedri un gol para ti

See translation: a goal for you

yninstagram me haces tan feliz pepi ❤️

See translation: you make me so happy

pablogavi YAAAAAAAAAA

yninstagram SUPERESTRELLA GAVI

See translation: SUPER STAR

View all 273,282 comments

Liked by pedri and 472,239 others

yninstagram mis favoritos ❤️❤️❤️

username can i be you

username he looks so good

pedri mis mujeres más importantes

See translation: my most important women

yninstagram dame un beso 🤨😌

See translation: gimme a kiss

username f madrid

username i am so heart eyes

View all 279,338 comments

[certaincollectionlandblog]

Carlos Sainz with a GF in Forensics social media

Photo Creds to Pinterest

~Instagram ~

yourusername

📍Quantico, VA

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 306 others

your username He may not always know what's going on, but he still lets me ramble on as always <3 love you my sucker obsessed Spaniard

View all 178 comments

yourbestfriend My favorite educated queen 😍

your username Thank you fellow smart cookie ❤️ I love you

landonorris I think Carlos and confusion are a two for one combo at this point

carlossainz55 I think she's smarter than you too you muppet

f1wagsupport We can confirm @yourusername is the brains of the relationship

carlossainz55 I'm so proud of you! Te amo 😘

~ Instagram ~

carlossainz55

📍Monaco

liked by yourusername, lilymhe, charles_leclerc, and 672,589 others

carlossainz55 Happy to have you close to me again, thank you for always making time in your schedule to support me hermosa mujer inteligente 🤩

View all 20,723 comments

f1wagsupdate I think I was just called single in like four different languages ....

yourbestfriend Join the club 🤣

landonorris glad to see mom and dad in one place again, even if it temporary ☺️ I was starting to feel like a child of divorced parents over here

yourusername thanks son 🥰 your father and I are proud of you carlossainz55 mi corazón I think I missed you more than he did 🤔 where is my love? landonorris GUYS PLEASE STOP FIGHTING YOURE TEARING THIS HOUSE APART yourusername 😂 I love you guys

~Instagram~

yourusername

📍Virgina

liked by carlossainz55, yourbestfriend, f1wagupdates, and 293 others

yourusername Normally the human body has 206 bones, but it appears I'm missing a heart because Carlos stole it a year ago

View all 97 comments

charles_leclerc who needs google anymore when we have @yourusername

carlossainz55 I don't mind give you an extra bone if you want it mi amor

yourusername Carlos I think you might be confused, you only ... wait CARLOS DID YOU ACTUALLY JUST SAY THAT ON THE INTERNET?! charles_leclerc Carlos not in front of the kids landonorris MY EYES PLEASE LORD MY EYES

[tomhardymyking]

In the United Kingdom it's already 12 AM so... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, 𝗧𝗢𝗠 🥳❤️🎉🎈🎂🎁🎊!

I want him to know every day how much I admire, appreciate, adore and I love him, how happy you make me when I see him in a photo, a video, a film, a series... I am the happiest woman in the world 🥰 I am very proud of him, of the way he is both inside and out, of his achievements, of what he makes... My world is better because he exists 💝

And I can't wait to watch him in 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 this December (if they release it here in Spain in that month, I hope so because I can't wait), also in future projects that he makes! Never stop showing up, I love and adore seeing you and that you are well 🙏🏻💖

15 September, what a beautiful day 👏🏻😍💞 Thanks for existing, 𝗧𝗼𝗺, you are wonderful 🙌🏻🤍

⠀⠀⠀⠀

En Reino Unido ya son las 0 así que... ¡FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS, 𝗧𝗢𝗠 🥳❤️🎉🎈🎂🎁🎊!

Quiero que cada día sepa lo mucho que le admiro, le aprecio, le adoro, le quiero, lo feliz que me hace cuando le veo en una foto, un vídeo, una película, una serie... Soy la mujer más feliz del mundo 🥰 Estoy muy orgullosa de él, de cómo es tanto por dentro como por fuera, de sus logros, de lo que hace... Mi mundo es mejor porque él existe 💝

¡Y qué ganas de verlo en 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 este diciembre (si la estrenan aquí en España en ese mes, espero que sí porque muero de ganas), también en próximos proyectos que haga! Nunca dejes de aparecer, amo y adoro verte a ti y que estés bien 🙏🏻💖

15 de septiembre, qué día tan bonito 👏🏻😍💞 Gracias por existir, 𝗧𝗼𝗺, eres maravilloso 🙌🏻🤍

⠀⠀

[groriatrevi10xx]

...¡Throne Labyrinth!...

"Un tipo de relaciones/A Relationship Type"

↓↓↓

*Umbra y/and Nomula*

→Umbra:

>No le gusta el vocabulario de Nomula, pero se asombra al ver cómo la Mujer no sólo es un Caballero, sino también una Herrera.../She doesn't like Nomula's vocabulary, but she feels amazed to see how the Woman is not only a Knight, but also a Blacksmith...

>Ha escuchado leyendas e historia sobre Nomula, nunca pensó que la vería en persona... Siente cierta envidia por Arma, tiene suerte de tener a este Caballero en su equipo.../He has heard legends and history about Nomula, he never thought he would see her in person... He feels some envy for Arma, he is lucky to have this Knight on his team...

+Nomula: Admiración/Admiration... ⭐

~~~~~~~~~~

→Nomula:

<Umbra es una persona respetable.../Umbra is a respectable person...

<Nomula no tiene problemas con Umbra, pero no negará que realmente no es una rival para las Brujas, aun así… Se ha ganado su respeto, espera algún día competir con ella en un duelo…/Nomula has no problems with Umbra, but she will not deny that she is not really a rival for the Witches, even so... She has earned their respect, she hopes to one day compete with her in a duel...

+Umbra: Respeto/Respect... 🏵️

---Pequeño Diálogo/Small Dialogue---

°Umbra: Estoy tan feliz de verte en persona.../I'm so happy to see you in person...

°Nomula: Reina Umbra... Mis respetos para ti.../Queen Umbra... My respects to you...

*"Catasto" y/and Umbra*

→"Catasto":

>Desde el primer día que te vi decidí que tenía que buscarte... No importaba el tiempo que tomara, te iba a encontrar.../From the first day I saw you, I decided that I had to look for you... No matter how long it took, I was going to find you...

>No hay mujer que sea igual a ti, eres única, valiente, inteligente y justa.../There is no woman who is equal to you, you are unique, brave, intelligent and fair...

+Umbra: Amor/Love... ♥️

~~~~~~~~~~~

→Umbra:

<Nunca pensé que me enamoraría, no después de lo que me pasó y viví... Entonces apareciste y mi corazón volvió a latir.../I never thought I would fall in love, not after what I happened and experienced... Then you appeared and my heart beat again...

<No hay nada más lindo que estar a tu lado.../There is nothing more beautiful than being by your side...

+"Catasto": Amor/Love... ♥️

---Pequeño Diálogo/Small Dialogue---

°"Catasto": Déjame ser parte de tu vida, te lo ruego.../Let me be part of your life, I beg you...

°Umbra: No hay necesidad de suplicar, porque quiero que seas parte de mi vida.../There's no need to beg, because I want you to be part of my life...

*Zero y/and Peyton*

→Zero:

>Zero piensa que Peyton debería cambiar sus expresiones faciales, termina asustando a todos.../Zero thinks Peyton should change her facial expressions, she ends up scaring everyone...

>Nunca se lo dirá a Peyton, pero la adora como si fuera una gran amiga con toda el alma, pero es orgulloso igual que ella, así que no se lo dirá.../He will never tell Peyton, but he adores her as if she were a great friend with all his soul, but he is proud Just like her, so he won't tell her...

+Peyton: Amigo/Friend... ☀️

~~~~~~~~~~~

→Peyton:

<Cree que Zero tiene problemas de hiperactividad, aunque eso lo hace más feliz de lo normal y menos grave... Así que no le molesta.../He thinks Zero has hyperactivity problems, although that makes him happier than normal and less serious... So it doesn't bother him...

<Puede que pelee con Zero muchas veces, pero es un gran amigo que adora.../He may fight with Zero many times, but he is a great friend who adores...

+Zero: Amigo/Friend... ☀️

---Pequeño Diálogo/Small Dialogue---

°Zero: ¿Qué pienso de Peyton?... Bueno, ella es una buena persona.../What do I think of Peyton?... Well, she's a good person...

°Peyton: ¿Zero?... Hmmm... Un amigo.../Zero?... Hmmm... A friend...

*Peyton y/and Teagan*

→Peyton:

>Su Majestad merece algo mejor que una hija con poca educación como usted.../Her Majesty deserves better than a poorly educated Daughter like you...

>¿De verdad tengo que cuidarla también?... Que horrible.../Do I really have to take care of her too?... How horrible...

+Teagan: Tensión/Tenseness... 🚫

~~~~~~~~~~~

→Teagan:

<¿Una mujer siendo paladín? Que ridículo... Mamá está tan loca por dejarte serlo.../A Woman being a Paladin? How ridiculous... Mom is so crazy to let you be one...

<Realmente debes estar enferma, qué asqueroso.../You must really be sick, how disgusting...

+Peyton: Odio/Hate... ❌

---Pequeño Diálogo/Small Dialogue---

°Peyton: Mmmm... Insoportable.../Hmmm... Unbearable...

°Teagan: ¡¡¡No te atrevas a tocarme!!!.../Don't you dare touch me!!!...

*Teagan y/and "Catasto"*

→Teagan:

>Qué lindo, él es realmente un Príncipe... Y yo debo ser su Princesa.../So cute, he's really a Prince... And I must be his Princess...

>Muy educado, sé que él no ama a mi madre... Sé que sólo me ama a mí.../So polite, I know he doesn't love my Mother... I know he loves only me...

+"Catasto": Amor/Love... ♥️

~~~~~~~~~~~

→"Catasto":

<Ella me dijo que su nombre es Brittany y Umbra me dijo que su nombre es en realidad Teagan, puedo jurar que estoy confundido.../She told me her name is Brittany and Umbra told me her name is really Teagan, I can swear I'm confused...

<No voy a negar que ella es, extraña... Ella es Hija de Umbra, no quiero pensar mal... Probablemente solo su forma de ser.../I'm not going to deny that she is, strange... She is Daughter of Umbra, I don't want to think badly... Probably just her way of being...

+Teagan: Tensión/Tenseness... 🚫

---Pequeño Diálogo/Small Dialogue---

°Teagan: ¡Mi príncipe!.../My prince!...

°"Catasto": Creo que debería huir muy lejos de ella.../I think I should run very far away from her...

-------

{2/?}

-------

Umbra, Nomula, "Catasto" y/and Zero: Son míos... {They are mine...}

Teagan {Brittany} y Peyton son de {Teagan {Brittany} and Peyton are from}: @askkassandragf-v-2

[abirdie]

Gael Garcia Bernal: The Dear Heart Of 'Diaries'

Article from the Washington Post, 25 September 2004 (x)

By Hank Stuever

Gael Garcia Bernal: the Mexican actor, who is so very right now and here in town for, you know, just a day -- the whole thing with the big hotel suite and the half-eaten plate of fruit and dos publicistas tappa-tapping en los BlackBerrys over there. (Mujeres! Silencio!) He's promoting his new Che Guevara movie, The Motorcycle Diaries, and everyone who has seen it is going on and on about how saintly his portrayal of young Ernesto Guevara de la Serna is and how sumptuously the movie's 8,000-mile trek across South America unfurls onscreen and oh, btw, critics agree: Bernal's got Che's iconic, serious stare down pretty good.

Green eyes, we write in the notebook. (Big duh.)

Also can testify that Bernal is about 5 feet 7, though it long ago ceased to be news that the hotties of film are pocket-size. More notes: He turns 26 in November. He has a proud, long nose that sometimes blushes red when he laughs. He's wearing one of those Salvation Army-seeming plaid western-cut shirts that often turn out to be designer-label, a pair of deep blue vintagesque jeans and some scuffed lace-up boots the color of old asphalt. His hair is cut bubblegum-mishap short.

Awright, already, he's de-lish. Did we need to bring that dogeared copy of 501 Spanish Verbs with us? Of course not: Dude went to drama school for a while in London when he was a teenager; not long after he starred for six months in a Mexican soap opera called El Abuelo y Yo (Grandfather and Me), and this particular fact has dogged him in every interview. ("People think I did all these soap operas," he shrugs. "I did only that one. And it taught me a lot — it taught me I never wanted to do another soap opera.") When it comes to Spanish, he can bend it to his will, the way Nicole Kidman can do in English, with whatever accent directors like Walter Salles and Pedro Almodovar need him to speak in — Mexican, Argentine, Castilian.

During our interview, he spends an hour dissecting, in English, the current state of Pan-American politics, extolling his sensible, leftist-tinged childhood, and at one point he quotes from foreign-policy magazines.

We hold up our end of the conversation with such questions as:

"So, um, like, what do you do when you're not working?"

"When I'm not doing this?" Bernal asks, motioning around at the movie-star-with-movie-to-sell air particles of feature story nonsense. "I like to do all the things I cannot do as much. My common days are very different now. I would, if I could, I would be home" — Cuernavaca, just south of Mexico City — "and I would sleep until whatever time. Swim, play futbol. Read and go to lunches and the lunches become dinners. Visit family, organize a party for that night."

Halfway through the image of Bernal swaddled in high-thread-count sheets until whatever time, a half-theory privately knocks around in our pea brain:

Gael Garcia Bernal, or someone very much like him, is exactly why so many of us faithful, independent-minded filmgoers still cram ourselves into the creaky seats of dumpy art house cinemas, even as the years tick by and things like Netflix, the Sundance Channel and the nicer stadium-seating art houses came along to replace them. No, you want to see Bernal's movie surrounded by drabness, because you get a better transport to the happy, imaginative place that way. The stale popcorn, the Fandango.com ads, the bathroom with only two toilets. (Cineplex Odeon Dupont Circle 5, we mean you.)

We do it because we're always waiting for that next small-time heartthrob — male, female, or sometimes just the foreign scenery itself. It's the subtitles and the eyes. It's whatever we can't get from those American goofballs who do those blech movies that tend to be about guys who go on canoe trips where a horny bear in the woods tries to hump them. Or whatever.

Bernal would never do that to us.

Hollywood beckons and he rolls his eyes because it offers him roles like, uh, okay, here's the pitch: He's an undocumented leaf-blower yardman caught up in a caper that only Jackie Chan can make right, if only they could understand each other's Engrish, ha ha.

"I'm open," he says. "I am, I am. But so far in the U.S. what they have offered doesn't even get close to the kind of things that excite me. Nothing is quite right, so I think I'll just stick with what I'm doing. I have to stay … hmmm … congruent to myself."

And so that's why certain filmgoers are inclined to sneak off to his "small little movies" (as he calls them) in the middle of the afternoon, get the large Diet Coke and consider the combustion in contemporary Spanish-language cinema that the rare actor like Bernal can harness. You feel like you've just gone somewhere, talked fast, smoked cigarettes. They call him the Marcello Mastroianni of Latino film when they're not busy calling him the Marlon Brando of it.

All that smoldering, the aching of youth! One, please, for the 2:50 showing of Y Tu Mama, Tambien. (That hormonal breakout hit, a coming-of-age road trip from 2001 starring Bernal and his childhood friend Diego Luna — people mix them up, still.) Or the 4:45 showing of Amores Perros (from 2000, translating as wordplay for "Love Is a Bitch," a chronologically scattered tale of how one car wreck in Mexico City changes three lives). Or the 3:10 showing of El Crimen del Padre Amaro, from 2002, about the sinful lapse of a young priest (Bernal, natch) caught up in a small-town mess of church corruption. Its release in Mexico naturally put hard-line Catholics there in a state of non compos mentis, which both baffled and delighted Bernal.

Some of his key appearances have been as himself. Fresh from Y Tu Mama, he and Luna graced the Oscar ceremony last year, cleaned up in their tuxes, to present a small award, and Hollywood swooned. He was seen dancing all night at parties at Cannes. For a while he dated Natalie Portman (well, that's what the tabs reported) and you almost can't stand the fleeting idea of how gorgeous their children would have been. (Cancel that. They broke up.)

His movies are always in exotic, crumbly locations, and we are there, because Bernal is there: the back roads of the Mexican interior, or ascending to Machu Picchu as a soul-searching Guevara or click-clacking around the cobblestone streets of Spanish villas in transvestite stilettos seeking revenge against priestly pedophilia at a boarding school, as he does expertly in Pedro Almodovar's next surrealistic offering, Bad Education, which will open this year in New York. (It's scheduled to open in Washington in January. Sorry, kids. Delayed for possible Oscar-sensitive reasons of timeliness, and to not get in the way of Diaries. He's one of those stars: Two big projects colliding in the art houses of the world.)

If Salles' Motorcycle Diaries, which opens Friday, doesn't make you feel like an earnest college sophomore with a crush on the Marxist professor who teaches your Latin American history class, then we don't know what will. Predating the muss and fuss of the Cuban revolution, the film is an epic, richly hued journey into the formative years of Che, back in 1952 when he was Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, an Argentinean med student in his early twenties.

Ernesto takes a year off school to travel on a 1939 Norton 500 motorcycle with his best pal, Alberto Granado (played by Rodrigo de la Serna), across and up the South American continent.

Guevara, a devoted diarist as a young man, took notes about the people and places he saw, and the gulf between rich and poor (it helps to open his eyes when his rich girlfriend dumps him). The further Guevara and Granado go, the more Che becomes Che, seeing native people and their lives transcending the bourgeois notions of government and ownership and greed. By the time Che's working with lepers in the Amazon, Salles' movie (and Bernal) have reached a subtly beatific realm. In case you're not quite feeling it, Salles ups the noble-people quotient with black-and-white still portraits of the working-class people the young men encounter along the way.

"We prepared for four months," Bernal says of the research phase, and the crew shot the film more or less chronologically, following Guevara and Granado's original itinerary. "I read 1,001 books about the land and biographies [of Guevara]. We traveled. We practiced on the motorcycle three times a week. We asked permission from the gods, and also the local political and cultural centers…. When finally we started shooting, I wondered if we were prepared enough for this daunting task. We got on the bike and the road started to appear and things started to happen the right way, without you even noticing."

Bernal was born in Guadalajara and raised in Mexico City. Both his parents are stage actors. He has been thinking about Che Guevara for half his life — and even played the revolutionary in a two-part miniseries on Showtime about Fidel Castro, which he would appreciate it if everyone forgot. It goes back, for him, like most kids, to middle-school social studies class.

"It happens when you are about 12 or 13," he says. "When you grow up in Mexico you have a very strong connection to Cuba. As a kid you listen to this story, it's incredibly, incredibly exciting to hear. [The revolutionaries] changed Latin America forever and they changed the world. So you start early, identifying with where [Guevara] comes from, and identifying with his ideas in a way, and identifying with the struggle, and therefore you're able to agree with it or criticize it. Leftist ideas redefine themselves constantly. I think my generation is much more critical of what works in Latin American socialist movements and what didn't. There used to be a stigma that any leftist revolution had to come with violence. I don't think we believe that anymore," he says, mentioning Zapatistas in jungles who carry wood carvings of rifles instead of actual guns, just for the symbolism.

You think this sounds a little pinko coming from the mouth of a movie star? Well, you try embodying Che Guevara and see what you feel like talking about when it's over. When Bernal speaks of politics and the world, it's not with fire. He leans back. He almost whispers. It's seductive, in a way.

Early in the shooting, Alberto Granado, now 82, was visiting the set, Bernal says. And he offered this advice to the actor: "He told me, don't try to copy Ernesto's voice, or his mannerisms. He said, 'Use your own voice. All Ernesto was was a 23-year-old Latin American like you. Traveling around. Seeing things.' And I realized that what the movie needs is that universal experience. Granado was right. I have a right as does any person to tell the story of Che."

When it was over, months later, having lost weight to play the asthmatic Guevara as the trip takes its toll, Bernal found himself still wanting to travel.

When the film was finished, "I felt serenely confused, like in a serene state of almost understanding something bigger, and then not quite understanding it. All the time I felt like that," he says. "It redefined my priorities. I have moments where I understand what has happened to me, and then moments where I don't. I wanted to just get back on the road and travel to anywhere." (He sort of does that now, subletting apartments in New York and London, spending four months in Spain working with Almodovar on Bad Education, spending a little time back home in Mexico. He recently spent a month in Austin, shooting an independent film called The King in which he plays a character named Elvis — "the bastard child of an evangelist preacher," he says.)

He says he can't believe how hamstrung American actors arewhen it comes to saying anything political. He wonders if the United States has forgotten how to hold a real election, with real debates. He shows up in gossip columns lamenting the lumbering, impervious quality of American imperialism.

"The U.S. is a great nation that's becoming a war machine. But it is a great people, which can save it," he says. "Some of us fall into traps where we can't say what we think. But it shouldn't be this way. Actors are free. That's the nature of being an actor, to do anything you want to do, to say anything. It's why we're here. And if I were an American, I could be pigeonholed for what I just said."

He'd go on, but our lecture has to end here, for it is time to throw us out and escort in another reporter. It happens to be a student journalist from American University, and she seems excited to meet the Mexican Marcello Mastroianni, but trying to keep it all in check, remain cool.

She shakes his hand, ready and willing for her revolutionary inculcation in the hotel suite of Gael Garcia Bernal. She's exactly the age where a young woman's thoughts turn to putting that Che poster on the wall, and we envy her.

[fipindustries]

tagged by @st-justt-just these are always an issue for me because i dont have a "Playlist" of any kind, i just let youtube put together playlists on my recomendations page so with that in mind, lets see what comes up.

Bradinsky on violin - [tetris tengen] by bradis fuller - funny thing about this, you may hear it and think "ah yes, a song inspired by classical russian folk music". in reality is a fully original song made by the composer. hence the BRAD-insky.

Ya te vas a mejorar (speed up) - el cuarteto de nos - i like this version of the song about a guy who gets brain damage and becomes a chainsaw murderous maniac over the original. is not quite nightcore but its certainly more energetic.

Aikendrum - Ewan Maccoll - i got this out of a cute webcomic about jekyll and hyde. i have no idea what this song is about but i sure do love the scottishness of it all. aikendrum aikendrum is a great catchphrase.

As your father i expressly forbit it - Neil cicierega - the theme of this song is so weird for a neil cicierega song. is about such a intimate, mundane topic and the double punch of this and earn my life is actually kind of brutal to hear in spirit phone.

Noches de boda - Joaquin sabina - i fucking love the intro of this song by chavela vargas, i remember when i first heard this song i thought it was some old guy but no it was one of the most famous female singers from mexico. as an argentinian there is something delightful about hearing a spaniard and a mexican singing together like old friends. great fucking song to sing drunk out of your ass at 4 in the morning

El cisne que ladra - maria elena walsh - my love for children songs continues undaunted, specially the songs by elena walsh. there is something very otherverse about this song in particular because its about a thieving swan who goes to a lake one night and steals a treasure hidden in that lake. then the next morning when the sun comes out you cant see the treasure anymore because the swan stole it but it turns out the treasure were the night stars being reflected on the lake, its just so beautifully poetic

California heaven [mashup of california girls by kathy perry and heaven by envy, plus a bunch of other songs] - Jason rollins - i just discovered this guy a few weeks ago because he just started doing this a few months ago and he turned out to be such an incredibly strong entry in the genre of weird, deep fried, dense mashups. i highly reccomend to listen to the rest of his channel

Octopus garden -the beatles - i saw a documentary about why the beatles broke up recently and knowing that this song was composed by ringo as the team was going through deep tensions and fights about to separate makes this song so much more heartbreaking. ringo just wanted for him and his friends to get along and be happy on an octopus garden beneath the sea. jesus dude, me too.

Desaparecido - Manu chao - weirdly political song for what i usually listen to. a song about the experience of illegal immigrants living in the united states without papers. one funny thing about manu chao is that he is famous for many spanish songs that talk about the hardships of the latin american experience and the guy is fucking french. i genuenly could not have been able to tell just from listening to him.

Brindo por las mujeres - Los rodrigez - just a fantastic song by one of my favourite singers from my country, andres calamero. another great fucking drinking song to yell drunk off your ass with friends at 4 in the morning and frankly a great way to end this list

honestly i am rather proud of how incredibly ecclectic is this list, i think this is a pretty good crossection of the wide range of my musical tastes

im tagging @not-terezi-pyrope @ericvilas and @mrcatfishing

[leftistfeminista]

In this exhibit to honor women political prisoners of La Perla, the most heart-wrenching image is that of an anguished pregnant captive. Impregnating captured leftist women was a deliberate Junta tactic. It was seen as the ultimate conquest of the Revolution. Prisoners were repeatedly violated until pregnancy became a near certainty for any fertile woman. Guards derisively referred to captives as "breeding mares". It is so tragic that a new human life was created out of this misogynist abuse of women. There was such an intense hatred of leftist women and a desire to control and dominate them down to their very biology. Having a child growing inside her was a visual confirmation of that domination. They considered women a reproductive resource they had captured from the enemy.

This was their ultimate display of power over women who had once been politically dangerous. Even in her advanced stage of pregnancy, the security protocol of keeping women prisoners in nothing but their underwear was still maintained. It made her swollen belly stand out all the more prominently. She was shown off like a trophy by the proud father. Subversive Marxist women forced to be mothers conformed to conservative Catholic ideology on the role of women. The women who once threatened Junta, would now bear children for Junta. Forced pregnancy was a systematic deliberate strategy of torture. After giving birth, the babies would be stolen from the mothers and given to conservative Argentine families to raise. Imprisoned leftist women were used as forced surrogates for loyalist families of the regime. We must never forget what an unimaginable price women paid for fighting for the cause.

The exhibition “ You Are Us: Women in La Perla” is a space “to combat from our emotions the cruelty that marks our bodies, to think about how power passes through us and how we resist, to meet between generations and embrace each other in our struggles. It is a space for collective reflection on the systematic violence against women carried out in this Clandestine Center for Detention, Torture and Extermination (CCDTyE) as a form of extermination of the political opposition. It is a space of memory and tribute,” expressed the workers of the “La Perla” Memory Space. 

How to look at the ineffable pain and horror of the gender, sexual, symbolic, and physical violence that existed in the Clandestine Detention Centers is something that took longer to name and make visible.

The faces, their looks in the photos, question us forever. The exhibition is covered with embroidery, which weaves together the disobediences of yesterday and today in colors. They are a reminder of the tenacity of those suffering and fighting bodies, of the hopes that should not be forgotten. They are a reminder of time that cannot be suspended and that presses the present. 

“Sexist violence, patriarchy and state terrorism can be a combo that no one would even want to look into."- Maria Cristina

Weave together the plots, stories of pain, oppression, abuse, sexual violence on our bodies  Accuse and denounce crimes, torture, inhuman treatment, sexual abuse... demand memory, truth and justice!!!- Emiliana Tassi

[fabycolette77]

💜💛💜💛💜💛💛A few years ago today the most beautiful girl that life could have given me was born 💛💜💛💜💛💜 a precious sister that I would take care of with my soul and heart 💛💜💛💜 with each passing year she becomes an independent, mature and capable of herself 💛💜💛💜💛 and I am so proud of you beautiful sister 💜💜💛 happy birthday sweetie 💛💜💛 ° ° 💛💜💛💜Hoy de hace algunos años nacio la niña mas linda que pudo haberme regalado la vida 💛💜💛💜💛💜una preciosa hermana que cuidaria con mi alma y corazón💛💜💛💜 cada año que pasa se va convirtiendo en una mujer independiente, madura y capaz de si misma 💛💜💛💜💛y estoy muy orgullosa de ti hermana hermosa 💜💜💛feliz cumpleaños dulzura 💛💜💛TQM💜💛 ° ° #Paularuth #paularuth18 #fabycolette #fabycolette77 #fabyart #fabyarte #art #drawing #digitalart #anime #drawings #digitaldrawing #myart #oc #illustration #digitalpainting #myartstyle #ocart #ocs #ocdrawing #originalcharacters #digital_art #artstyle #Oc #originalcharacter #cuteOc #girl #aesthetic https://www.instagram.com/p/CnlX_EaOBCC/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[narhinafan]

https://www.facebook.com/100069404806326/posts/pfbid02t6Epw6F4fgq1XHMR8nWQq5yjfbCaKoBx62Ep3gddhcLb94untHpQNkRduaWDDHYGl/

Una de las mejores cosas que nos dió Kishimoto fue la oportunidad de ver a Sakura como madre.

Es decir, vimos cada paso de Sakura, desde una niña insegura que siempre necesitaba protección, hasta convertí en una gran Kunoichi, esposa y madre.

La vimos enfrentándose a sus miedos, cometiendo errores pero sobre todo aprendiendo y mejorando de ellos. Se enfrentó a batallas duras, como luchando contra un miembro de Akatsuki (Sasori) y la Guerra Ninja, dónde lucho juntos a sus compañeros de equipo que tanto deseaba alcanzar.

Logró convertirse en la mejor Kunoichi de su generación, dominando las habilidades de su maestra Tsunade, considerada la mujer más fuerte, y vimos como formo una pequeña familia junto Sasuke. Ahora como madre, es lindo ver como Sakura cuida de su hija Sarada.

Ella apoya, protege, confía y se siente orgullosa de su hija. La vemos entrenando a Sarada, siendo un soporte para ella y dándole todo el ánimo en cada logró de su hija. Sarada se siente orgullosa de su madre y la ama mucho.

Sakura es un gran apoyo para su familia, la vemos siendo una guía para que su esposo Sasuke pueda tener una linda relación con su hija, dándole consejos y asegurándose de que su hija sepa lo mucho que su padre la ama 💕

Feliz día de la madre a Sakura Uchiha, es literalmente la flor de primavera más hermosa que ha florecido después de un invierno duro! 💐🌸❤️🥰

También les deseo feliz día a las madres que son seguidoras de la página! 🌹💕

~ Akane

One of the best things that Kishimoto gave us was the opportunity to see Sakura as a mother.

That is, we saw every step of Sakura, from an insecure girl who always needed protection, to becoming a great Kunoichi, wife and mother.

We saw her facing her fears, making mistakes but above all learning and improving from them. She faced tough battles, such as fighting against an Akatsuki member (Sasori) and the Ninja War, where she fought together her teammates that she so wanted to catch up with.

She managed to become the best Kunoichi of her generation, mastering the skills of her teacher Tsunade, considered the strongest woman, and we saw how she formed a small family with Sasuke. Now as a mother, it's nice to see how Sakura takes care of her daughter Sarada from her.

She supports, protects, trusts and is proud of her daughter. We see her training Sarada, being a support for her and giving her all the encouragement in every achievement of her daughter. Sarada is proud of her mother and loves her very much.

Sakura is a great support for her family, we see her being a guide so that her husband Sasuke can have a nice relationship with her daughter, giving him advice and making sure that her daughter knows how much her father of her loves her 💕

Happy Mother's Day to Sakura Uchiha, she is literally the most beautiful spring flower to have bloomed after a harsh winter! 💐🌸❤️🥰

I also wish a happy day to the mothers who are followers of the page! 🌹💕

~Akane

It seems that Sakura fans are annoyed because Sakura was not in the same official list with Hinata and Kushina, and also who said that Sakura is the best ninja girl in her generation or that she is the strongest from where do they come from this talk and also a shot of Sakura encouraging Sarada Filler and they deleted the scene of Hinata encouraging Boruto and Also, she did not defeat Sasori, who committed suicide, and Sakura also failed as a mother, so that her daughter suspected that she was her real mother and stepmother, and also what is the relationship of some of these things that she said in the post to Sakura as a mother

Are they speaking of some other character called Sakura cause what they described certainly wasn't Sakura from the series.

No one said Sakura is the best ninja of the generation its completely made up the fact is she was getting one shot by Omoi pre war and after took over the hospital so skill wise Sakura is chunin level at best.

Sakura only got through the Sasori fight cause Chiyo carried her so hard and like you said Sakura actually ended up making Sarada think she wasn't her real mom and then even threated her with CES with enough force to destroy their house and made Sarada cry.