#Pero Tovar x OFC

[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!

#pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pero tovar fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #the great wall fanfic #pedro pascal #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar the great wall #tovar x you #tovar x reader #tovar x f!reader #tovar smut #tovar fanfiction #tovar imagine #pero tovar x fem!reader #1k celebration #follower celebration #1k followers

[perotovar]

ásjá - a winter solstice story

Ásjá by Heilung (i highly recommend listening to this while reading)

Our second single release is a love song. Maria sings to the listener of love, recovery and prosperity, chasing away evil and welcoming love. The piece contains a quotation of some lines of “Hávamál”, combined with a selection of blessing words meant to provide help to the listener in a troubled time. Kai brought his vocal part of 'Asja' back to us after a month of isolation, fasting and meditation in nature. Only the spirits know the full meaning, but we do know that the context is love, prosperity and protection.

pairing: pero tovar/ofc!helga (but this is mostly a character study) rating: T word count: 7.4k (idk what happened here) warnings: minor swearing, google translated spanish (sorry), historical inaccuracies in favor of fantasy/magic, my american norse pagan perspective of these practices, if i missed anything else lemme know! dividers by @saradika-graphics beta and norwegian translations by the lovely @chloeangelic thank you, honey ♥

summary: Pero picks up a contract that leads him "somewhere up North", but what he finds instead is unlike anything he imagined for himself. Or, what would happen if Pero encountered the Vikings during their winter celebration?

this is apart of @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro. thank you for including me, kylee, and make sure you all read the other presents!

god jól, everyone🌲❄️🌙🐺

It was fucking cold.

With shaking hands and numb limbs, Pero made his way further up the hill. The wind picked up the further he went into the trees. 

The contract he’d taken up was for a man by the name of Ingvar. A strange name to Pero’s ears, but that hardly mattered to him. This Ingvar was to be taken care of, and Pero had to show proof. 

Not a problem.

The problem, at least for the moment, was the fucking weather and his own lack of foresight. He was told that Ingvar was “somewhere up North”, and that was it. He didn’t exactly plan for just how cold it would be. His fingers were going numb and red, and he saw every breath that left his lungs. If William were here, he’d tell Pero to quit his “bitching” and to make camp.

The camp, he could do. The bitching? Unlikely. 

Pero and William separated after the… events in China. They stayed together to do a few jobs together, but William decided to make his way back to China and meet up with Lin Mae again, possibly even settle down. Pero didn’t fancy seeing the people that had arrested and almost killed him, and black powder wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. At least not to him. He rather liked the uncertainty of his job. Found comfort in it, in fact. His future was set for him in this line of work. He would live doing the things he loved most; fighting, fucking, and drinking. And the ending was always the same. At least, that’s what he told himself.

A low whisper brought Pero out of his thoughts. He snapped his head towards the direction of the sound and furrowed his already heavy brow. The sound of a raven cawing caught his attention, making him hum skeptically to himself before deciding this was as good a spot as any for a fire. 

Once settled on a fallen tree and attempting to warm his hands with his meager fire, Pero dug into his travel pack. He grumbled at the pitiful excuse for food he had left. He grabbed a piece of thick, dry bread and started ripping off chunks and eating that. Perhaps he could hunt? Find a rabbit, or something a little bigger. He remembered to make a bow this time. Swallowing the last chunk of the bread, he picked up his bow and arrows, and threw his cloak-slash-blanket over his shoulders. It was going to be dark soon, and he didn’t like the idea of starving his first night in this frozen Northern hell.

Another whisper.

Pero’s body went taut. He looked between the tall trees and the endless sea of white ahead of him. Nothing. A rabbit hopped by, distracting him. Before he could think too hard, he knocked an arrow and let fly. The arrow landed in the snow just after the rabbit hopped away.

“Mierda,” he grumbled. (Shit.)

He crouched low and slowly followed after the rabbit. He made his way toward a small clearing, which seemed to be in the center of the forest, if his tracking skills were getting any better.

There was a large stone in the middle, towards the top of the clearing. There looked to be a large blood stain in the center of it. Pero raised a brow and grunted quietly. This was none of his business, clearly.

Suddenly, the rabbit made its way to the middle of the clearing, next to the large stone. Pero sighed and lined up a shot, hoping for the best. He released a breath at the same time that the arrow left his fingers, and another whisper passed through his ears.

He gasped quietly and time seemed to stop as the arrow traveled through the cold air. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath, trying to make himself as still as possible. 

The sound of the arrow piercing the rabbit startled him out of his frozen state. He blinked a few times, the white forest coming back into view as he looked down at the dead rabbit in the clearing. He exhaled and slowly stood, settling his bow on his shoulder. He looked around again, and when he saw nothing, slowly made his way down the hill and towards the center of the clearing.

He picked up the dead rabbit and removed the arrow, tucking it into his belt to clean and use again later. Standing in the center of the clearing, he looked over at the bloodstained stone and felt that shiver go down his spine again. He looked up at the gray sky and decided it was time to go back to his camp. He hooked the rabbit’s carcass onto his belt, pulled the cloak over his shoulders tighter, and shoved his hands inside the fabric.

“Maldita nieve,” he grumbled to himself. (Fucking snow.) As he climbed back up the hill, he felt a sharp pain in his foot and lost his balance, catching himself with his hands in the snow. He hissed loudly and looked down at his boot. A small spike was poking out through the top, meaning the sharp rock was piercing through his foot. He groaned and leaned against the hill, steadying his breathing. He counted to three in his head and yanked the rock from his foot. “Fuck,” he exhaled loudly, a few drops of his own blood covering his palm as he looked at the rock. A small symbol was carved into it, making him squint his eyes, trying to decipher what it was. Pero shook his head and sighed, pocketing the strange rock to inspect later.

On his way back to his little camp, limping the whole way to not put too much pressure on his foot, he grabbed some branches to make the fire last a little longer. Once the meager fire came into view, he swore he saw someone sitting on the log he was using before. He froze in place, heavy boots landing in the snow abruptly. He squinted his eyes and grew confused. An old man? What would he be doing out here? 

Pero looked around the frozen forest to see if there was anyone that could be with the old man. When he didn’t see anyone, he looked back at the campfire, and the old man was gone. He’d completely vanished. Pero grunted quietly and rubbed his eyes with frozen fingers. He shook his head to snap himself out of it and made his way over to the campfire.

After putting the rabbit on the spit and it started to cook, Pero made his bed for the night. He’d do his best to sleep, but didn’t have high hopes. Once the rabbit was cooked, he stabbed it with his knife and started eating it messily. He groaned at the taste of fresh, hot, cooked meat and enjoyed it, even if it was pretty bland. It warmed his bones a little and made him more comfortable, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The sound of a branch snapping behind him went unnoticed by Pero’s ears, too focused on the food. He hadn’t eaten in days. The second snap, however, was heard, and it made him drop the rabbit onto the ground and grab his sword, brandishing it in front of him as he stood.

“¿Dónde estás, bastardo?” He grumbled under his breath, his heavy breaths puffing out into smoke. (Where are you, bastard?)

He sighed in frustration when he didn’t see anything. He was seriously starting to consider if this contract was even worth it. And if it wasn’t, would he be able to make it back without dying? Either from the cold, or whatever it was that was playing with him. He mumbled obscenities to himself and sat back down on his fallen tree.

He picked up the rabbit and groaned at the dirt now covering it. He blew off what he could and decided to continue eating it, dirt be damned. He was hungry.

Once full, he looked up at the moon in the sky, trying to figure out how late it was. He rubbed his hands over his arms to keep warm and added a branch or two to his fire. He grabbed a piece of spare cloth from his travel pack and quickly wrapped his foot. He laid down next to the fire and pulled the cloak up over his shoulders and shut his eyes. He didn’t feel tired, but he couldn’t help closing his eyes. He tried to fight it, to keep his guard up, but it was useless. 

He started to feel lightheaded and turned onto his back, looking up at the moon again. The moon and the stars, so bright he almost didn’t need the campfire, were swirling around and moving in close and further away. The trees surrounding him looked to be moving side to side. 

What was happening? Did the old man poison him somehow? Who was that old man?

His vision went blurry and he felt like he was spinning in place despite laying on the ground, completely still. He let out a weak groan and tried to move, reaching for his sword. 

The last thing he saw before his vision went black, was the silhouette of a large dog, or perhaps a wolf, in the distance hidden behind the trees.

Warmth. He felt warm. And a pounding headache.

Pero slowly blinked awake and groaned at the light that hit his eyes. The smell of cooked meat and root vegetables hit his nostrils. His stomach whined in protest. 

“For en merkelig fyr…” An older male voice said, somewhere behind him. (He is a strange one…)

“Kjekk, da,” A younger, female voice replied. (Handsome, though.)

He didn’t understand any of it. It wasn’t a language he’d heard before. Eyelids fluttering, he slowly opened his eyes to a small gathering of people all looking down at him. He startled and reached for his knife, and grunted when he didn’t feel it.

“Vi har våpnene dine. De er trygge.” (We have your weapons. They’re safe.)

Pero turned his head in the direction of the voice and squinted his eyes at the woman. She looked to be in her 30s, with a baby attached to her breast and drinking.

“No entiendo,” he grumbled, voice hoarse from lack of use. “¿Dónde estoy?” (I do not understand. Where am I?)

He took in his surroundings, now sitting up, and saw that he looked to be in a small room cut off from a much larger group of people. He heard laughter and song outside the cloth separating the, assumed, larger hall from where he was now. He furrowed his brows. A celebration? What for?

“¿Dónde estoy?” He repeated, voice slightly harsher. (Where am I?)

“Har ikke hørt det språket før,” one of the men said. (Haven’t heard that tongue before.) Pero looked up at him and squinted his eyes slightly. The man was large, with a full beard, and an even fuller middle. But there was no denying his strength; age hadn’t stopped this man from doing well in a fight, Pero assumed. Not that he couldn’t take him, of course. He looked at the man’s belt and saw a one-handed axe attached to his belt and thought better of it, especially without his own weapons. 

Suddenly a small sting came from his foot and he snapped his head down at the young woman tending to the wound he’d gotten on his way back from the clearing. He’d almost completely forgotten about it, too cold to even really feel it. The young woman startled and blushed, keeping her head down as she cleaned the cut. 

“Det er et vakkert språk, da, er det ikke?” The first younger woman’s voice came through, a slightly entranced tone to it. (It is a beautiful tongue, though, no?) He looked to his left and saw her batting her eyelashes at him. He huffed a breath in amusement. He’d had his fair share of women giving him looks like that, almost always with a payment in mind, but his thoughts were elsewhere, even if it did feel nice. And she was a tad too skinny for his own tastes.

Pero exhaled. This was clearly getting nowhere. Fine. “Where am I? You know English, yes?” He asked, exasperated, in the general direction of anyone who might be able to answer him. 

The shy girl cleaning his wound lifted her head and smiled softly at him. “I know a little,” she said quietly, her voice heavily accented.

“Finally,” he sighed. “What is going on?”

“A few of our men found you in the forest, passed out. Your lips were blue.” She won’t make eye contact with him, bur her brows furrowed like she was worried for him. “We have lost some of our own men in a similar way before. It is not pretty.”

Pero hummed softly and nodded his thanks. “Did any of them see an old man? In the woods?”

The girl tilted her head and asked the man next to him, the one with the axe in his belt, if any of them had seen such a man. The man raised a brow and shook his head, looking at Pero skeptically. 

“Ingvar says–”

“Yes, I understood, thank you–” Pero cut himself off and looked back at the man with the axe. This was Ingvar? Pero looked back at the girl and nodded his head as she bandaged his wound, his own cloth wrapped around his ankle. He would have to be careful if he was to carry out this contract. “Thank you,” he repeated, the words foreign on his tongue.

The girl nodded, cheeks pink, and stood to leave. As she left, the cloth covering them moved to show a large fire in the middle of the hall with an even larger feast around it. The girl came back with a tankard of something for him and he took it gratefully. As the sweet liquid hit his tongue, he coughed slightly.

“What is this?” He wheezed a little, looking at the cup like it slapped his mother.

The girl giggled before saying, “Mead. It is honey wine.”

Pero rolled the words around his tongue for a moment. “Interesante,” he hummed to himself. (Interesting.)

“Vel, han er våken. Tilby ham noe å spise, men hold øye på ham. Han ser ut som en leiesoldat, og jeg stoler ikke på ham,” Ingvar grunted, leaving the room and rejoining the festivities. (Well, he is up. Invite him to eat, but keep an eye on him. He looks like a mercenary and I do not trust him.)

Pero watched him closely as he left, and took another drink of his mead, eyes hard. 

“Would you like some food, mister-”

“Tovar,” Pero grunted. “Yes. I am very hungry.” He turned on the cot and got to his feet quickly, but quickly lost his balance, a couple of the women catching him as he stood on shaky legs. He sighed in frustration and stood on his own, shrugging off their help. The girl held her arm out to him, and didn’t seem too offended when he just stared at it.

“Tovar. This way,” she smiled, her face a little pinched. 

“What are you celebrating?” He asked, looking around at all the food. His stomach roared at the smells.

“It is the third night of Jól. You have heard of Jól?” She asked excitedly, turning to him as she found a place for him to sit. He slowly made his way down at a long table nearby where Ingvar sat at the head of the table. A leader. This contract was getting more difficult by the second.

“I have not,” he grumbled. “What is this… Yool?” 

The girl giggled again, this time at his attempt at the word. “Jól is the celebration that welcomes back the sun from the harsh Winter. Our crops start growing as the sun comes back, and the snow melts away.”

Pero hummed as he listened, nodding his thanks when she handed him a full plate of different meats, root vegetables, bread, and cheese. “You are farmers?”

The girl nods. “Most of us. Some are warriors.”

Pero hummed again, chewing on a piece of meat. “How did you learn English?”

The girl turned a little sad, but smiled anyway. “We used to have a man that came from… Eng-land? He died last year,” she sighed. “He taught me and a few of the children how to read and speak English. How did you learn?”

Pero frowned around his food and sighed.

“I am sorry, forget–” Pero held up a hand to stop her. “Apologies. I am… unused to kindness from strangers,” he grunted, not meeting her eyes. “A dear friend of mine is from Scotland. We have separated so he could be with his woman. He taught me.”

“Scotland?”

“It is near England.”

She nodded, slowly picking at her own food. The two of them grew quiet and just ate for a while. The celebrations continued around them, and it gave Pero a chance to take it all in.

In the center of the hall was a large hearth, with an even larger tree in the middle, lighting up the hall. It looked like the one he was using earlier as a bench, so they must have gotten it from the same forest. He can’t be too far from there, then. There were candles and flames everywhere, lighting up the hall brightly, but warmly.

He looked back at the girl and found her already staring at him. She startled, cheeks going pink again, and looked down at her food. He smirked a little, but hid it well. She was amusing.

“What is your name?” He asked.

“Sigrid,” she said softly.

“It sounds strong.”

“Yes. I am more drawn to medicine, so I suppose the name is ironic.”

Pero chuckled. “Hardly.”

Sigrid smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

A comfortable silence fell over the two of them again before Pero asked, “Who is Ingvar? He seems like a powerful man.”

“He is our Jarl. Our leader.”

“Is this like a king?” Pero furrowed his brows. He didn’t think this contract would be finished.

“Not exactly. But no less powerful.”

“I see,” Pero grunted. As if on cue, Ingvar stood from his seat at the head of the table, a large grin on his bearded face.

“Venner! Kvelden er ung, og festen er rik. Vær så snill, nyt, for mine gamle beindekk. Jeg ser dere alle i morgen tidlig.” Everyone raised their drinks and shouted… something, but Pero didn’t catch it. Sigrid leaned over and translated what Ingvar said for him. He nodded his thanks, but he was skeptical at best. Ingvar left through a door behind the throne that sat in the center of the hall. (Friends! The night is young, and the feast bountiful. Please, enjoy, for my old bones tire. I will see you all in the morning.)

“He cannot be that old, no?”

“He has been around much longer than I,” Sigrid shrugged. Pero laughed softly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You are a child, of course he has.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. “If seventeen winters makes me a child, then yes.”

Pero choked on his mead and hit his chest to keep from coughing too hard. “Yes, it does,” he wheezed, laughing quietly. Sigrid laughed, too, eating some bread and cheese. A small child ran up to Sigrid and asked her a question as he tugged on her dress. Sigrid looked back at Pero apologetically and he waved her off, eating some more meat.

This was hardly the setting he expected for himself when he took the contract, but he couldn’t deny it, it was a pleasant one. The food was good, and the people seemed friendly enough. He couldn’t help but be confused by the contract; who was dumb enough to put a hit out on a powerful leader like Ingvar?

Sigrid mentioned that some of them were warriors. That didn’t surprise him at all. Just by looking at the people around the table, men and women alike, he could’ve figured that out on his own.

He sighed to himself and chewed thoughtfully. Suddenly, he remembered the small stone that pierced his foot. He looked around at the people around him to be sure no one was watching before he felt around his pocket for the stone. When he didn’t feel anything, his body went taut and he froze. Shit. They probably found it when they grabbed his weapons. Where were his weapons?

Sigrid came up to his side with the small child from before holding her hand and looking at him from behind her. “Tovar?” She asked softly. He looked up at her, heavy brow still pulled down. She gave him a quick once-over before clearing her throat. “We have sleeping quarters for you, but Lord Ingvar wishes to speak with you first.”

Pero chuckled humorlessly around his food before putting it down on his plate. He grabbed the mead and took a drink, making a face at the taste. He wasn’t sure he’d get used to that anytime soon. “Of course he does,” he sighed. “You will translate for me?”

Sigrid nodded, braided blonde hair swinging with the movement, and looked like she was trying to steel herself. He admired her mettle.

Pero followed after her, keeping light pressure on his foot as they went through that door Ingvar went through before. It led down a short hallway and ended up in a large bedroom. Ingvar was sitting on the edge of the bed before standing tall and fixing Pero with a hard look. Pero grunted and rested a hand on his hip as he leaned on the uninjured foot, waiting to get this over with.

“Hva heter du?” Ingvar grunted. (What is your name?)

“He asked your name,” Sigrid said softly.

“Tovar,” Pero narrowed his eyes. 

“Hvorfor er du her?” (Why are you here?)

Sigrid translated quietly.

“Your people brought me here. I was wondering the same thing,” Pero shrugged with an attitude. Ingvar gave him a look, clearly unimpressed. Pero rolled his eyes.

Ingvar looked at Sigrid and she blushed, nodding. “He didn’t mean–”

“Yes, I know what he meant,” Pero sighed. “I had a contract. I came to fulfill that contract.”

Sigrid spoke quietly and Ingvar seemed tired as he nodded.

“Var navnet mitt på denne kontrakten?” Ingvar sighed. Pero gave Sigrid a look as she quickly translated. (Did this contract have my name on it?)

“It did…” Pero raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. Ingvar nodded again, but Pero spoke up before he could say anything. “I decided not to complete the contract when I saw your celebration and… status. I may be a mercenary, but I am no fool. I do not go after lords or kings.”

Ingvar raised a brow and chuckled quietly before letting out a loud, hearty laugh. “Jeg vet ikke om du er smart eller dum,” Ingvar smiled, cheeks flushed with mirth. “Jeg takker deg, men tilgi meg for at jeg ikke stoler på deg helt, Tovar.” (I do not know if you are smart or stupid. I thank you. But you will forgive me for not completely trusting you, Tovar.)

Pero nodded and shrugged. “I understand.”

Sigrid looked between the two of them, looking much less nervous. She quickly spoke to Ingvar quietly, asking him a question. Ingvar nodded, a small smile on his lips.

“Nyt festen, Tovar. Vi diskuterer hva vi skal gjøre med deg om morgenen.” (Enjoy the festivities, Tovar. We will discuss what to do with you in the morning.)

“I wish to leave,” Pero grunted, looking between Sigrid and the Jarl. Sigrid looked a little crestfallen, but took one more look at Ingvar before he waved them off. She pushed Pero out of the Jarl’s quarters and back out into the celebration. “Sigrid?” Pero asked, confused.

She sighed before looking up at him. “The Jarl wishes to keep you here until Jól ends. To keep an eye on you, make sure you keep your word.” She started wringing her hands together and bit her lip.

“How much longer is Yool?”

Sigrid went quiet.

“Sigrid.”

“Nine more days,” she sighed, looking down.

Pero’s eyes went wide before he shut them and sighed heavily. He looked up at the ceiling and mumbled, “Joder yo,” under his breath. (Fuck me.) “Fine. Nine more days and I will leave.”

Over the course of the first four days, Pero was treated like he belonged with these people. He still didn’t quite know where he was. If someone were to give him a map, he couldn’t tell them, but he knew he was probably at the top somewhere. He was shocked at how much he liked it there despite the bitter cold.

He felt eyes on him the whole time and he didn’t like the feeling, but he understood it. 

He taught Sigrid and some of the children some Spanish words and in turn he was taught some words in their tongue. Norse, he was told.

Pero also found himself helping the warriors Sigrid mentioned before, called Vikingr. Their job was to sail to faraway lands, raid strangers of their belongings, and bring it back home. He didn’t judge. He’d done worse, and frankly, it sounded like something right up his alley. He mostly helped with keeping their longships cleaned for their next raid when the snow thawed.

And he ate. He ate a lot. There was so much food at the feasts in the evenings. He tried to eat as much as he could in the hopes that it would carry him on his journey home. Wherever that was. Every feast started with a chant and “offerings” to their Gods. Some of these “offerings” came in the form of the mead Pero had - reluctantly - grown to like, and other times it came in the form of one of the farmer’s poor goats. 

While he didn’t understand a lot of these people’s customs, he couldn’t deny it, they were a hearty people. 

He’d also caught the eye of some of the women there, too, but he mostly ignored them. They were all too young for him, and he was too busy not getting killed. He still wasn’t given back his weapons. Or the strange stone. His wound would take a while to heal yet, but he could put pressure on it again.

On the fifth day, he was helping chop wood for people’s homes. During the feast, everyone in the village congregated in the Jarl’s home to be surrounded by the fire given by the Jól Log and enjoy the food, but they all needed wood for their own homes as well.

He stopped to take a break and wiped the sweat from his brow as a cool chill blew past him. Pero looked to his left, the feeling of someone looking at him catching his attention. When he saw it wasn’t one of Ingvar’s men, he startled a little. It was a woman. Older than the ones that mostly watched him, and far more… Interesting. To him, at least. He raised a brow as she turned and left, clutching her basket closer to her body. He’d seen her around during his time there and she seemed to keep mostly to herself. She was unattached from what he could tell, and wondered why. She was beautiful. 

Pero snapped himself out of it and shook his head, going back to chopping the wood.

On the sixth day, he saw her again. He’d asked Sigrid what her name was as he saw her making her way through the market, and she said it was Helga. 

Helga.

He liked the name.

Helga was a thread-weaver. She made blankets, scarves, anything to keep one warm and covered. Pero was given clothing that suited the temperature better, and he felt strange without his armor, but he was never given a scarf. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted one before now.

He asked Sigrid if she could ask Helga for him for a scarf, and the girl giggled, pushing him toward the woman. He sighed and walked over to her, looking at the weapons and tools surrounding them at the market. He tried not to make himself too obvious, and it mostly worked, he thought. He was genuinely impressed with the craftsmanship of the weapons.

Pero sidled up to Helga’s side, but before he could say anything, she stepped away from the stand and walked back to her house. He watched her go and frowned.

This was going to be tougher than he thought.

The seventh day was much like the day before, but instead of chopping wood, Pero was asked to help around the Jarl’s home. He noticed a lot of the young women that stared at him worked there, so he tried to keep mostly to himself. He’d never cleaned linens or blankets before, but found it to be quite relaxing. There was a rhythm to it, and he could do it without much help.

“Tovar,” a young voice asked from his left. He looked up, finishing the fold of the blanket he was holding. He grunted in acknowledgement. “Jeg og noen av kvinnene har lurt på noe,” the girl was blushing hard up to her ears and biting her lip. (Some of the women and I have been wondering something.)

Pero smirked a little and nodded for her to continue. He picked up on the gist of what she was saying, thanks to Sigrid’s teachings of Norse.

“Hvor fikk du arret fra?” she asked meekly. (Where did you get your scar?)

Pero’s face pinched slightly and he shook his head. “I do not wish to talk about it.” The girl’s eyes went wide and she started scrambling out apologies, her hand pressed to her chest. A sad smile crossed his features before he shook his head. “It is okay,” he said quietly.

The girl frowned, cheeks bright red, but nodded as she turned and left. Pero exhaled quietly and looked down at the linens he was folding. 

“I do not believe she meant any harm,” a low, feminine voice said to his left. He hummed in acknowledgement before he froze, realizing that she spoke perfect English. He turned his head and nearly jumped out of his boots when he saw Helga standing there. She smiled and started helping him with the linens. “Tovar, yes?”

Pero huffed a laugh and nodded. 

“I have noticed you watching me.” She had a soft smile on her lips, brown hair pulled away from her face in a braid. She turned to look at him, blue eyes full of heat as she looked over his face and chest. 

Pero blinked, eyes slightly wider. He went to speak, but all that came out was a croak, making him cough. “Apologies,” he wheezed, the side of his fist pressed to his chest. “I am sorry for staring,” he mumbled, turning back to his own linens as his cheeks flushed. “I am still getting used to the customs here. There are two days left of your celebration, and I will be gone.”

Helga hummed noncommittally and pushed her small stack of folded linens toward him to add to his pile. “That would be a shame.”

Pero furrowed his brows and added her stack to his. He looked at her incredulously, but her head was faced down as she continued folding. He didn’t say anything and continued as well, his thoughts running a mile a minute.

“I thought only Sigrid and a few of the children spoke English,” he said after a few moments of silence.

“They are not the only ones.”

Pero snorted and shook his head. “Clearly not,” he hummed to himself. He cleared his throat and glanced at her before continuing. “When I arrived at this place, I was in the forest. I am not sure how far it is from here, but I saw an old man,” he started, keeping his eyes downward. “I was hoping I would see him here in the village, but I have not.”

Helga hummed a noise for him to continue. 

“He wore a cloak, the hood covering his head. He sat in front of my campfire, but I only saw one of his eyes,” Pero’s brows furrowed further, confusion filling his head. “I am not sure if he was missing one or if it was covered.”

Helga stopped folding and looked at him, a small smirk on her lips. “Did he have a long beard?”

Pero looked up and blinked. “Y-yes. You have seen this man?”

“Once or twice,” she said. “He is a wanderer. He does not stay in one place for very long.”

“Who is he?”

Helga bit her lip and shrugged. “He has many names. We cannot be certain which he likes best.”

Pero sighed in frustration. “Why was he at my camp?”

Helga smirked again and finished folding her linens. “Perhaps he was looking out for you,” she shrugged again, leaning over to pick up her basket of fabrics. “Enjoy the feast tonight.” She grinned and left the Jarl’s home, leaving Pero quiet and watching her retreating form.

Pero exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. When he looked down, there was a scarf folded on top of her pile of linens. 

“Du får tingene dine i morgen, etter den siste festen,” Ingvar grumbled. (You will receive your belongings after tomorrow’s final feast.)

“Must I stay the whole time? I wish to return home,” Pero growled, crossing his arms over his chest. Not that he had a home to return to.

Ingvar rolled his eyes and waved him off. Sigrid grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the Jarl’s bedroom. Pero grumbled obscenities in Spanish to himself until he was sat at a table in the hall. It was the eighth night, and he was getting tired of being watched constantly. He had no intention of hurting anyone here. He might if they didn’t give him his things, though. The people around him continued to have the same energy this night that they always seemed to. He supposed that came from actually understanding what you were celebrating, and not having to worry about death or arrest at every corner.

“You leave tomorrow evening, yes?”

Pero startled and looked to his right. Helga sat next to him, a plate of food in front of her. She smiled warmly at him and he softened. “How do you do that?” He huffed a laugh and shook his head before grabbing a piece of meat and eating it.

“You do not pay attention,” she said simply.

He squinted his eyes at her and grumbled around his food that he did too pay attention, thank you very much. She laughed softly and it made him bite his tongue. She had been nothing but kind to him while he was there and she didn’t deserve the frustration he felt to be forced on her.

“Where do you live?” Helga asked softly. “Where will you go?”

Pero bit his lip as he tore a piece of bread in two. “Nowhere. I am a mercenary. I go where the work is,” he shrugged, shoving the bread in his mouth. 

“You enjoy this?”

Pero raised a brow as he chewed. 

“You like not having anywhere to call home? You do not have to leave,” she hummed around her own food, taking a drink of some mead.

“What do you mean? Of course I do,” he scoffed. “Ingvar wants me dead. His men are constantly watching me.”

Helga rolled her eyes. “You really do not pay attention,” she sighed, setting down her cup and turning to face him. “You have not heard how people talk about you?”

“I am still learning the language,” he frowned, chewing messily and lips greasy.

“Why are you learning the language if you want to leave?”

Pero blinked and looked down at his plate. He frowned, thinking about it. Why was he learning the language? 

“Because you like it here, Tovar,” she said softly. “We like you.” It went unsaid, but he got the feeling that she liked him, too.

“Pero.”

“What?”

“My name is Pero.”

Helga smiled, pink dusting her cheeks. “I do not think you will have many people protesting if you stay. The children love you. And I think you would make an excellent Viking.”

Pero raised a brow and exhaled, thinking about it. Having a place to call his own would be nice. And he was familiar with the kind of work the warriors did, from what he’d heard. 

“You do not have long to think about it, Pero,” Helga hummed. She picked up her plate and stood before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I would like it if you stayed,” she whispered into his ear. He looked up at her with soft eyes and she smiled down at him with her hand on his shoulder before turning and leaving.

Pero shut his eyes and exhaled once again, then looked in the direction of the Jarl’s personal quarters. 

Would it be such a terrible thing to stay?

On the ninth day, Pero woke with a startle. He thought he’d heard a whisper next to his ear again. He’d been mostly dreamless while he was in the village. Last night, after his talk with Helga, he dreamt about the old man and the wolf in the woods. He didn’t understand any of it, and he barely remembered what the dream actually entailed, but he remembered the feeling. He felt… odd. Not bad or wrong. Just… different. Comforting. 

As he got dressed in the clothes that were given to him, he looked over at the scarf Helga gave him. It was a brown color and the material was rough, but also thick and soft. It kept his ears warm. He wrapped it around his neck before slipping his feet into his boots, making sure to be careful of his injured one. He made his way over to the Jarl’s quarters and knocked on the door.

“Er du sikker?” (Are you sure?)

Pero nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “Yes.”

Ingvar sighed and crossed his arms, too. “Du forvirrer meg, Tovar. Men hvis dette virkelig er det du vil, tror jeg ikke at jeg ser noe problem med det.” He shrugged and looked at Sigrid’s smiling face. “Gå og hent tingene hans.” (You confuse me, Tovar. But if this is truly what you want, I don’t suppose I see a problem with it. Go get his things.)

Sigrid nodded happily and ran from the room. Pero and Ingvar awkwardly avoided eye contact. Even if neither of them were enemies, the circumstances of their acquaintanceship were less than ideal. When Sigrid returned, she was carrying Pero’s weapons in both arms and looked to be struggling to do so.

Pero furrowed his brows and gently took the weapons from her. She sighed in relief, but smiled shyly up at him. “I am happy you decided to stay,” she giggled.

Pero smiled down at her, then gave a grateful nod to Ingvar before leaving the room. Sigrid walked next to him while he attached his sword and hunting knife to his belt. He carried the armor under his left arm. “Me too,” he grunted awkwardly. “I am unsure how I will fit in, but…” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck.

“I think you will be fine,” she nodded, sure of herself. One of the small children, a younger brother of hers he found out, came up to her and tugged on her dress. He mumbled something Pero didn’t quite catch. Sigrid tapped on his shoulder to get Pero’s attention, making him look down at the two of them, dark eyes intimidating, but soft. “She lives at the end of the village,” Sigrid winked, then took off with her younger brother.

Pero’s cheeks flushed, but he chuckled to himself. He made his way through the village, waving or nodding to people as he saw them. It was strange, being accepted as he was. He wasn’t the only gruff and hardened warrior here, and no one seemed scared of him for his scars or his accent. The feeling was so foreign to him.

As he walked up a small hill toward the end of the village, he heard a quiet thud against the grass. He looked down and saw the strange stone from the forest laying there. Right, he’d completely forgotten. It must’ve fallen from his belongings. He picked it up and looked at it, thumbs running over the strange markings. It was almost shaped like a fork, but with three prongs. Maybe Helga would know what it meant.

When he made his way in front of the door of the last house in the village, he hesitated before knocking. The sun was slowly setting and it was getting a tad colder, so he eventually knocked. 

“Et øyeblikk!” (One moment!)

Pero smiled to himself as he heard her voice behind the door. Once the door opened, he raised his head and smiled sheepishly, the shape on his face still foreign to him.

Helga’s face softened as she saw him and rested a hand on her hip. “Well, come on in, then,” she grinned, opening the door wider for him. He nodded gratefully and stepped inside her home, the smells of burnt leaves and the feeling of a warm fire engulfing his body. 

“I will find my own home, you need not keep me here if–”

“Hush,” she chuckled softly, taking his armor from his arms and putting it in her bedroom for cleaning later. “You are more than welcome to stay here,” she looked up at him with a bit of shyness. The first time she’d ever looked at him like that. “If you want to, that is.”

Pero took two steps closer to her until his face was mere inches from her own. “I want nothing more,” he said softly, rubbing the knuckle of his index finger against her cheek. She shut her eyes and exhaled softly, nodding. 

“I was just getting ready to go to the feast,” Helga smiled, looking up at him. “Would you like to join me?”

Pero’s lips quirked up into a soft smile of his own before he remembered the stone he was holding. “Yes, but first,” his brows furrowed in thought. “It is silly, but… I found this strange stone while I was in the forest.”

Helga hummed and tilted her head to the side, letting him continue.

“It has a marking I have never seen before. Do you know what it means?” He asked, showing her the stone lying in the palm of his hand. She picked it up and rubbed her thumb over the marking like he had before.

“Where did you find this?” Helga asked, face pinched in confusion.

“In the forest. There was a small clearing with a bloodstained stone, and–”

“The ritual site,” she smiled up at him, clutching the stone in her hand. “We sacrificed one of the cows on the first day of Jól there.”

Pero blinked down at her, hands holding her arms and rubbing softly. “I see…”

Helga laughed softly. “You’ll get used to it,” she winked. “This is one of the runes. It seems we forgot one.”

“What does it mean?” He hummed, cupping her face in his large hand. He rubbed his thumb against her cheek.

“Protection,” she said softly. She looked at his lips, then looked back up at his eyes. He did the same and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. They stayed there for a few moments before he released her and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Surely the feast can wait a few moments,” he growled into her neck, kissing against the soft skin there. Helga bit her lip and smiled, fingers tangling into the thick curls at the back of his head.

“It can,” she gasped, startled by the small nip he left against her shoulder. Pero slowly walked them toward her bedroom and laid her on top of the bed. The curtains in front of the window were drawn. Something caught his eye in the window and he looked out, hovering over Helga’s body. 

In the distance, on top of a hill, was a large black wolf. It seemed to make eye contact with him before it turned and left.

A chill ran down Pero’s spine.

a/n: if you're at all curious, here's a decent idea of what i imagined the stone to look like 🥰

#pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #pero tovar x ofc #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #12 days of pedro #12dop #oaksfics

[tatumtater]

“ thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war. “

moodboard ;

Tero Povar x princess!fem or knight!Joel Miller x princes!fem

author’s note ; purely for fun. purely for enjoyment. purely for inspiration. if you have ideas please share, i’d love to give my take on what a moodboard for it would be

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #hbo the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #tatum’s moodboards #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x ofc #please be inspired to use

[palioom]

day thirty - free use

pairing: pero tovar x f!reader

word count: 652

warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; free use, blowjob, face fucking (?); facial (not the beauty kind)

• kinktober 2023 masterlist •

“Come here, hermosa.” Pero’s gruff voice appeared beside her, his tall form standing next to where she sat on the ground. “Open your pretty mouth for me.”

She didn’t even blink, just turning her head and smiling up at him when she took his thick cock into her mouth. Her fingers still working on the worn down clothes in her hands, something she had wanted to tend to for a while now.

They had settled down here for the night after a long day of riding, with Pero having started a bonfire before leaving to hunt for something to eat. All while she had used the time to begin to mend their torn clothing, stitching them together as well as she could. Completely forgetting the world around her until he had come back.

Clearly pent up and needing some release.

Just shoving his cock into her mouth, groaning as his hand threaded into her hair. He loved that she was so eager, accepting his advances every time without complaints.

No matter where and no matter when, always ready to take him whenever he wanted. And in return receiving the same from him. If she wanted her hungry cunt filled, he would do so, it didn’t matter what he was doing at the time. If she wanted to suck him off for her own satisfaction or have his mouth on her, he would do so.

Just like now, moving her head how he saw fit, pushing himself in all the way, feeling her throat constrict around him as she whined, then pulling back again and keeping his thrusts shallow.

Sometimes he would just wake her up in the night to fuck her, other times he just pulled down her breeches when she cooked or tended to the horse.

She loved it, the spontaneity of it, always excited about when he would do it again, taking her own in the meantime.

“Fuck, that feels good.” He groaned, his head thrown back and looking up at the stars. This little agreement of theirs would never make him tired. “You love it too, hermosa?”

Her agreement came in the form of a moan, vibrating around his thick, sweaty cock, her hands finally stilling in her lap. Simply letting him move her head, feeling herself get wet.

She loved the danger it brought sometimes, in the middle of nowhere where people could simply attack them.

“Want me to spill down your pretty throat?” He asked with a deep grunt, looking back down at her. Taking in how spit pooled at the corner of her lips, some of it already dripping down her chin. “Or want me to paint your face?”

It wouldn’t matter what she wanted, it was part of the deal. And he would really love to see her face covered in his cum.

She simply hummed, a hum that could mean anything, and he sped up until he felt himself right at the peak, the slick sounds echoing between them in the silent night.

Pulling out and holding her head in position as his other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it until he spilled himself all over her with a loud groan. She gasped when the first ropes laid over her face, sticking out her tongue to catch the rest of it.

Eagerly taking what he gave her with a hum, licking her lips once his cock had stopped pumping, one of her hands coming up to take him into her mouth to clean the remnants off of it.

Pero could only watch with a wide grin, putting his softening cock away once she was done and letting go of her.

“My pretty, pretty girl.” He said, admiring his work on her face. She shook her head with a quiet laugh, her hands beginning to mend his shirt again.

As if nothing had happened, while he began to skin the rabbit he had caught.

#pedro tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar imagine #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #kinktober 2023 #my writing

[sirowsky-stories]

Collision

Part 9

Description: Taking a gamble, Pero seeks out the people responsible for the threat to Niki's life, ready to end it, one way or another.

Warnings: Pero Tovar x OFC, no reader insert, Pero's pov, conspiracy, cursing, angst, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, secret identity, AU fic. TW: mentions of child-abuse and rape, as well as spousal abuse and coerced self-cutting. (Not committed by any of the main characters.) Rating: Mature/Explicit 18+ONLY Word Count: 6520 Series Masterlist

Author's Note: So sorry for the delay, but here is the final part of this series. I partly wish that I'd had more inspiration for a different ending to this, but I'm also not sure what that ending might've been. Anyway, thank you to anyone who toughed it out and comes to see how this ends! And to those of you who showered this story with your enthusiasm while it was active: You're all superheroes!

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   It’s been three days since his run-in with the general’s assassin when he finally finds a way into the secure military base which the man himself operates from.    All of Pero’s informants have been on constant high alert since he informed them of his need to gain access to Hayword, preferably quietly, but by any means necessary should it come to that. And they haven’t disappointed.

   The Qwerty brothers are the ones who bring him the crucial intel, having managed to trick an off-duty officer into divulging a few tidbits of information during a drinking game the night before. If there’s one thing the superstar wannabes are good at, it’s holding their liquor.    He had expected them to try and worm their way out of the deal, using this success as their bargaining chip, but surprisingly, they seem only excited to give him something useful. They even offer to act as his muscle, which would in no way benefit them if he fails.    And come to think of it, not really if he should win either.

   He turns them down, though. It’s easier to sneak in undetected if it’s just him. But he does consider it, because undisciplined though the men might be, they are formidable killers and completely unbothered by the status or power of whomever their target might be. They’d be handy in a close-quarter fight, no doubt.    As it is, this mission requires finesse rather than brute force, so he heads to the compound alone.

   It’s big. Departments of almost all branches of the US military operates from here, which is why Hayword has so many resources at his disposal. But Pero suspects that not many people here are aware of the real reason why such a decorated and high-profile officer hasn’t risen further in status yet. His accolades on paper more than suggests he should be eligible for promotion into the very highest ranks of the US Army, but here he is, commanding just one base in the District of Colombia.

   They don’t know that this is as far as he will ever go, because of the practices he applies to achieve those victories. That he’s a precision tool being used where he can operate the most freely, while still under strict supervision.    They have no idea the man is responsible for entire massacres, and that he considers such actions to be normal practice. To him, there is no such thing as an atrocity, so long as it’s committed in the name of protecting American citizens.

   And the fact that only a handful of people within the highest seats of the government know this, is also precisely why killing the general won’t solve anything. It would just spark an even worse manhunt.    Which means that Pero has to play this much more delicately. But he’s prepared himself as well as he possibly could have.

   A precision strike, perfectly timed and executed is what it’ll take to succeed here tonight, but if all his assets have performed exactly as instructed, there’s every chance it could work.    He chooses to focus on that, rather than the overwhelming odds he might fail, as he begins his perilous endeavor into the base.    This is for Niki. So, even if he dies trying, it’s already worth it.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   “That’s it?”

   “It’s all I can find. He heads for one of the neighboring buildings, by the looks of it, but I can’t see him beyond the subway cameras.”

   “So, what? He’s just gone…?” Niki half screams, half sobs, because this is more than she can take right now.

   “No, no, no, hey…” William counters softly, taken off guard by how strongly she reacts, rising to his feet and turning away from the screens to give her his full focus. “He would never leave you. You gotta know that.”

   She does know that. In the safest and most tightly guarded part of her heart, she knows. But her mind falters, corroded by the terror she’s been living with for weeks now, and she closes her eyes against his words, unable to allow herself the hope.

   “Something’s happened while he was out, either someone spotted him or he’s afraid that someone will, that’s the only reason he’d behave like this. Trying to throw someone off our scent. So, now more than ever, it’s imperative that we don’t screw up.    Do you hear me, Niki?”

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   Once inside the compound, Pero moves fast. He needs to locate the general before anyone clocks him as someone who doesn’t belong there, although the stolen uniform he’s wearing helps to make him stand out less. There are way too many people to try and sneak past, so he has to walk among them as though he belongs, knowing who to salute and how to behave like just another cog in the military machine.

   Which is why he’s spent the past three days scouting the base from afar, learning it’s rhythm, routine, and discipline. He knows everything he needs to know, including that the rank indicated on his uniform gives him access to the building where Hayword mostly operates from.    He gets in without problems, thanks to an immaculate fake ID badge with a built-in electronic signature for all locks on the premises, courtesy of the best forger in the world.

   The general is already in there, he’s made sure to time it so that the man will be in his office, probably having lunch, when Pero gets to him.    This is where routine and punctuality becomes a man’s enemy, because those things make him predictable, and the trespasser has spent enough time observing him to know that he never misses his lunch.    Mrs. Hayword makes it for him, with outstanding precision.

   On his way there, Pero encounters a nervous cadet, probably only given access to this building while she learns about the real-life application of military forces, because she doesn’t have the rank required to actually work in here.    Ordinarily, that would require her to stay on the heels of a chaperone, or supervisor, but she’s all alone when he meets her in an otherwise empty corridor.    Most all corridors are empty, since personnel here work primarily at desks and with computers, not requiring them to move around much within departments.

   “Sir!” she salutes as she approaches him, and as soon as he’s saluted her in return, she launches into a nervous rant. “Sir, I’m so sorry, I don’t wanna be a bother and I’m sure you’re very busy, but I’ve lost my captain, and I don’t know what to do.    Can you help me? If I screw this up, I won’t pass this month’s evaluation…”

   He checks his watch. It’ll take him another two minutes to reach the general’s office and by his calculations, he has at least ten minutes before his mark might be finishing his meal. But he’s not keen on going off-script. Even the smallest deviation could be fatal to his mission.

   “Do you know where you’re supposed to be right now, cadet?” he asks, hoping to ascertain if this might be a quick fix.

   “Uh, I think we were heading for Logistics, but then I went to the bathroom and when I got out-…”

   “Straight down this hall, take a left, then follow the corridor all the way to the end. Logistics is the last door on your right,” he cuts her off, then continues on his way.

   “Oh, gosh, thank you so much, Major!” she chirps while she starts moving in the direction he’s indicated.

   He has the entire building memorized from top to bottom, so simply giving directions was never gonna be an issue.    But as he’s about to turn a corner, he hears the young woman say something, more to herself than anyone else, and her words manage to grind him to a halt.

   “…I’m enough of a failure as it is.”

   Precisely why hearing these words from this unknown woman (well, more like girl, really) affects him so profoundly in that moment, escapes his understanding at first. But as he turns back and sees her initial excitement at knowing where to go, fade with the understanding that she’ll likely get an earful once she gets there, and how her shoulders slump with the realization that she’s already failed, something stirs in his gut.

   Some dormant paternal instinct, maybe, brought to the surface by even the frailest possibility that he might one day have to see his own child suffer with self-doubt and insecurity.

   “Cadet,” he calls back softly, and she immediately stops, whirling around and adapting the correct pose for when an officer addresses her, with her hands tight to her sides and her feet close together. “How old are you?”

   “Nineteen, sir.”

   “Nineteen…” he repeats, tasting the word while his mind makes a quick jump back in time, recalling his own, less than excellent youth. “You’re in the military rather than a gang. You take pride in accomplishing a task, rather than expect the world to cater to you. You worry about how to be a good soldier, when you could’ve just as easily thrown your life away in any number of ways and for any sort of shallow reasons. But you’re here. Where everything is hard and challenging, testing yourself to the limits of your abilities, day after day.”

   She grows teary-eyed as she listens, and he wonders if no one has ever seen or pointed out her strength before. Just as he wonders why he does now, and why this girl’s strength even matters to him.

   “You’re not a failure, cadet.”

   He can see her open her mouth to say something, but her throat is too tightly closed, so she nods instead, while a small but infinitely grateful smile adorns her lips, before she turns and sprints down the hall, no doubt worried about how late she already is. And perhaps eager to conceal her tears from someone she believes to be her superior.

   Pero watches her leave, even though he’s on a schedule, and a strange feeling that this encounter was important to him, lingers in his body.    Something warm but also frightening.    Once she’s gone, he shakes his head a fraction and then resumes his course for the general’s office, checking his watch again on the way. Three minutes to spare.

   Reaching the correct door, he pauses and listens, confirming someone’s actually in there, before he knocks just once and then steps in without waiting for an invitation. He only alerted the man to the presence of someone at his door to ensure that he’ll be looking this way as Tovar steps in, since he knows the man will immediately look him up and down in search of any visible weapons. And finding none, he’ll trick himself into a false sense of security, which is exactly where his enemy wants him. Oblivious to the real danger.

   “Good day, general. My apologies for interrupting your lunch, sir, but I’m afraid I have a rather urgent matter to discuss,” he politely addresses the older man, who looks mostly annoyed, but also confounded.

   “I’m sorry, do I know you, major?”

   “No, sir.”

   “Then what makes you think you can interrupt my lunch at all?”

   “Urgency, as mentioned, sir. I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

   “I don’t care how god damned urgent you think whatever this is might be, I don’t know you, which means you’re not part of my unit. So, you can either get out or get arrested,” the general barks, glaring at him now over his plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes.

   “You’re correct, sir, I’m not part of your unit. In fact, I’m not a major or even listed in any military,” Pero confesses calmly, following the other man’s movements as he quickly rises from his chair and picks up his phone, probably to call the military police.

   But his uninvited guest doesn’t flinch.

   “Mary does make wonderful lunches for you. There’s such dedication to every detail, so much time spent on planning and preparation, one might think she’s a chef,” he says, layering every word with implication, and seeing the man freeze before hitting any button as he realizes the fraud before him isn’t harmless. “Even the plate is immaculately prepared. Not one drop of sauce in the wrong place, everything perfectly measured and laid out in exact proportions… almost as if she worries that getting one detail wrong would see her punished for her failure.”

   Hayword is fuming by the time he finishes, but he keeps his feelings under control for the time being, undoubtedly hoping to learn more about his enemy.    Although, the fact that he puts the phone down without having attempted any calls, reveals to his guest just how uncomfortable the man suddenly is, and how much power Pero has over him right now.

   “Everyone here knows my wife; you could’ve asked around for that information. If you’re trying to intimidate me-…”

   “She cuts herself in the evenings,” he clips the general off, and sees his quarry literally swallow whatever he’d been about to say. “You’ve taught her how to do it exactly right so that it’ll hurt without causing any real damage. Because you like to watch.”

   The older man’s rage is undiminished, but his lips remain sealed, because he knows where this is going, and while he might not be ashamed of it, he damned well knows what happens if it gets out.

   “Her pain is the only thing that arouses you, so you stand there at the edge of the bed, stroking yourself while you watch her cut repeatedly at your command, just so you can shove your dick down her throat and choke her half to death once she’s got you hard enough,” Pero continues, letting his disdain for the man be heard in every syllable now. “I’m curious, do you think your unit would have your back if they found out what happened to your first two wives?”

   Hayword’s anger seems to dissipate now, because this is entirely unexpected. He’s been assured that no evidence remains of those women, or of the crimes he committed against them.    But Tovar is no ordinary man. Secrets find him as if they had a mind and a will of their own.

   “You’re bluffing…” the general tries, although his tone is all but convincing.

   To prove that he isn’t, the trespasser produces an envelope from his jacket pocket, throwing it on the desk for the other man to retrieve.    He’s not stupid enough to hand anything directly to the trained military officer with no conscience or morals, as that would practically be an invitation for the man to engage in physical combat.

   Hayword picks it up and pulls the top open, sliding the one folded piece of paper out and taking a step back before he unfolds it, since looking at it requires him to take his eyes off his enemy, and he wants a little more space between them first, to give himself another second of reaction time, should Tovar decide to attack when his focus is elsewhere.    But one look at the paper in his hands is enough to make him realize that his unwanted guest fights his battles in a different way.

   “Who the fuck are you?” he asks between tight jaws, as he refocuses on the man who stands in the middle of his office, with his arms hanging loosely down his sides, seeming as unbothered by this encounter as he would meeting a tree in the forest.

   “My name is Mr. Hood,” he replies, and then pauses to let the general absorb that, clearly familiar with the infamous name, before he continues. “Ordinarily, I never work for anyone other than myself, but in this instance, I’ve made an exception.    And her name is Nikita Morse.”

   The older man doesn’t seem terribly surprised to hear that, but his mood shifts again because he’s well aware of how important that woman is right now, not just to the US military, and even government, but to the general himself.    Failure to ascertain or assassinate this particular target wouldn’t go over well with his superiors. Best case scenario is that he merely loses his job.

   “If you know anything about Morse, you know we can’t just leave her be,” he counters, but there isn’t much conviction behind his words anymore.

   “And I’m here to inform you that if you don’t, I will not only ruin your life… I’ll come after everyone. Straight up the chain of command, all the way to the President himself,” Pero cautions, meaning every word.

   “You’d never get close to anyone else. I’ve seen your face, we’ll be able to track your every move from now on, you won’t be able to take a shit without us hearing about it.”

   “Oh, but that won’t be necessary. You see, my method has always been to use middle-hands for everything, and this is no different. My face won’t help you because I won’t be the one who delivers the damning evidence to the courts, or the spouses, or the children.    I’ve been doing this for a long time, general. Long enough to know how to infiltrate your innermost circles and get your terrified wife to confess to exactly what you do to her, just like I know how colonel Peters doesn’t go to church for the sermons, or why the Chairman himself has no less than three hidden bank accounts in different parts of the world.”

   Hayword merely swallows hard at that, but Tovar can see how he’s still looking for a way out, refusing to accept that this one man could ever do so much damage.

   “So, you’re willing to die for this woman? Because you gotta know no matter what you might have on me, I can’t let you waltz out of here.”

   “Well now, the problem isn’t really what I have on you, is it?” he taunts, knowing he’s still got the upper hand here and ready to play his cards as savagely as he possibly can.

   “The fuck does that mean?”

   “Tyler…” Pero says softly, and all color drains from the general’s face.

   Because even he knows that out of all the messed up shit his family has going on, his oldest son takes the cake, by miles.

   “Where was it you found him the first time? Arizona? With those poor boys he’d raped just bleeding out on the ground…    And what did you do? You helped him cover it up. He killed two little kids, and you just swept it under the rug like it never happened.    The second time was in Tennessee, if I’m not mis-…”

   “Alright! You’ve made your god damned point!” the general all but roars as the truth gets to be too much for him. “Just… stop.”

   But his unwanted guest isn’t one to let his marks off easy.

   “I can’t do that. Unless you stop first. That’s the only way this ends, because even if I die, my informants will continue to do my bidding. They’ll have no choice. I’ve made sure of it.”

   “Do you have any idea how dangerous the information your girl sits on is? How powerful that knowledge would be in the hands of our enemies?” Hayword presses, but his tone betrays nuances of desperation now.

   “Yes, I do. But the problem here, general, is what you have failed to understand about all this, which is that when you turn on your own… the definition of an enemy suddenly becomes very broad.    Right now, for instance, you’re my biggest enemy. The US government is my enemy. Not because of my own history or even your politics, but simply because you used and discarded some of the greatest scientific minds of this country, as if they were worthless.    How am I supposed to trust anyone who treats their own assets that way?”

   “No, you just blackmail your own fucking assets instead…”

   “The difference being that I’ve never tried to hide it from them or gone back on my word to leave them alone if they do what I demand. I tell them from the start exactly what’s happening and how to avoid it escalating into something truly unpleasant, and if they play along, nothing bad happens to them.    You told these people they were free to go live their lives, and then you hunted them down like cattle to the slaughter.    I’m no saint, but at least I don’t hide behind an army so I can pretend to be the good guy.”

   The general has no comeback for that, but he’s deeply unhappy with how this conversation is going, that much is evident from the ever-growing hopelessness in his eyes.

   “Considering what I’ve just told about myself and my methods, I have only one more thing to ask you, sir,” Pero finally determines, holding the man’s gaze with pure steel in his own, as he delivers the last question. “Will you comply with my demand, and seize all pursuit, physical and digital, of the innocent woman we both know as Nikita Morse?”

   “It’s not within my power to command.”

   “Yes, it is. In fact, you are the only person with the power to make that command. If you weren’t, I’d be in someone else’s office right now.”

   “I can’t risk the safety of this country-…”

   “And losing the entire government, along with all trust from the American people, isn’t risking the safety of this country?” Tovar counters, letting his voice turn sharp and somewhat threatening to highlight the ridiculousness of the man’s reasoning.

   The general falters at that, unable to think of a retort. He’s painted into a corner, held hostage on one side by the responsibilities he carries against his superiors, and on the other, by Pero’s ultimatum. Either way, he risks terrifying consequences both to himself and those around him, so the only questions which remains, is whether he values family or his work the highest.

   Pero is ordinarily exceptional at reading people and their intentions, but on this occasion, he can’t determine what the general will decide.    With how he treats his wife, one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn’t give a shit about her, but on the other hand, he’s gone to great lengths and sacrificed a lot in the name of protecting his son.

   So, the trespasser waits. And the man deliberates.

   Then…

   “I have your word that my family affairs will not be publicized, in any forum, on any type of platform, physical or digital, if I agree to call off the search on Morse?”

   “If you pick up that phone and make the call to the Chief, declaring her dead and dealt with, right now in front of my eyes, and give me every assurance that no further efforts will be spent, from any unit, military, private or otherwise, on further pursuing her, covertly or openly, then yes. I will disappear, and you will never see me again.”

   “And what about the outside sources who already pursue her?”

   “They’ll be dealt with; I can promise you that.”

   The general takes one more moment to consider, and then makes his decision.    He picks up the phone, and just to make sure that he knows he can’t trick his way out of this, Pero recites the number he needs to call, checking that the man does indeed punch in the correct digits and insisting that he put the phone on speaker.    The call is brief and to the point, and when it’s over, the unwanted guest leaves the same way he walked in.

   No alarms start blaring. No one tries to stop him. The general has kept his word.    For now.    But Tovar fully intends to keep monitoring him closely.

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   Two months after he disappeared, Niki has all but stopped believing he’s ever coming back.    She never stands by the curtained windows anymore, dreaming of stepping outside into the freedom and fresh air. She no longer pesters William for updates, desperate for any scrap of news about her lover.    She persists. Her life is a prison-like routine of exercise, food, and sleep. Nothing more.

   If not for the baby, she would’ve given up by now and taken her chances on the streets. But she can’t risk the life she carries.    His child, and maybe all that’s left of him.    Weeks ago, she made a choice to think of him as dead, and allow herself to grieve him, because otherwise she would’ve been buried under the endless torrent of uncertainty. So, to her mind, he’s gone, and he isn’t coming back.

   In his place, Will does what he can, taking care of the housework and making sure that Niki follows her routines to stay healthy and give the baby the best conditions available.    He stopped telling her about any leads he finds a while back, after noticing that it only ever upsets her when nothing comes of them. But she knows he still searches.    That the hours spent in front of those screens aren’t merely to make sure he knows if someone picks up their trail, but also to look for any clue his missing friend might’ve left for him.

   She worries about him. He’s a fragile person, prone to denial, but eventually he will have to accept that his searching is in vain, and when that happens, however long it might take for him to reach that point, it’s going to absolutely destroy him.    But she suspects it’ll take him years to get there.

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   Without Will’s help, it takes three times longer for Pero to find the people he needs to find next. But he can’t risk contacting them.    Hayword has thus far stuck to his word, and so long as the three of them only have the Chinese element to worry about, he’s not gonna jeopardize their best chance of getting out of this in one piece, just because he misses Niki.

   He does though. So fucking much.    It’s impossible not to think about her, not to wonder if her belly has begun to swell, or worry that she’s had to come to terms with having lost the baby, without him there to grieve with her and comfort her.    That’s the hardest part. Not knowing if she needs him right now.

   But he’s close to finishing this, he’s finally found the person who’s after her. It took this long only because the woman was hiding behind a network of decoys, but once Pero figured it out, locating the actual culprit wasn’t very hard.    What is going to be hard, though, is getting to her. She’s got layers upon layers of security, and lives in what’s essentially a fortress, forcing her enemy to keep his distance and observe.

   Mr. Hood is not a man who enjoys violence, and although he is good at fighting when it’s required of him, he’s always preferred a more elegant solution. It generally creates less ripples on the water, less potential future complications.    But this time, he may have no choice.    His research into this woman has revealed no skeletons, probably not because there aren’t any, but more likely due to her exceptional skills at manipulation.

   She runs her miniature empire not by instilling fear in her subjects, but by making them love her and thus desire nothing more than to protect her.    To get to her, Pero is gonna need to get creative. He already knows that what she wants from the information Niki can provide, is to use it as leverage against the male dominance of her country’s leaders and decision makers. She wants a seat at the table.    But what he can’t figure out is how to offer her something either better than the weapon’s research, or something scary enough to make her back off.

   Everyone has something in their history they don’t want people to know. And this is always especially true of the rich. The problem is that her circle is so tight he can’t get to her from the outside. Can’t rummage through her secrets by coercing someone to feed them to him, because everyone who might know them live in the fortress with her. All equally inaccessible.    Unless… he tries something really stupid.

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   “Come on, Tovar,” William grumbles to himself, having once again checked all his online traps for signs of the missing member of their group, and come up dry. “Give me a damned crumb, will ya.”

   It’s the middle of the night and Niki’s asleep, so he keeps his voice down, but this is how he spends most nights these days. Hunched over his keyboard, restlessly searching in ever more unlikely places. He’s got programs running non-stop, some designed to look for Pero’s physical description in coroners reports from all over the world, others to look for mentions of his alias in people’s voice mails, emails, text messages, and so on. He’s got dozens of these programs running every minute of every day.

   Nothing pings anymore. After almost three months, there are no leads.    Nikita gave up on him a while ago. But not because she doesn’t want him to come back or because she doesn’t believe in him. She gave up because hope hurts too much.    She doesn’t have a choice now, but to focus her efforts on her baby, and she tries. But Will can see how it tortures her. That however much she might try and convince herself he’s dead and that she’s grieved him, the hope is still there.

   That’s why Will hardly ever rests.    Even if he can’t bring her partner back to her, he can at least try to give her closure, if indeed Pero has been lost.    But unlike Niki, the veteran still leans on his hope. He still believes that the mysterious Mr. Hood is alive, working hard on keeping her safe. He’s got too much experience with the man to believe he could be bested even by enemies of this caliber.

   And what drives his hope most of all, is actually the lack of findings. Because if Tovar had been killed, someone would’ve been yelling about it, somewhere in the world. A person like him doesn’t just vanish, not when so many people have reason to fear what he knows, and how that information might be distributed upon his demise.    No, he’s still alive. Plotting, scheming, hunting. Wherever he is, he’s not done.

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   It was far from a perfect plan, but as he now stands before his quarry, finally, after weeks of patiently waiting in a dungeon, he’s smiling internally at the fact that he’s about to win this war.    Getting himself captured might’ve seemed counterintuitive, but it had been the only way to get himself inside the fortress, where he’d been able to start sowing seeds of doubt within the residents and learn more about his captor in the process.

   And now he has the woman herself, Baozhai Gao, in front of him at last.    He knows how to get her to back off, just like he knows that she’s actually not a villain. Her entire life has been spent in a silent war, a constant threat to her existence, and all she wants is just to have enough power that she doesn’t have to fight anymore.    Something he can easily give her.

   “I’m told you are responsible for the loss of my best team,” she says once he’s standing before her, tied up and on his knees, but otherwise unharmed.

   He’s waited until today to disclose to his guards that he knows all about the house in the woods and the six operatives who never returned from there, since Gao clearly doesn’t know who he is by face alone.

   “It was my house they tried to infiltrate in search of Miss Morse,” he admits, and sees her interest pique at the mention of Niki. “Unfortunately for them, I’m a very resourceful person. And someone who cares a great deal about the woman you seek.”

   “You know where she is,” Gao hungrily replies, too enamored by learning this to realize that what he’s really saying is, he’s never going to help her find her quarry.

   “I know a lot of things, Baozhai. Like what your brother did to you when you were twelve. How he tried to sell you so that your parents would only have him to dote on.    I know about The Park and what you were made to do there, the things you had to do to free yourself, the things the ensuing guilt then made you do to yourself… I know you’ve had about the shittiest life anyone could imagine and that all you want is just to be free of men and our endless pursuit of power.”

   She looks absolutely sick to hear him say this, and he understands that, because this woman has never shared her secrets with anyone. Not really. She carries her deepest burdens alone, specifically so that no one can use them against her.    And now here’s this foreigner, this outsider, who somehow knows her innermost truths.

   “How?” she challenges, and there’s both anger and desperation dripping from the one little word as it falls across her lips.

   “That’s not as important as why.”

   “It’s important to me.”

   “Only because you fear that someone else might learn about it, but I can assure you, they won’t. I’m not here to hurt you, just to make a deal.”

   “A deal? You mean blackmail me into leaving Nikita Morse alone.”

   “No. I mean offer you something even more valuable, in exchange for her freedom,” he counters, deliberately using the word freedom instead of suggesting she should cooperate, since he knows what that word means to Gao.

   She doesn’t respond verbally, but her eyes tell him to go on.

   “I can provide you with damning information about half the world’s most influential people. From leaders and corporate whales to those you’ve never even heard of, but who’s networks of information are crucial to the balance of power within this world.”

   “If you really have this kind of information, why not use it yourself?” she challenges, not ready to believe that anyone could have that level of power and just sit on it.

   “Because I’ve never had any ambitions. All I’ve ever wanted is just for people to stop being cruel for the pettiest fucking reasons, but I could never find anyone who didn’t disappoint.    And then I met Niki. And now all I want is just to be with her. To not have to run or hide for the rest of our lives. To find out if our baby made it-…”

   He has to stop then, because the thought reminds him of how long he’s been away, and it tortures him to think of how Niki must hate him now. How she must’ve come to the conclusion that he’s either abandoned her completely, or that he’s dead.    If the baby did make it, she’ll be halfway through the pregnancy by now, but unable to see a doctor or an OBGYN, unable to even leave the apartment. And he can imagine what something like that would do to a person like her.

   Whether Gao believes him or not, she decides that the information he offers is too valuable to pass up and agrees to a deal.    It takes him another two days to convince her of his truthfulness, however, which he does by offering up absolutely crushing evidence against one of her worst adversaries, but then she finally lets him go.

-=¤=-

   Returning to New York is just as terrifying as it had been to leave. He has to be cautious, though. Not rush back to the apartment building, but instead take the time to make sure Hayword is still keeping his word.    He makes his presence in the city known by walking around where dozens of different cameras will capture his face and body in detail, and then he makes himself disappear again, sticking to the shadows as he watches and waits.

   After five days, he decides that if someone is still watching, he’ll risk it. He has to see her again, even if it means getting back on the run.    He walks straight up to the front door of the building and steps inside, heading for the elevators and going to the correct floor without detours or any attempts at confusing anyone who might be tracking him.

   The doors open and he walks out into the hallway, suddenly so scared that they won’t be there. That no one will answer when he knocks.    He passes a painting and sees his reflection in the glass, abruptly concerned that he hasn’t dressed better, or combed his hair, or washed his hands since going to the bathroom that morning. As if any of it matters.

   Instead of peepholes, there are little widescreen cameras at chest height in each apartment door, directly linked to a touchscreen inside, which automatically displays what the camera sees if there’s movement within its field of vision. So, they’ll know it’s him before they even open. If they’re still there.

   His hand shakes as he raises it towards the flat surface before him, and he hesitates, taking a couple of trembling breaths before he taps on the door, so timidly that it barely makes a sound at first, and he has to coerce his hand to tap harder.    His heart races while he waits, too loud in his own ears for him to hear if there are any sounds from in there. Any signs of movement. It takes so long.

   Then the deadbolt turns.    The handle slowly drops.    The door begins to swing open.

   His breath vanishes as she comes into view. Her eyes are wide but so bleak, her skin still too pale, her movements slow and cautious.    But she’s fuller now. Thicker. And there’s a well-defined bump in between her hips.

   All this time, he’s forced himself not to let it in. Not to allow the reality of the threat against them settle into his being, not to let his fears have any room because that would’ve broken him, and he couldn’t afford it.    Those walls crumble at the sight of her, and he drops like a ton of bricks onto the threshold, collapsing to his hands and knees as the four months of terror catch up to him.

   He feels her hands grip him, stronger now, but trembling just like his as she pulls him into her embrace. And he wants to hold her, but his arms won’t obey. Wants to kiss her but his body is suddenly so heavy.    Somewhere to his right, he hears William ask if it’s over, and he manages to nod. Shortly after, sunlight streams into the apartment as the man has apparently pulled the curtains back. How dearly he must’ve longed to get to do that.

   Then the sweetest voice he’s ever heard in all his life, whispers in his ear.

   “I love you, Pero.”

   She’d promised him she’d say it. When it was over.

   “I… I love you… both,” he stammers through the tears, just as he’d promised.

THE END

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Thank you for taking this journey with me!

@pedrostories @harriedandharassed

#pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x original female character #pero tovar x ofc #modern!pero #modern!au #the great wall fanfiction #the great wall au #the great wall modern au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories

[sirowsky]

Collision Masterlist

The series that wasn't supposed to exist, but here it is.

Description: Pero Tovar x Original Female Character Nikita. This story is told entirely from Pero's point of view, and centers around his relationship to a female colleague of his. He has never wanted a more than physical relationship with her, but when her life is threatened and he ends up unintentionally learning more about her, that boundary begins to blur.

Warnings: This is a thriller-series, so expect descriptions of violence, death, and plenty of angst. Also, there's a pregnancy, severe injuries that require surgery (not related to the pregnancy), plentiful cursing, a conspiracy, a character suffering from PTSD/PTSS, and some smut. Lastly, Pero has a criminal history and was bullied as a child.

Overall, my writing is 18+ONLY and this is no exception.

I'm friendly and kind so anyone who has questions or thoughts on this is welcome to reach out however you want to. I appreciate reblogs, and I love to hear what readers react to or find interesting about my stories, however, ALL readers are dear to my heart and I will refer to you as my loves!

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Part 1 - Who is she? Part 2 - We need a truck. Part 3 - It's a conspiracy. Part 4 - What is love? Part 5 - Everything I do. Part 6 - Mr. Hood. Part 7 - Stay or go? Part 8 - The Big Problems. Part 9 - I do it for her.

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FYI: Each chapter has a name here on the Masterlist, but not on the individual chapter pages.

#pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x original female character #pero tovar x ofc #modern!pero #modern!au #the great wall fanfiction #the great wall modern au #the great wall au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories

[furious-rogue-stuff]

CONGRATULATIONS!!!! Your trully really deserve it!! So can I request 🗡🥺🐣please?

Sending u love and hugs🫶🏻🫶🏻

My dear friend! I'm sorry for the ridiculous wait on this, but I finally got around to this wonderful prompt. This is my first time writing Pero Tovar, so I hope I've done him justice.

Thanks, as always, to @just-here-for-the-moment for putting up with my ass and beta reading to make sure this wasn't complete trash and smutty enough.

Disclaimer: Written in 2nd person narrative, you can safely assume our heroine and love/lust interest is a Spanish woman, written by a Latina. Here's my philosophy on my writing, for further context.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word Count: 6,500+

🚨Author chooses not to include detailed warnings, but the following: Mentions of marriage, impersonating a soldier, past violence, scars and war wounds, breeding kink, graphic depictions of unprotected sex, and period-accurate tropes.

Yearn

The air outside was crisp with chill, making it all the more pressing for him to traverse the muddy road towards the small cottage. The smoke from the stone chimney signaled you’d started a fire for supper, and the twinkle of candlelight from the condensation-covered window facing outward to the road and frosty meadow beyond told him you’d intended to keep your promise from that morning.

 The gnaw of hunger had settled in from the long day of labor, but the ache behind his sternum was one of longing, one he’d been nursing since the day before, and it took precedence over any need to fill his belly. He quickly trotted the steed into the rickety barn he’d yet to get around to patching the holes in the roof of, and once the animal was stabled, he trudged determinedly up to the door of the cottage.

He entered quickly and shut the chill out behind him, dark eyes adjusting to the dim lighting once he furrowed his brow and loped towards the weathered hearth. The steps that led to the loft above, where your marital bed was housed in a snug, insulated nook, were empty, and the table was already set with bread and wine while the savory stew kept warm in the caldero tucked near the fire. Yet, no sign of you.

“…Are you aloft already, condesa?” Pero speaks firmly, so his query can be heard clearly from above. 

There is no answer, so he paces towards the steps, senses on high alert now. His instincts bellow for him to retrieve his sword from whence it’s stored, hidden in a nearby trunk, or to at least unsheathe the hidden blade he keeps on his person. He palms the handle of his dagger, tucked in its scabbard at the back of his leather belt underneath his well-worn poncho. His expression becomes stony, scar over his left eye resembling an etching, one that reveals the capacity of brutality suffered and meted out in return. 

It's the soft flutter of clothing he hears first before he sees the movement from the shadowed corner that has him pivoting and effortlessly catching you as you leapt out at him from your stealthy ambush spot – the pantry cubby you’d climbed up into and waited for the right moment to pounce. 

“Gotcha!” he growls triumphantly as he swings you around with impish delight, making you encircle your arms to hold onto his broad shoulders while you squeal mirthfully whilst your tunic skirts flutter about. “Trying to get the jump on me? Really, tigresita?!”

Not to be foiled completely, you wrap your legs around his hips and toss yourself backwards, creating a momentum that forces him to swing around until he’s able to break both your falls onto the bench you’d improvised using two bales of hay and an old tapestry draping you’d found discarded upstairs.

Pero lands with an exhaled huff, and you victoriously use his distraction to grab his thick wrists and pin his arms above his head.

“Bueno, I’ve bested the great guerrero, the most fearsome man with a blade, who said I was too noisy for my own good to ever get the drop on him, was it?” you’re gloating as you stare sultrily into his sardonic, handsome expression. “Well? Do you yield?”

“You are much too playful for me to try besting, my love, so…” Pero draws in that graveled rumble of his, musing and melodic before he suddenly bucks you off of him and rolls to pin you under him instead. “No, I do not yield.”

You scoff haughtily, arching a smug brow as you chime, “Good, because this is where I wanted to end up anyway.”

“Oh, is that right?” he husks, unable to muster the faux scowl any longer, so he smirks and croons in that bass-filled melodic murmur, one that always sets your nerve endings on fire, as he intensely stares into your eyes. “You wanted to end up on your back and underneath the tired and dirty mercenary-turned-farmhand that’s made you his wife? Well, I should hope so, mi amada.”

You smile enchantingly at him and arch your hips up into his. “It is so, mi marido,” is your silky purr as you lean up and brush your soft lips over his. 

Pero grunts approvingly and deepens the kiss, hand cupping your jaw possessively as he plunders the cup of your mouth with his voracious tongue.

Equally as possessive are your hands as they grope and cling to his thick tunic under his poncho before eagerly shoving upwards in order to tug at his undershirt in an attempt to slip beneath to touch his skin. He smells of soil, grain and leather, musky scent heightened by his salty sweat. It makes your head spin with lust, and has arousal cloying from your center. His mouth is warm, and you ache to feel his powerful and overheated body against your bare skin as he presses into you with need.

You are desperate to undress him, and he realizes how much so when you dig your heels into the back of his trousers and groan into his mouth a pleading command.

Breaking the kiss, Pero pants against your gasping mouth before grumbling, “What was that?”

“I said I want you inside me now, Pero,” you airily repeat, the tone of your demand though is softened by your excitement now that he’s pointedly ground his arousal into your tingling center. “Mmm, please—”

“Such a needy little thing, begging so,” he chuckles ruggedly, timbre hitting that octave that has desire beseechingly pulsing in the seat of your core. His dark eyes crinkle as if he can sense how aroused you are, and just as you whine for him to comply, he slips a hand between your bodies and hikes it up the front of your skirts to cup you at the haven of your thighs. “And here I thought you were simply keeping your promise to wait up for me, no matter how late my return from the merchants. But instead, you try to best me into submission so you can have me fill this warm cunt, eh?”

His fingers trace along the crest of your sex before gliding along your warm, wet seam, parting your folds just as his thumb presses into the hood of your clit. “Ah, Pero!” you whimper, hands clutching at his sides and gripping sturdy fabric as you roll your hips, seeking the plunge of his fingers into your sheath. “Please—”

He revels in how desperate you are for him, so he presses his luck by testing how far his depraved desires can muster getting you to that fine line of wanting to give into your urge to be dominated versus having dominion to ensnare him into succumbing to his own needs. 

So, he licks your plump bottom lip before grazing his teeth over it licentiously. 

At your gasp and jolt against his edging fingers where you ache for them, Pero mutters coolly, “Is that all you can say, condesa? My fierce little noblewoman-turned-warrior can’t use her words when her sweet cunt is touched?”

The way your eyes sharpen is exactly what he wanted just before he plunges two thick fingers inside you. 

You moan that glorious sound of pleasure that makes him feel like he’s touched the sun and it’s filled him with grace, and the beatific expression of rapture that comes over your lovely face has him straining in his trousers to replace his fingers with his cock. 

But, he persists in this carnal play, and coos, “Look at you, bebita. It’s almost like you’ve yearned for my touch all day—”

“Pero,” you whine when he finger-fucks you slowly while taunting you so. He chuckles at the pleading way you arch up into him, so you dig your nails into the layers until you can feel his solid torso, and hiss, “No me tortures, por favor—”

His musing hum is rich and earthy, and to your aroused senses, it’s like a warm wine hitting your bloodstream. Feeling his broad, strong frame pressed over you, and the teasing prod of his ramrod cock only heightens your need, as does the musky smell of him, the sweat that clings to his skin and the heat of his mouth grazing along your cheek now. 

Scenting your hair by nosing into the locks at your temple, Pero laconically rumbles, “I’d never torture you, sweet girl. I just want you to be mi tigresita valiente and admit you’ve been in heat for me, that you’ve been thinking unchaste thoughts all day—”

He feels your molten sheath clench around his fingers at his words, but the defiance is starting to scintillate in your eyes before you snap thinly, “And what sort of filth have you been thinking, husband?”

Pugnaciously, he smirks like a cunning tentador before husking, “Oh, this very thing. Of having my fingers in your warm cunt – making you restless and insolent, desperate to have my cock inside you instead.” 

At the indolent pump of his fingers changing to a pleasurable curl that brushes the digits against the nested pleasure point inside you, a gasped mewl falls from your mouth as you writhe up into him. 

“I thought about all the ways I’ve given you pleasure, and all the ways I still intend to give you pleasure,” he tells you in that damnable aloof way that makes you burn and melt. “Tell me one naughty little ember that’s kept you hot like this all day, esposa, and I’ll put my mouth on you until you reach bliss on my tongue.”

With a proposition like that? You are turned to clay, features heating from your blush as you confess, “I thought about you, undressed before me, and letting me worship your body with my hands and mouth before getting bare for you so you could make me yours by the fire.”

His fingers pause inside of you and he looks at you with unfettered hunger in his dark eyes. 

You expect him to shift up so he could make that fantasy a reality, but instead, he grunts – as if placated, before receding his fingers from you, crawling down your body to bunch up your skirts so he can bury his face between your thighs. 

The lascivious swipe of his tongue through your drenched folds has you gasping and hiking your knees up to make room for his broad shoulders, writhing in ecstasy as Pero devours your cunt and rubs his fingers over the hood of your pleasure point. He groans when your thighs squeeze around him, and chuckles against your mound when you bury your fingers into his hair and tug. 

The look he shoots up at you from below his brow while he nuzzles shamelessly into the heady curls above your sex makes your pulse spike with exhilaration, and when he shifts your wool-stocking-covered legs further apart for him to angle your pelvis further up to better access your honeyed cunt, you groan imploringly, “Mi amor,” and bite your trembling bottom lip.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He is unabashed and libidinous with his mouth after he bows his head between your thighs once more, and true to his word, you’re climaxing in minutes on his tongue while you ride his rapacious appendage and grip the thick tufts of dark hair at the crown of his head with one hand whilst moaning blissfully into the back of the other.

The deliriously exquisite feeling that washes over you is divine, and you sigh softly while he laps at your climax and grunts, as if satisfied with your state of euphoria.

So, when you feel cool air between your thighs, your eyes glossily open to stare dazed up at him, confused as he looms over you and grumbles a humored, gloating hum before popping his sullied fingers into his mouth and sucking your slick orgasm off. 

He then stands from the makeshift bench and declares, “I want to eat,” before pivoting to lope unhurriedly to the wooden stool nearest the table so he can plunk down on it and scoot it closer to the fireplace to dutifully stir the stew with the ladle.

You’re flabbergasted. 

Sitting up on your elbows to gape – comically appalled – at him, you watch as he serves himself a bowl of the savory stew while trying to keep the wry grin from pulling at his full lips. He fails miserably though when he looks over at you with that droll expression on his features before he smiles behind the bowl he raises to his lips. It does little to conceal his goading amusement, and you’re glaring at him now that your wits have returned to you.

Once he’s had a few hearty sips of the flavorful meal, he gruffly drawls, “Come stay warm by the fire, mi amada.”

You decide then that two can play this game.

Straightening your tunic skirts down and squeezing your knees together, you sit on the edge of the improvised bench and start unfastening the corseted vest that keeps your tunic and smock cinched to your form.

“I am already very warm, thank you,” is your blithe lilt as you stand and shed the vest. 

Pero turns to watch you with clenched jaw as you remove the dark top tunic, leaving you now in just the green smock and a thin pale linen chemise that teases the shape and ample swell of your breasts. You can feel his eyes on you as you shimmy out of the smock next, leaving you now in just the chemise that hits just above your ankles. The glow from the fireplace hits the light linen and creates a spritely silhouette of your curvy, supple form hidden beneath, and when you hike up the hem just enough to allow you to adjust a wool stocking back up to your knee, you finally look over at him and smile.

“How is the stew?”

“…Come here.”

“Is it not to your liking, my love?”

“…Come here, mujer.”

“Do you prefer mead over wine with it?”

“…I prefer for you to cease teasing me so and come sit with me,” Pero tells you in a guttural croon as he sets his bowl aside on the table and holds his hand out to you in an assertive petition.

You feign meekness as you susurrate, “You said you wanted to eat, though. I am loath to disturb your meal—”

“Come sit on my lap and eat with me already. You’ve made your point,” he yields in a snarky huff, but the smile in his eyes is evident before they crinkle from the appeased smirk that warms his chiseled features when you slyly grin and saunter over to him. 

He swoops you into his lap before you’ve completely maneuvered around, and you scoff sassily at him as you loop your arms around his shoulders. He nuzzles into your neck and fondles his big, warm hands along your curves, making you sigh dreamily and lean into him.

“Have you eaten?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Hm. Next time, you fill your belly first. Don’t wait on my account, ternura.”

“I will, precioso,” you retort affectionately, earning the expected eye roll and dubious snicker from him. “No seas tan gallardo, y come,” is your fussy quip as you grab his bowl, maneuver nimbly in his lap to reach for the ladle and add more stew to it before handing the bowl to him so you can grab a piece of bread and tear a chunk off to add in as well. 

He smirks broadly, so much so that his boyish dimple is unearthed from his right cheek. “No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa,” is his dashing counter, putting the bowl into your hands before grabbing the other from the table to serve himself some stew. 

You eat together, and you enjoy the warmth of his body as you remain perched on his lap while he leans his back into the wall and gorges himself. He asks where you sourced the meat that’s in the stew, and is proud when you tell him about the rabbit traps you set. You’re resourceful and smart, cunning, yet tender-hearted. It makes something warm and vast expand in his chest, having you be his, and how content you are to belong to him. 

Once the ache in his belly is quieted, he licks his lips before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, eyeing you intensely as you sip from the shared cup of wine.

He belongs to you, too. It stirs blazing desire in him, and fills him with serenity, knowing he’s yours, and how fiercely you made it so.

The longing of before tugs at his heart now as he’s reminded of how you’d sat opposite him the evening prior, balancing the small tyke on your knee as you’d both shared dinner at the farmer’s homestead. The former soldier had settled this land years prior, married, and started a family. Winter had been fast approaching, and after a chance encounter with the man on the road, you’d both accepted the offer to board at the vacant cottage on his land, exchanging labor and help prepping for the winter for room and board. 

Pero had watched you while the farmer and his wife chattered about the foodstuffs stored earlier and the barley he’d help transport to the merchant market the following morning, how long the journey there and back would be – ‘M��afraid it’ll take up most of the day’ – all while you’d entertained the little one that had become mesmerized by your smile and the silly faces you made to amuse him. 

A heavy desire had settled in his chest, one he couldn’t place, until you’d passed the small toddler over to his mother and offered to pick up the infant that had begun to cry in its woven bassinet. Seeing you hold the wailing baby to your chest and rock it softly as you sat back down and showed the mother how to use the feeding bottle that you’d made out of an old clay pot with a spout you’d improvised in order to supplement her milk with that of the cow’s? How gentle you were once the babe was sated and you could maneuver her in your arms to make sure to burp all the gasses out of the little baby before cradling the sweet infant to sleep? 

It had suddenly awakened something in him that made him feel clumsy – out of his depth. 

He shakes the reveries off when you hum and offer the cup of wine to him. 

“Do you want more?”

His features take on that stoic look, becoming marble as he nods and takes the cup to drain it of the remaining wine. 

Thinking he’s become weary from the day now, you take the bowls to be set aside for rinsing in the makeshift dish tub you’d fabricated from an old wine barrel.

Pero watches you hesitate before setting the bowls onto the shelf near you, and then turn back towards him to ask gently, “I have clean water. Would you like me to bathe you?”

His scarred brow cocks up at you, sarcastic as he deadpans, “Would you like me to bathe? Do I smell that bad? Is my stink too odious, condesa?”

Mischievous smile lighting up your features, you feign remorse before shaking your head and chiming, “No, not at all. I happen to like your stink, anyway,” at his amused snort, you continue silkily, “I was just thinking you’d like to feel the warm water over your skin. I heated it over the fire once the stew was ready. It’s tepid now, but still nice.”

He grunts as if charmed, then nods and stands to remove the poncho from his shoulders before tossing it over with the rest of your discarded garments. You pleasantly work to maneuver the tub with the clean water across the floor closer to the hearth and end up smiling when he chivalrously comes over and picks it up for you to be set right next to the stool. 

“This is poor substitute to the bathhouse, I know—” you begin to chuckle.

“You mean the one you went into while impersonating a soldier? Or the one you snuck into to seduce me?” he counters roguishly as he removes his belt, knife, and tunic next.

“No, travieso. I was meaning the one with the eucalyptus leaves and lovely oils that they put in the bath water – from the place we stopped at in the merchant’s quarter?” you deride playfully as you soak a rag in the tepid water before wringing it out. At his sardonic grunt, you stand and turn to bossily grab the waist of his trousers before yanking at the fastening. “Now, be good, husband, and let me undress you.”

His cock has been filled out since he collapsed onto the bench with you, but at your sultry tone, it throbs in response as it stands ready, arousal outlined prominently against the inseam of his trousers. 

You take your time removing the remaining layers of clothes from his torso, then kneel at his feet in order to remove his dirt-caked boots before you finally resume stripping him of his pants.

The glow of the firelight illuminates his tan skin and the myriad of scars that map his body across contours of muscle and vast expanses of flesh. Some are old and worn smooth by time, others are silvery pale and etched, others are a darker olive and raised. He’d once been self-conscious about your gentle, appraising touches – of the doting caresses over the jagged reminders of brutality and pain that had been carved into him by steel blade, arrowhead or iron-made punctures. But now, he yearns for your touch, relishes how you brush your lips over a scar along the curve of his ribcage, and burns with pride at the reverent way you glide the wet rag to scrub the dirt and sweat from his skin. 

He's not even bashful about standing in the nude before you while you remain in your chemise.

No, instead his timidness is palliated by the new fixation crossing his mind’s eye. One that’s conjured you in a kaleidoscope fantasy, where you’re standing before him in the same chemise, but instead it is clinging to a rounded little belly while your beautiful smile broadens as you look upon him. How you would look nude and with child, the way you’d react to his erotic touch – one hand between your thighs, with the other caressing your soft womb.

Before he could get carried away with the curiosities – would she taste sweeter between her thighs, would her scent be more ripened on her warmer skin, how sensitive would she be to being touched and kissed – Pero cleared his throat and his mind as best he could in order to guardedly watch you tend to him.

“So, this is what you’d fantasized about?” he murmurs warmly as you lean back on your haunches after crouching down to rinse the rag in the tub and wring it out once more. 

The chill is warded away mostly by the fire in the hearth, but truthfully he’s so aroused by you that he’s become even more of a furnace than he is normally. You’re glad for it, loving the extra excuse to touch him and revel in his masculine scent.

“The bathing is a windfall, but yes,” you quip as you stand now so you can scrub up into his underarm and whisper conspiratorially, “Another thing I thought of? Was how gorgeous you look when your face is flushed after I suck your cock until you spill in my mouth—”

“Misericordia, mujer,” Pero exhales in a floored scoff as he pauses your scrubbing and cups his hand at your jaw in order to tilt your brazen smile up to him. “You cannot say such depraved filth to me and remain clothed,” is his raspy taunt as he crowds you against the edge of the table. Your titillated stare has him smirking as he tugs at the neckline of your chemise and orders, “Take this off. Now.”

You plop the rag down into the tub and do as you’re told, undressing before him. 

He watches you with his dark, intense eyes, shadow cast by the fireplace shrouding half of his features as you discard the chemise, then your boots, leaving you in only the wool stockings. 

You’re about to ruck one down when Pero surprises you by kneeling and doing it for you. 

“So, how was your day, aside from the erotic daydreaming?” he’s asking in that melodic baritone as he chucks the stocking over his shoulder before moving to the next one, as if his face isn’t an inch from your womanhood and his gloating stare can’t see the debauched effect he’s having on you.

“It-It was fine. I spent most of it in their root cellar, helping stock the things from the barn,” you stutter as he hums to indicate he’s listening while he tosses the other stocking aside and starts fondling his hands up your supple thighs. “With the little ones clinging at her apron, she needed help milking the cow and feeding the chickens—”

“How were the little piglets today?” he jokes, wry glance up at you clear indication he’s referring to the children rather than the actual piglets from the sow in the barn.

You playfully pinch his shoulder. “Que malo,” is your sardonic giggle before answering, “The baby was needy for milk. But she’s practically tapped after the little one has his fill, so I tried to get him to eat some porridge—”

Pero grunts musingly and brushes a sloppy, open-mouth kiss over your womb. “The little glutton is old enough to eat. La pobrecita will be malnourished if she doesn’t get enough milk,” is his aloof grumble, kissing a path up your body as he slowly stands. 

Arousal swoops into your stomach and curls tantalized tingles into your thrumming core. 

“I-I know,” is all you can breathe out as he boxes you between him and the table at your back before looming at his full height to stare hungrily at you. “H-Hopefully they can wean him s-soon—”

“You wanted me to fuck you by the fire?”

Your clench hard at that, nipples studding and desire making you wet with anticipation while his broad frame stands so close, yet so far still. You know he’s being cheeky, trying to put you off-kilter to his whims, but you’re tickled more than anything that he’d try. 

“I said I wanted you to make me yours by the fire,” you retort with a spritely look in your eyes.

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” he says in a contrarian drawl, lips pouting at your snickered response. “Well? How is it not?”

“Because! You can fuck anyone, but you can’t make just anyone yours,” you declare with a logical air, hands gliding up his chest now to loop around his neck so you can slink up against him and his warm, bare body.

“Hmm…makes sense, I suppose,” he judiciously replies before confidently hoisting you up.

You giggle effervescently as he carries you over to the makeshift bench, makes short work of shoving it to be closer to the hearth before laying you onto it and hitching himself between your welcoming thighs. 

Pero’s kisses are greedy as he ruts his ramrod shaft between your dripping folds, eager to slicken it in order to spear it into you and make it feel divine for you both. Your hands cling to his muscular back, mouth seeking the warmth of his own for a luscious interlude before you feel him notch the head of his cock at your dimpled entrance. 

He’s content to let you pillage his mouth with your tongue before twirling his own against it, desire a stoked fire in his center that he intends to nurture for as long and as many times he can bring you to climax before he’s overcome with his own release. 

“Por favor, mi amor, dámelo,” you supplicate in a honey-sweet tone, eyes pleading as your body clings to his strong frame. 

He can’t deny you any longer. 

His thrust has you arching, pelvis angling up and knees clutching at his sides as he fucks into you to the hilt while you moan his name and he swears in awe at how sensational this feels every time. 

“Cristo amado,” he groans as he thrusts into you again, passion boiling over in him at the way you mewl against his jaw approvingly. “Wanted this. Needed it—”

“Oh, Pero,” you exhale as he sets a pounding pace and holds you to him like you are liquid, and in danger of coming apart in his arms. “Want you all the time—”

“Yeah?” he groans, nuzzling your neck to suckle a possessive kiss into your delicate skin before he grits, “Need you, amada—”

“Tell me, husband. Mmm, tell me what you need,” you stammer out as he keeps rocking into you in that toe-curling way that has his cock grinding into the ruinous parts inside your fluttering sheath.

Ardently, he growls, “Need you—need to fill you up, keep you full of me. Want you to be mine—” 

You moan in that glorious way again, and it almost drives him over the edge, so he adjusts to loom over you so he can concentrate on your pleasure. To make you reach bliss before he lets his baser, primal desires carry him off. 

He keeps pounding into your squelching cunt as he begins suckling on your nipple while he presses the pad of his thumb over the hood of your bundled pleasure point. 

It sets you alight, and you wail in overawed pleasure as he plucks you so with his cock, fingers and mouth. “Ah, D-Dios mío—” you cry out when he sucks hard on your pebbled flesh and grinds his wanton pleasure to ignite a scintillating climax to burst free. 

You moan as your sheath squeezes around his cock and floods him with your warm orgasm, carried off by the throes of ecstasy he’s unleashed in you.

Punch-drunk from the achievement, Pero moans before he licks a path to the other nipple to toy the tip of his tongue along it until you shiver and whimper from overstimulation when he purses his lips around it. 

“Pero,” you whine airily, eyes heavy-lidded as he frees your nipple and leans up to gaze rapaciously at you. He tenderly pets your sweaty hair from your face and traces his thumb along the apple of your cheek before you sigh, “You didn’t do it.”

He frowns, trailing his thumb to your mouth, intending to caress it over your plush lips before you kiss it dotingly. “Didn’t do what?”

You exhale girlishly before cupping your hand to his cheek. “You didn’t fill me,” is your silly reply, eyes warm with mirth and smile affectionate when he grunts and scowls. “And you held back. There was something you wanted to say—”

“There was, but it…” he pauses before shaking his head and scoffing, “I’m still inside you, amada. Let’s forget it—”

“Pero Tovar, are you timid, so suddenly?” you can’t help but razz, smiling slyly at him when he gives you his intimidating glower. “Oh no, that will not work with me, marido. Your nostrils flaring crossly are cute—”

“You are a maddening woman,” he huffs in that gravelly tone, but the amusement is clear in the creasing of his eyes. “I…I have been thinking things I haven’t before. At least that I haven’t ever considered, and, they are clumsy thoughts. I—I’m unused to being unsure, ternura…”

“Unsure about…what?” you ask and lean up to lovingly gaze into his tense stare. When he hesitates, you can’t help jump to conclusions for him, knowing how reticent he is about discussing his feelings. “If it’s about things here? We could always take William up on his offer – go north to visit him in the spring? Or if you’re not content with, well, this,” you gesture to the shabby interior of the cottage, “we could ask to stay in the hut next to the barn? It’s dryer and closer to the work—”

“It’s none of that. Although I haven’t done well enough of a job in that, I know. Not found us much of a life out here���” Pero grouses, but at your frown, he amends, “This is not the life of nobleza. It’s beneath your stature—”

“Fuck my stature,” you scoff and sit up to roll your positions so you can straddle his lap while he gapes up at you. “I’ve told you plenty of times now that my station in life is for me to decide, and I’ve chosen to be happy and free, with you. Now, mi guerrero obstinado, tell me what you’re unsure of, and I shall tell you if you have cause to be unsure.”

He’s still inside you, and the way his cock throbs in your still tingling sheath while he gives you a penetrating look with those dark brown eyes tells you this is something very primordial. 

“I want to fill you up, make you full of my seed until your belly is soft and round with my child.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, but your hands caress his chest in a soothing, encouraging way that has Pero shutting his eyes and letting out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Our life is not suited for such a…we travel, and such a life would mean settling down,” he tells you firmly before opening his eyes.

He’s disarmed by the fond, radiant look softening your countenance. 

“Well, sure, we would need to settle down, but only for a brief time. Until the little one can come along with us on our travels,” you tell him as you idly undulate your pelvis, grinding his pulsing cock along your silken walls before squeezing your sheath around it for good measure while your breasts bounce from how vigorously you begin fucking yourself onto him. 

The wind begins to howl outside and seep through certain cracks in the door and window, but neither of you seem to care enough to notice as you sensually grind down on him, hair swaying with the way you lean forward to passionately kiss Pero when he groans and clutches your waist tightly, powerful fingers dimpling your flesh as he starts guiding you to ride him harder.

His breath is ragged as everything starts to spin up between you, his lust and adoration tangling around the incredulous realization that you’re in tune with the clumsy thoughts he confessed. 

Still, it scorches something feral and covetous to singe through him as he husks, “You w-want that…? You truly want to be mine—to be with child?” 

You moan and plant your palms to his warm, flexing pectorals as you ride him with desperate vigor now, expression beaming with delight. 

“There’s nothing I want more,” you declare with genuine enamored satisfaction, albeit pantingly so as you ride him and mewl in pleasure.

Pero is torn asunder by your words as much as by how exquisitely you’re riding him, and he’s so propelled to the precipice of climax and primal need to triumph in it that he effortlessly sits up and manhandles you to flip positions so he can fuck you with passionate zeal and get you there with him just as his cock swells and twitches in imminent release. 

“Mi alma, I’ll fuck my seed deep—make it so nothing spills free from you—have you filled full with it, and rejoice once a child is in your womb,” he’s professing against your jaw as he hammers his cock into your fluttering sheath while your heels dig into his lower back and your fingers knead below his shoulder blades, rapturous pleasure engulfing you with every ferally growled word, until he flings you into a blistering orgasm by moaning, “Will keep making you mine even then. Give you everything—keep you pregnant, protect you and our sweet ones—keep you forever—”

You cry out and arch up under him, rapturous sob catching in your throat as you reach a zenith of bliss that has you clinging in enthralled desperation to him, which snaps the tether of control loose from him and spurs his own fierce orgasm.

Pero moans hoarsely against your neck as he spills his climax deep, cock buried to the hilt inside you as he holds you possessively to him and hums soothingly at your loving nuzzles and whispered words of, “Te amo, precioso.”

Huskily, he rumbles, “Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma.”

You sigh wistfully at his words and melt further under him, reveling in the decadent bloom of warmth that diffuses through you. 

The crackling of the fire is the only other sound of consequence over the ragged, shallow breaths you’re both trying to steady into calm once more while you come down from the soul-shattering lovemaking. 

“Pero...?”

“Hm?”

“Would you still love me if I became plump and had little ones constantly hanging on my skirts?” you whisper meekly, hands languidly caressing along his sweaty back. “And if I even became shit at fighting?”

“That’s impossible, tigresita,” he laconically rumbles against your neck. At your fretful hum, he props himself up in order to loom over you and give you his steely, no-nonsense stare. “I started to love you when I thought you were an awkward, short soldadito, my love. I think it’s safe to say I’ll love every version of you to come,” is his bass-filled retort, sincere affection not dulled by the humor of his tone. 

You press your forehead to his, appeased.

He pulls out of your now tender cunt, and avidly watches his seed begin to drip in his wake, so he scoops his fingers to prevent it from spilling further, and pushes the pearly essence back into you. 

You shiver and sigh, resting a hand over your womb while you caress his shoulder with the other as you shut your eyes in the moment of blissful tranquility, post-coitus.

“I just hope I make a worthy enough father.”

You don’t mean to snort, but you do. “You will, mi amor. The real concern is whether we’ll be able to muster the stamina to work on the farm chores and fuck like this until you put a baby in me,” is your vivacious chuckle as you hook your arm around his shoulders to guide him back down to lie on top of you while he scoffs irreverently at you. 

“I have plenty of stamina, always,” he purrs against your mouth before brushing his lips against it.

“Good. I yearn to be ravished by you daily, after all, so you’ll need it,” is your alluring coo before kissing him amorously. 

You only break the kiss to bat your lashes at him before susurrating, “I want you to make me yours again and again, until dawn comes, and then all over again, precioso.” 

He chuckles that deep, gravelly laugh before crooning melodically, “As you wish, mi amada.”

_____________________________

Spanish-English Glossary:

Caldero = Cauldron, for cooking over a hot flame

Condesa = Countess; a woman of nobility

Tigresita = Tiger Lilly; little tigress

Bueno = So; also ‘Good’ or ‘Well’

Guerrero = Warrior (male)

Mi amada = My beloved (female)

Mi marido = My husband

Bebita = Little baby (female)

No me tortures, por favor = Don’t torture me, please

Mi tigresita valiente = My valient little tigress

Tentador = Tempter (male)

Esposa = Wife

Mi amor = My love

Mujer = Woman

Ternura = Tenderness; akin to saying ‘sweetheart’

Precioso = Precious (male); gorgeous one

No seas tan gallardo, y come = Don’t be so gallant and eat

No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa = Don’t be so stubborn and eat, countess

Travieso = Naughty/Mischievous boy

Misericordia, mujer - Mercy, woman

Que malo = So bad (male)

La pobrecita = The poor little thing; poor little girl

Por favor, mi amor, dámelo = Please, my love, give it to me

Cristo amado = Christ beloved

Amada = Beloved

Ah, D-Dios mío = Oh, my God

Nobleza = Nobility

Mi guerrero obstinado = My obstinate warrior 

Mi alma = My soul; passionate term of endearment that eludes to the profound love someone feels, aka to the soul

Te amo, precioso = I love you, precious boy

Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma = I love and I adore you with all I have, my soul

Soldadito = Little soldier (male)

Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment and sharing your feedback. I would be eternally grateful.

Taglist:

@redsilentwolf28 | @just-here-for-the-moment | @mandosmistress | @sarahjkl82-blog | @knittingqueen13 | @mamacitapascal | @hylasposts | @hnt-escape | @eri16 | @gracie7209 | @casssiopeia | @athalien | @qwertymx | @rosiefridayrogersunday | @pascalesque | @maknimuk1 | @kirsteng42 | @greeneyedblondie44 | @littlemisspascal | @southotheborder | @rosegxoxo | @in-for-a-pennyx | @dolly-on-the-dotted-line | @harriedandharassed | @deadhumourist | @trickstersp8 | @pedropascalsx​ | @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine | @angstylittlepascal | @mrsparknuts

#Pero Tovar #The Great Wall #Pero Tovar x Condesa #Pero Tovar x OFC #roguefury's 400 follower drabble prompts #roguefury's 400 followers drabble prompts #400 followers #400 followers drabble prompt #Pedro Pascal characters

[grogusmum]

Hazel's Thro-back Thursday Fic Recs (3/28/24)

Okay, it's been A Week, in what has been A Month for me. So I made this right on time, and then thought I posted it, and was like, I've literally heard nothing about this post... bad engagement or no, it would help if it wasn't sitting in my drafts!!

Anways, I didn't get any submissions, so I dug into my Pero fic recs (that I have not recced yet) and came up with a delicious handful of Pero Fics to feast on!

Where He is Compelled to Stay by @oonajaeadira I could read this one over and over. Pero finding purpose and soft, love and community. It's all I want for him!!

Precious Sea Glass by @chaoticgeminate sea serpent!Pero, yes, you heard me correctly, and I really don't think I need to say more.

For Lifetimes of Missing Each Other by @tinytinymenace demon!Pero x ofc okay, this is delightful and beautiful and bittersweet

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing by@yespolkadotkitty pero x ofc

This is a very early favorite and one of my introductions to Pero. It's fantastic truly and an absolute treat.

The Voice by @writeforfandoms the bittersweet beauty of this is awe inspiring. Reader is a nature goddess (you get to be a fkn goddess!)

#pero tovar fic recs #hazel's thro-back thursday fic recs #pero tovar #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar x f!reader

[tessa-quayle]

spotlight on the OFC

(fanfiction recommendations) :)

the reader insert, the second person, the y/l/n convention (which, for me, can disrupt the text and i haven’t gotten used to it - not criticizing those who do it - i'm the problem, it’s me 🤪) are all the rage in fanfiction.  i get the immersive appeal, and many of the fics i love and enjoy employ the second person.  

richly drawn original characters draw me in and capture my attention. I appreciate how creative folks get with their OFCs, the headcanons, and how they have fun showing off these OFC’s quirks and strengths and interior lives and histories.  it’s a joy to read.

here are a few great OFCs in the Pedro Pascal Character universe.  the stories are engaging and this is a fairly diverse list of OFCs (by that I mean race/ethnicity, life experience, nationality, disability).  as always, each author issues their own warnings.

listed in alphabetical order by writer:

@iamskyereads - Ezra (Prospect) x OFC Beatrice 

ongoing series (Compulsion).  love the sci-fi world-building in the first chapter. Beatrice is a sharp and compelling protagonist who’s suffered a traumatic brain injury and has PTSD.  

@intheorangebedroom - Frankie (Triple Frontier) x OFC Gabrielle 

complete series (Pleased to Meet You).  angsty intercontinental love story between everyone’s favorite pilot and a cool French woman.  the descriptions of different cities are vivid.

@jazzelsaur - Frankie (Triple Frontier) x OFC Ellie

complete series (Between the Raindrops).  the slow burn here is a smolder in the best sense.  Elliot (Ellie) is a widow who lives next door to Frankie.  the weight of grief and angst in this series is remarkable. 

@jomiddlemarch - Joel (The Last of Us) x OFC Grace

loose-fit series (On Call for the Apocalypse).  crossover with Ted Lasso.  set in Jackson WY between seasons 1 and 2, Grace is a snarky doctor (scratch a cynic, find a romantic) hanging out with Joel and Ellie  (format better on AO3)

@julesonrecord and @lunapascal ( @stardustandskycrystals) - Dieter (the Bubble) x OFC Andie 

ongoing series (Curls).  we’re rooting for Dieter and Andie amid all the drama and shenanigans surrounding a pregnancy and a wedding.  this reads like a novel you finish in one sitting.  

@ladamedusoif - Mr Ben (SNL) x OFC Lydia 

ongoing series (Visiting).  Lydia is a European art historian who goes to teach at an East Coast liberal arts college and meets the dashing Mr Ben.  delightful and smart (and I'm not just describing Mr Ben).

@radiowallet - Marcus (We Can Be Heroes) x OFC Amy

ongoing series (Eyes Open).  Single parents Marcus and Amy find love in the workplace, HR be damned.  Amy contains multitudes and the portrait of her as a mother is especially real and sweet.

@whatsnewalycat - Din (Mandalorian) x OFC Charlie

ongoing series (Passenger).  Gritty, dark, cool AU where Din Djarin is a trucker/bounty hunter and Charlie is making her way west.  this fic has a lot of postmodern energy.

@yespolkadotkitty - Pero (Great Wall) x OFC Jade

complete series (Fighting Blind).  Fun, winsome adventure between a museum curator and our favorite Spanish warrior.  Love the time-travel element, the nod to the Asian diaspora, and the rich world-building.  This series is stay-up-past-your-bedtime reading.

feel free to share your fic recs and favorite OCs/OFCs (your own and/or others)!  ❤️

#fic rec #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales x ofc #ezra x ofc #dieter bravo x ofc #mr ben x ofc #joel miller x ofc #marcus moreno x ofc #din djarin x ofc #pero tovar x ofc #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales #ezra prospect fan #ezra prospect #dieter bravo #mr ben snl #mr ben snl fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #marcus moreno #marcus moreno fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #yay for OFCs #trying to get better at reblogging #dieter bravo fanfiction #read these fics

[daddydindjarin]

It’s Tessa and Pero from Stranger At My Gate by the AMAZING @leslie-lyman. I devoured this entire story in one day because I quite literally could not stop reading it. I love them and you so so much!

#my art #pero tovar #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fanfiction #the great wall art

[leslie-lyman]

All Hallow’s Eve (A Stranger At My Gate Drabble)

summary: A little look at what is, technically, Tessa and Pero’s second Halloween together.

rating: G (though my entire blog and its contents are only for those 18+)

word count: 1.5k (I’m still counting it as a drabble, fight me)

a/n: I started having some Tessa and Pero thoughts on my walk home from work this afternoon, then cranked this out after dinner. It occurred to me that it might be fun to spend just a moment or two with these two today, given the importance of All Hallow’s Eve to their story. Happy Halloween, everyone!

Masterlist. | Series Masterlist.

———

Pero will never admit this out loud, but he secretly loves when Tessa fusses over him. Little touches that show that she cares, like she’s doing now, adjusting the collar of the white shirt that lays under the light blue vest she’d picked out for him.

“Alright, Flynn Rider, gimme your best smolder.”

“I will do no such thing,” he replies evenly, scowling at her.

“Perfect.”

“Hey now,” Pero grumbles, reaching down to tickle her side, “it worked on you, didn’t it?”

Tessa lets out a small shriek and twists away from him.

“Pero, behave. I promised Amie we’d hand out candy at her place while she and Thom take the kids trick-or-treating and we cannot be late.”

“With you in that dress, mi amor?” He cocks an eyebrow at the frilly purple garment that is turning his love into Rapunzel for the evening. “I make no promises.”

___

“Moira make it to Florida okay, Tess?” Henry says as she and Pero fill bowls of candy in her sister’s kitchen.

“She texted me when she landed earlier,” Tessa confirms.

“Tessa said she goes on this trip with her witch friends every All Hallow’s Eve?” Pero asks.

Amie nods.

“And Moira never misses a year when it’s Nancy’s turn to host. The woman takes to South Beach like a spring break co-ed.”

Henry barks out a laugh.

“Remind us, Pero, to tell you one day about the time we had to bail the whole lot of them out of the Miami-Dade County jail when they got booked on disorderly conduct.”

As with every nugget of information Tessa’s family shares with him about Moira, Pero is equally impressed and terrified.

Thom wrangles the kids into the kitchen, their whole family outfitted this year as Toy Story characters. Molly, Toby, and Finn — done up as Bo Peep, Rex, and Woody — rush to give their aunt and uncles hugs before racing out the door, eager to start collecting candy. Thom places a big red cowboy hat onto his wife’s head, completing her Jessie ensemble, and she helps him shuffle out the door sideways so as not to damage his Buzz Lightyear wings.

“Be good until we get back, you crazy kids!” Henry shouts at Tessa and Pero, one hand on Walter’s leash and the other around Martin’s waist. The two of them had decided to go out with the kids this year, wanting the chance to show off their costumes as Blue and Josh after the rain had thwarted everyone’s trick-or-treating plans last year.

Tessa and Pero settle themselves on Amie and Thom’s front stoop. The whole month of October has served as the last round of modern holiday education for Pero, Tessa and the rest of the Walsh family including him in their Halloween traditions as they had those of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, and the Fourth of July over the past year. Pumpkins Pero had picked and helped to carve now stood guard on either side of Tessa’s front door. He’s gone on a hayride and wandered his way through a corn maze. He’s watched spooky movies and been the eager beneficiary of Tessa’s return to fall cooking, their house always smelling of pumpkin, cinnamon, apples…

And now, he’s let her dress him up to partake in the tradition of costumes and trick-or-treating, happy to spend a few hours dressed up like that Flynn character from that movie with the long-haired girl with the pretty voice if it means he gets to see Tessa all done up in her lace-edged dress, an innocent pink bow sewn to the neckline between her breasts that makes him think anything but innocent thoughts.

Paper bags with battery-powered tea lights line the driveway and front walk, a collection of carved pumpkins are clustered on either side of the door. The air is cool and crisp, the sky cloudless, the faint smell of fallen leaves on the breeze. The yellow glow of the porch light lets folks know there’s candy to be had at this house, and turns Tessa’s hair appropriately golden.

Slowly, children and families start wandering up. There are a few costumes he recognizes, classics like vampires and ghosts, a number of tiny witches to whom Tessa gives a little extra candy, characters from that movie The Wizard of Oz that Tessa loves so much. There are plenty of others he doesn’t — a lot of young girls are going as Ms. Marvel this year, and many teenagers and grown women are the Scarlet Witch. Tessa coos over a young boy dressed as the Mandalorian (who, she insists, Pero is a dead ringer for, even if he doesn’t see it), who comes up to get candy along with his Jack Russell terrier dressed as Grogu.

Some of the children eye Pero with trepidation, the inherent spookiness of the holiday and the shadows cast by the porch light making him look even more intimidating than usual. But then a girl of about five dressed in an absolutely precious Rapunzel gown of her own approaches them, and Tessa and Pero can see the look on her face change when she realizes who they’re dressed as.

“You’re Flynn Rider!” she squeals, then marches straight up to Pero to loudly whisper in his ear, “You’re my favorite Disney prince.”

Pero has had enough practice at playing pretend with Tessa’s niece and nephews that he’s able to get over his surprise and muster up a suitable reaction.

“Thank you, princesa,” he says, giving the girl a courtly little bow from where he sits. He drops an extra large handful of candy into her bag with a wink, and she practically sprints back down the drive to her waiting parents, loudly telling them how Flynn Rider and Rapunzel live at that house.

Tessa giggles next to him and leans her head on his shoulder, murmuring something about how she knew Flynn would be a great costume for him. But Pero is lost in thought, the mirror image of this scenario playing out in his head, in which he and Tessa are the ones standing at the end of the drive, and the little girl in the princess dress running excitedly to meet them is theirs.

———

Once they’re home, Tessa plops their doggy bag of leftover candy down on the counter and goes to get herself a glass of water. Pero unlaces his boots, tugging them off and placing them on the mat. There are so many places for his things now in the house, so many reminders in every room that this place is theirs, not just Tessa’s alone.

When he straightens again and looks to her she’s gazing out the window over the sink, the one that in the daylight offers a view of the woods that conceal the Gate in their depths. Pero makes his way over to her and wraps his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on top of her head.

“You are thinking very loudly, angel.”

Tessa sighs, but it’s a contented sound.

“I was just remembering…it was a year ago tonight.”

Pero hums.

“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

Tessa turns in his arms, resting her hands on his chest.

“You left quite a first impression that evening.”

Pero grimaces, imagining the way he must have looked, wet, injured, unkempt, unconscious, Tessa and Henry literally dragging him into the house that first night to take care of him.

“You were quite a surprise too, you know,” he tells her.

“Oh yes? What was it exactly?” She teases him gently. “My house full of magical gadgets? My inability to understand any of your languages? My absolutely incredible grilled cheese sandwich-making skills?”

Pero shakes his head, brushing the tip of his nose against Tessa’s.

“You were so kind to me,” he murmurs. “So kind when you had no reason to be. And you weren’t afraid.” He says it like he still can’t quite believe it.

“Of you? Never.” Tessa curls her fingers into his shirt. “You were mine, right from the start, even if it took me a while to realize it. And I was yours.”

A year. A whole year she’s been his, a whole year they’ve belonged to each other. It’s not enough. Pero wonders if any amount of time ever will be.

He slots his lips over hers and kisses her, loving the way she responds, always meeting him kiss for kiss. Tessa never leaves any room for doubt that she wants him.

She pulls away for a moment, a suggestive glint of mischief in her eye.

“Trick or treat, Pero?”

His answering grin is her only warning before he scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder, pulling an indignant squawk out of her.

“I think, mi amor,” he says, heading for their bedroom with his prize, “I won’t be satisfied until I’ve tried both.”

———

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pero tovar x ofc #Pero Tovar #pero tovar fanfic

[nerdieforpedro]

For your satisfaction Señora

Part One: Do you know what you want Señora?

Modern day Pero Tovar x plus size female OC

Fanfiction 18+ read the warnings!

Masterlist / Pero Tovar Masterlist

Summary: Cereza has an issue with her husband. He is alive. She plans to ask Tovar to help her with this delicate issue. Tovar finds that this works in his favor.

Warnings: planning a murder (I don't recommend it), harassment (Tovar and his questions), masturbation (male and female solos), mentions of sex work, violence, intimidation, stalking/voyerism (Tovar be messy), dismemberment

Notes: I couldn't think of a good name for the Dame so it is what it is. Not sure how many parts this will be, maybe three? I have a new appreciation for Pero Tovar. Let's see it together. 😎

“You can have a night for free you know; you’ve worked with me long enough Cereza.”

“I know he won’t do a night for free, Dame Chanel please arrange it for me. It needs to be more of a client thing, as much as it can be.” 

She sighed; she didn’t want to pay such an outrageous price for one night with the man, but she knew him well. He would not tell her what she needed to know otherwise. She knew about her husband’s cheating ways; she has for years. The issue was that apparently now he wanted to leave her, and she would have to pay alimony. Cereza knew she would not only have to pay to talk to the man who could solve her issue, she would have to pay him to solve the issue separately. 

“I’m surprised he won’t entertain a conversation with you. You’re the only handler he prefers to get his jobs through. He normally berates the others or doesn’t answer their calls despite being highly requested.”

“The man wouldn’t need a handler if he knew how to speak to the clients himself, he has no filter and is much too blunt. How is it that he…” Cereza struggled to form the words, not all the jobs were assassinations, threats, or bodyguard work, some were from women who wanted an escort. She could not picture that barbarian of a man be accommodating toward any woman unless he was getting an obscene amount of money. Nothing else seemed to interest him save for a friend he had mentioned, never by name. He sounded like a decent sort, how did he ever get to know Tovar?

“It doesn’t matter, just please set it up Ma’am.” Cereza left the Dame’s office, she could get a meeting with him sure, but how exactly would she ask him, how could this be pulled off so she could be eliminated as a suspect? Once at her office she sighed, if he would just play his role and be a proper trophy husband, things would be fine. She was even getting to the point she was fine masturbating and getting herself off, but to know that man not only had the gall to cheat on her, but he was also getting her hard-earned money after continuing his ‘graphic design’ career where he only had a few jobs a month and those she had to push him to take instead of being around the house all day. It pissed her off to no end and that’s clearly motive.

“I should have never gotten married. I thought he understood what I needed. I just needed him to be there. He used to be.”

Tovar was a man about his money. Do not mess with his money, get in the way of him making money and damn sure do not try to take any of his money. He was not above killing, maiming, threatening, fucking and whatever else was required for him to maintain his secure condo and sizable bank account. He and his friend William had gotten into this jack of all trades work together early in their twenties, but now that Tovar was in his mid-forties, he had only slowed down a little. William on the other hand, limited his jobs to bodyguard work, escorts with no happy endings and an assassination here or there. Will had married, settled down and had children. Other people to provide and care for. Tovar was happy for his friend but never saw the point in sharing his wealth or investing in anyone other than himself. You couldn’t guarantee a return on another person. He had found that with most of his handlers, they were always trying to get him to network and talk to people, Tovar felt it was unnecessary.

The only handler that seemed to understand business was business was Cereza or ‘Señora’ (Ma’am) he often called her. He knew she was married given the ring on her finger but not much more then that. She did not waste his time, was straightforward and he appreciated that. No meeting after things were finished with clients or dinners where jobs were not discussed. It did cause him to wonder, why she had no pictures of her husband on anyone in her office, other handlers had at least a few. Was she an island like himself, adrift in life with no one tethering them to the mainland? After two months of working with her he decided to bring it up in one of the many conversations in Señora’s office:

“The target was eliminated easily. I brought the proof the client asked for.” Tovar placed a wooden box on Cereza’s desk. She looked up at him and reached into one of her desk drawers, pulling out blue nitrile gloves and donned them. She opened the box to see a man’s foot cut clean at the ankle, she picked it up and examined it. Setting it back down, she threw her gloves in the trash and used some hand sanitizer. 

“I’ll take it from here. The requested item is in excellent condition. They’ll likely give you a bonus for that. That’s all Tovar.” She told him curtly. It was to dismiss him; she knew he didn’t like being in her office any more than he had to. Tovar nodded but did not leave, instead he was direct.

“Why don’t you have any pictures of anyone Señora? Like your husband.” He asked his head nodding in the direction of her left hand that wore her gold wedding ring. She used her thumb to roll it on her finger, her soft palms started to perspire. The woman studied his face, looking for any reason he may be asking this, there was none that she could see. His face remained the same as when he put the foot on her desk. A slight scowl but otherwise blank. 

“It’s not like you to pry Tovar. What’s brought this about?” She asked confused. This was new. She did not like it. She had come to know what to expect from him, Tovar was predicable unlike her husband.

Tovar shrugged, “I was curious. Do you really have a husband? Do you like being called Señora? Is it a kink for you?” He asked, half-joking, though it may be why she did wear the ring. Women were slightly less likely to be pursed if there was a wedding ring.

Cereza rolled her eyes. Of course, he’s messing with her, this is a new angle though. Usually, he would ask why she always wears pants and never skirts, even when it’s warm. She had told him then it was because of her legs, though not in detail. It was true, but only because she didn’t feel like having her thighs rub together all day in and out of the office, plus she hadn’t really had any reason to wear dresses seeing that her husband didn’t care if she wore them or not. He was still meeting with his mistress. Why be uncomfortable for something that’s not going happen? “No, it is not a kink. Yes, I do have a husband. Please go Tovar.” She stood and walked to the door, opening it for him as she rubbed her temple, she felt a headache coming on. 

“Señora, you seemed stressed. Maybe your esposo (husband) isn’t caring for you properly? Take something for that headache, would you? I’ll ask you again about you and your husband.” Tovar smiled, stopping to tap her shoulder being leaving. Cereza sat back down until her headache subsided slightly and she felt well enough to drink, she downed some ibuprofen she had in her desk and secured the foot in her office safe for delivery tomorrow. “Maybe he’s starting something because he wants a new handler, fine by me.”

In the subsequent months, Tovar would ask occasionally about Señora’s husband to which she would either ignore the questions completely or just tell Tovar that her husband is just fine. He was enjoying seeing her frustrated by his questions, she was normally stoic, so this was fun, having her slightly flustered to where he would only see. Tovar was an intelligent man despite most thinking he was the opposite given his imposing appearance. He was tall, had dark hair, cut close to his ears, the curls snaked near the tops of his ears. He had a scar over his left eye that divided that eyebrow in two. His jawline was peppered with a light beard that didn’t match the thick mustache under his nose. His face was normally neutral unless he was angry or annoyed.  The assassin was enjoying himself, until one day she asked if he wanted a new handler.

“Wait, Señora what do you mean?” His eyes wide. Cereza shook her head and crossed her arms in front of her chest, they were waiting for their client to show up to a restaurant to discuss an escort job. The pair usually arrived ten minutes earlier to scope out the place and review the client’s file.

“After these next few jobs, I think you should have a new handler. One you can discuss matters with. I’m not one for discussing my personal life and you keep asking. I thought you told me you were business only.” Cerza reminded him. She wasn’t wrong, but he had been curious at first, just messing with her. But her responses became more defensive, and her frustration grew, and Tovar had noticed for the second week now she wasn’t wearing her ring. At times when they would discuss jobs, her mind wasn’t focused, she would lose track of what she was talking about and once called a client by the wrong name, the client didn’t hear her because they were too busy complaining about the person, they wanted Tovar to threaten but he noticed as he did most things with Señora. Her hair always in a tight bun at the back of her head, always pants never skirts or dresses. Tovar would give her calves some extra study in the off chance she wore capris, the were large and shapely like the rest of her. Normally in dark colors, almost always black from heat to toe. Small gold studs were in her ears to match the ring that she no longer wore. The only smile he ever saw from her was with a client, never toward him. Señora always frowned with him, even when he joked with her, he thought he may get a pity smile, but she wouldn’t give him that either. 

“Señora, I’m actually worried. I was having a bit of fun with you before but these last few months you’ve been different. You also don’t wear your ring anymore.” Tovar took her hand and squeezed her ring finger to prove his point, then let go. “I will stop mentioning your husband, but I will not take another handler. You have adjusted to me, so I shall need to adjust to you.” He nodded and then put a fake smile on his face as he looked behind her. “It looks like our client is here.”

“So, it would seem. Fine, I’ll put it on hold for now.” She answered softly, the warmth of his hand was gone. When was the last time she was touched by a man? She was starved, that’s the only reason for that thought. The client was a woman in her mid-seventies. It turns out, she wanted Tovar to escort her to a black-tie charity event, fine, not like he hadn’t done it before. The client did ask about the happy ending service to which she was quote the price. The older woman looked at Cereza and asked in a hushed tone, 

“How am I to know if what I pay for is gonna be any good? Have you slept with him? Do you know big he is below the belt and how well he uses it?” Señora’s entire face flushed, and she felt like she had been doused with hot sauce, her skin burned. She immediately looked at Tovar who had a shit eating grin on his face and took her hand again as he answered for his handler.

“I mean she does have to sample my work from time to time to make sure I’m good enough to be an escort right Señora?” He drew out the senora longer than it needed to be as his thumb ran across the back of her soft hand, pressing into it slightly. Cereza cleared her throat and nodded, pulled out of the trance that she was in. 

“Y-Yes. I can guarantee that you will be fully satisfied Ma’am. He is rather generous with his partners and doesn’t stop until they reach completion. At least twice before the main event.” Cereza smiled back and Tovar as he raised an eyebrow, he released Señora’s hand and took both of the client’s hands. The older woman gasped and shook her head. 

“I may just do the escort by itself. That actually sounds like too much. I got my hip replaced three years ago, or maybe so. Can I decide later?” The woman scanned Tovar up and down, she maybe should have listened to the doctor when he was talking all that nonsense about vitamin D and calcium. 

Cerza shook her head and stated that things needed to be decided now so the client decided on just the escort and said she would revisit the happy ending another time when she felt up to it. The pair walked the woman to her car and Tovar did the same for Cerza. She went to open her door to which he sneered and opened it for her, he stood beside her car door and leaned in after she rolled her window down. 

“You sold me pretty hard to that client. Is that what you like Señora? Twice before the main event? I’ll have to remember that.” He smirked. Cereza sighed.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to mention anything anymore.” She countered, picking up her phone to see a missed call from her husband. Further annoyed, she tossed it back in her purse. Tovar turned his head to the side.

“I didn’t mention your husband, only what you said to the client. I’m inferring that to mean he does not, especially the way you tossed your phone.” He pointed. “Maybe you should try me out. I make a point not to with those I work with, but I feel you’re different Señora. You need some tending to don’t you?” Cerza closed her eyes. She just needed to turn the keys, drive away, but here she was listening to this man propositioning her. Sure, all of the women who Tovar pleasured were paying for it and likely told him their preferences, but they were also starved for affection like her. It’s why they sought-out escorts, for the sex obviously but companionship as well, having someone warm next to you instead of a cold bed at home.

“No. It’s business, all business. You leave this shit right here. I may be…dammit.” She had almost told him in her frustration. The manipulative bastard was getting to her. She turned her keys and started her car. “Move Tovar. I need to sleep on it and decide if you’re going to have a new handler come tomorrow.” Tovar backed up and put his hands in his pockets still smiling, he knew she had thought about it and that’s why she got mad. He wasn’t getting a new handler tomorrow. Tovar then decided on a new project, he would back off his handler a bit, she did seem high-strung now. He needed to know why and for that, he would need to find out about her husband.

Cerza went home to a dark house. That man was out again, maybe with the mistress she knew of it could with someone else or he could be just out. It didn’t matter. Tonight made her angry in so many ways. Sure, they secured the client and Tovar would do his job as he always did fine. But why should she be annoyed at work and at home? At home she understood because her husband was MIA but at work as well? Where was she questioned about said husband all the time? And now this asshole had the stones to be asking about her preferences in bed? Had Cereza not been the one to set up the initial meeting with the client, she would have thought that Tovar had talk that old woman into bring up his performance. 

Honestly…. She wearily removed her clothes, not caring that she was dropping them in her living room, fully naked and walking around her house. She had more time to do this since her husband was out and came to like it over the years. She chuckled thinking of the few times he had come home, and she was naked, and he averted his eyes, embarrassed. She asked him why he was embarrassed to look at his own wife, he used to be following her around the house, craving her, stalking her, but now…none of that. Instead, it was a man who she wasn’t sure if he was just mocking the frustration he read on her. The handler could never tell if Tovar was serious of not, part of his job was to act like he liked all those women, she could well be one more he was pretending with.

She looked down at her left hand, the first day she really had forgotten to wear it, she washed her hands after using the bathroom before driving into work. She removed it to dry under it lest it get itchy later in the day. It wasn’t until she had been at the office for a few hours that she noticed it wasn’t on. When she came home, it was on the bathroom counter. She put it on but then later took it off before getting in the shower and left it off. One day turned into three, that turned into a week, then two, why did he of all people have to notice? 

“Well of course he would, I see him most days, unlike my own damn husband.”

Tovar followed Señora’s car to her home. He only noted one car, so he assumed her husband was likely not home. He thought it was odd and earlier she seemed pissed that her husband was calling her. It appeared their relationship was bad; he just didn’t know how poor it really was. He would come back another day, for now, he knew where she lived, he could look the rest up, however, he did not expect to see a naked woman in the living room. He was too far away to make out details thought he desperately wanted to, but he was sure it was Señora, he guessed she was just in her own head as she always was lately, stark naked with her hand on the window almost like she was trying to go through it. Her generous curves had always intrigued Tovar, she looked soft, but he knew he would be able to bend her, stretch her, run his hands over her soft belly, breasts, thighs, and arms, finally be able to hear her scream Tovar in a sensual manner and not an angry one. He found her sexy while she was fuming too though.

To have a woman like that so pissed that she wouldn’t answer the phone from her own husband, Tovar chuckled. He recalled a day when he was his way to her office, and he overheard a conversation between a male client and Señora. She was reviewing escorts for some holiday party and apparently none of the available women met his standards, though he stupidly told Señora that he would like to see her out of her suit and in a dress with his arm around her. He would pay the double what he planned to pay the escort. Tovar came closer to the door so intervene, but Señora had pulled a knife and was holding it to his throat, a red line dripped down his neck. The man left and later was rumored to have paid a large sum for improper conduct. Tovar had held onto the wall that day as he hardened from the sight. He needed to catch himself though, because after the man left, Señora wiped off her knife and turned to him, asking him if he was here for his next job. 

Tovar might even be able to have her say his first name in exchange for tasting her wet core as he made her climax twice times before entering her to have her devour his cock.

“As the lady wants...” A zipper cut through the night air and the jangle of a belt buckle becoming undone as he removed his engorged member felt the chill of the air on it, he groaned as he watched her at the window. He wondered how many nights she stood at the window like that, would he be able to see her tomorrow if he came back? He spat in his hand and held his shaft, circling his thumb over the head of his cock. Tovar wondered how many times she was alone like this, without her husband. It seemed ridiculous leaving her alone, a soft sigh left his lips, leaning back into the driver’s seat as he looked up at her, when did this longing start exactly? Only when he started asking about her husband or prior to that? Maybe it was the affinity he felt toward her no-nonsense business sense. His hand began to work up and down, matching his thirst for her, “I could bury myself in you Señora, fuck, you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me…” He exhaled after another groan, biting his own lips as he felt himself start to let go, envisioning her body covered with a thin sheen of sweat below him. He would kiss her and wrap himself around her as he lay beside her, touching her shoulder and neck with his lips. He would finally take her hair out of the little bun she always wore, it would expand from their amorous pursuits and he run his fingers through her hair, feeling her simply breathe next to him as she slept. Tovar quickly grabbed a tissue out of the cup holder and gave himself half a dozen more pumps before releasing into the napkin. Peering back up at Señora’s home, he questioned if he was losing his mind. Smiling to himself, he knew that it was gone long ago, otherwise he wouldn’t be in such a hidden business that required go-betweens. Tovar knew he would have to approach this carefully. His hand would have to do outside of escort work, for now.

Señora was not aware Tovar saw her. She had absent-mindly gone to gaze at the moon. Feeling cold, she made her way up her shower and washed, using her favorite body was that smelled of vanilla figs. The last part of her night was to get out her wand and use it to stimulate herself though a disturbing trend was occurring, at least to her. It had been more difficult to climax on her own, so she began watching some porn, but it didn’t get her going, however, one of the nights shortly after telling Tovar against not to mention her husband, she said his name and felt a spark. She said it again and felt it a bit more. 

“Damn Tovar, I can’t escape him even here…Ahh…” A moan left her as she thought of him, leaning over her desk, interrogating her about her husband. The image made her angry, but she started picturing him touching her hand, placing his hand on her forehead. He had large hands, calloused from bodyguard work and assassinations, but gentle with her. 

“Señora, your husband no longer knows what you like. Tell me so I can do it for you. Tell me what you need.”

“Relax Señora, sit here on your desk. You’ll forget about everything. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How many fingers do you want Señora? You want me to cum on your face or breasts? Spread yourself for me. I want to see you unravel for me. Is your pussy as tight as your hair bun?”

Cerzea, fingers rolled her nipples and tugged on them while her thighs trapped the vibrating want between them, hips attempting to ride it, the wetter she became.

“Your husband can’t make you drip like this can he? Cry out my name and I’ll give you more Señora. I can bend you over the desk and fill you to the brim.”

Her moans became louder, bordering on screams, she said his name, “P-Pero…yes, fill me Pero. Spread me on…Ugh.. the desk and ruin my pussy…Pero…Pero please…Ahhh!!” Cereza screamed as her heat peaked, arching her back, the waves crashed over her as she continued to whisper his name.

 “Pero…Pero…Pero, Pero.” She fell asleep across the bed, her headache non-existent, replaced with guilt for thinking Pero Tovar as she pleasured herself. Her hands covered her face, groaning at what she had done, again. She hated what she was doing, yet she hadn’t stopped these past months. Tonight, had made it worse, he actually said words similar to what she longed to hear in her office. For Tovar to ask her what she wanted and to give it to her without further questions or expectations. 

“I’m going insane. Maybe I should fly away somewhere. I need to not see him. Maybe I can find Pero an overseas assignment.” Cereza paused. She just said his first name aloud. “It’s so loathsome. That man’s name should not be that cute.”

——————————————-

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added):

@fhatbhabie @morallyinept @pedritapascal @pascalsanctuary @nissaimmortal @grogusmum @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @goodwithcheese @iamasaddie @psychedelic-ink @modernperplexity @pamasaur @pedrodascal @marcus-is-my-muse @clawdee @mintypossum @trulybetty @perotovar @joelslegalwhre @josephquinnswhore @mandoisapunk @awilderi @deviinci @secretelephanttattoo @for-a-longlongtime @tessa-quayle @legendary-pink-dot @sin-djarin @maggiemayhemnj @rhoorl @magpiepillsjunior @intoanotherworld23

#fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pero tovar #pero Tovar modern day #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero Tovar x ofc #pero Tovar x plus size female #pero tovar smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro stories

[pedropascalsx]

A Rugged Kindess. {Pero Tovar x F!Reader!}

Summary: Chapter 1 of 3. A stranger comes to the rescue of you and your horse and you seek out a way to thank him. But is all as it seems?

Rating: Rated explicit for future smut. *No smut in this chapter.*

Warnings: Some Grumpy!Pero. Readers horse gets distressed and sinks for a few moments but is saved and escaped unharmed.

Word Count: 2.4k

Authors Note: Okay, again not sure what this is really. But i tried. First time writing this deliciously grumpy spaniard... i hope you like it. Reblogs/shares always appreciated. Please let me know what you think.

He didn’t understand. It was… weird and unexpected. It didn’t seem or feel like a threat but he couldn’t think of what else it could possibly be.

 Another bunch of flowers… this time sunflowers. Cut and arranged beautifully and left on the large stoop in front of his store. He’d worked as a blacksmith specialising in horseshoes for a few years now, the toll of selling his sword across the globe getting too much for him.

 He’d set up a store in a tiny costal town in England.

And for the most part everything was uneventful. He had a steady stream of customers and the coin was enough for him to build a small comfortable cottage not too far from his store… but for the last few weeks he’d been finding a new bouquet of fresh flowers left on his stoop every few days.

 After receiving the first bouquet Pero screwed his nose up and assumed they had been dumped by a jilted lover, or maybe left behind by a widow trying to make their way to the stones up behind the church in the courtyard a few hundred yards away; grief making the planned trip impossible. 

 Never had he imagined they were actually left there for him. 

 Five days after he’d received the first bunch of flowers another was left in the same spot, still no note or explanation. He stood anchored to the spot staring down at the beautifully arranged daises and daffodils. Eventually he reached down and took them inside, shoving them out the way before starting a fire and beginning a gruelling days work.

 And now it had been almost a whole month. New flowers adorning his stoop twice weekly and making him grunt and spit obscenities in his mother-tongue every time he was greeted by them.

 He had left work late the night before and arrived as early as ever, only a few hours had passed since he’d finished working on the new parish gate and he’d wanted to begin the new railing as soon as possible.

 Without a word he bent down and grabbed the bouquet throwing them to the side after unlocking the door to his workshop.

 Who was doing this and why?  He certainly hadn’t made any new friends since moving to the village but he’d made no enemies either. He preferred to keep himself to himself and other than the odd familiar friendly face he’d nod back to each morning, he was comfortable that he had done that. 

 So why was this happening? Someone must have been watching him. They’d always managed to leave them there whilst Pero was out of sight… they much have been studying his schedule because every sunrise and sunset Pero walked in solitude. No good mornings or good evenings passed in neighbourly conversation as everyone had either retreated to their slumber hours before or were still peacefully tucked away in it.

 He was going to get to the bottom of this. He’d worked too hard to feel threatened and be pushed away from the quiet life he had built himself. No one was going to take this from him.

 *

 The morning chill sent a shiver down your spine, your threadbare shawl barely covering your shoulders as you used your spare hand to grip the front of it together. You didn’t have long. You’d be expected to be cleaning the tavern and clearing up the mess left in the beer garden from the night before in less than an hour; so you ran. You ran quickly, and carefully. Making sure not to crumple up the bouquet of sunflowers you’d picked with precision the evening before. Picking the ones you deemed pretty enough to gift to the man who’s unexpected kindness had saved you a few short weeks before.

 *

You’d been walking for days, the last of your coin spent on a bag of oats for your beloved horse, Astra. She was all you had in this world and the guilt that was burning in your chest at pulling her from her stable in the middle of the night to escape a marriage you couldn’t bare the thought of being forced in to.

 You had been informed of the small town by the seaside, the day before your encounter with him. The promise of work at a tavern that provided accommodation being the first light at the end the tunnel you’d stumbled across. 

 You’d followed the directions on the small map a kind elderly woman had given you perfectly but an unexpected rainstorm had disintegrated the worn paper and you’d ended up getting lost in a small woodland area.

 The rain was harsh and relentless, the soil beneath you had become like mush and the thick layers of mud coating your skin had started to become almost painful as it irritated your skin further and further. Each new layer that coated your skirts and painted your skin made the already difficult trek even harder, and the urge to reach down and scrape your nails through it and free your skin from the foreign material was growing stronger and you almost gave in until Astra started to whimper and neigh in distress.

 Her back legs had started to sink in a patch of soil, it was happening quicker than you could initially comprehend. It took a few seconds to realise what was happening and you began to desperately pull on her reins and attempt to free her. Each step backwards you took was met with zero friction, you were slipping and sliding on the mushy ground beneath you and started to feel more and more helpless as the seconds ticked by.

 It wasn’t until he was stood in front of you and taking the reins from your shaking hands that you’d actually seen he was there. He worked quickly and efficiently and Astra was freed in minutes. He mumbled something to your horse in a language you didn’t understand and then turned to look at you.

 “Are you trying to catch your death out here, Girasol? What is wrong with you?”

 He spoke with an accent you’d heard once before, and his voice was harsh and unforgiving. 

He stared at you for a few moments before shaking his head and gesturing in a direction away from where you’d been headed.

 “You can’t speak, no? You need to move. Your horse will surely sink again and the rain will bring on a fever I doubt you’ll survive!” 

 You cleared your throat and took a small step in the direction he was pointing in, he still held Astras reins and you noticed his eyebrow raise as you looked back and forth to his hands and his face.

 “Go.” He spat, no room for negotiation. “I will walk with you and your horse until you’re on the path.”

 You walked for a few minutes following the directions he occasionally barked out at you, listening carefully to the sound of his footsteps between the clip-clopping of Astras hooves.

 “Thank you” you croaked out barely above a whisper, “I couldn’t bare to think what would of happened to her if you didn’t find us.”

 His only reply was in the form of a sharp grunt. You walked in silence the rest of the way to the small path.

 “Where are you headed to now?” he asked with a slight annoyed tone to his voice. 

 “I was told of a tavern nearby, looking for new workers. Ran by a lady called Marianne. I was hoping she could help me.”

 He scoffed and rolled his eyes and you felt you cheeks blush an embarrassing shade of pink.

 “You’ll need to scrub yourself clean before you should even attempt to enter her premises. You try to muddy her floors and she’ll have you by your throat, Girasol.”

 “Oh.”

 “Just make sure whatever Inn you find yourself at tonight provides you a tub.”

 “Well, I was actually… we were going to go straight to her tavern… I heard she offers a bed. I spent my last coin on Astras oats you see.”

 “Mierda.” He spat. “Follow me.” He says with a groan as he leads you up the path and towards a small cottage with a thatched roof. A small stable sits beside it and he points towards it - “Go wait in there. A lantern and a few matches are under the shelter.”

 You nod and finally take Astras reins back into hand before walking through the slippery grass towards the stable. Lighting the lantern and sliding the wooden door open and pulling your horse in from the rain. 

 The stable has two horses inside. Hay and bags of oats filling the room and you admire the shininess of their coats, you pet them and speak gently for a few moments before reaching into the sacks of oats and letting him eat a handful from your palm. Smiling at the way their wet noses tickled your hands as they ate.

 “Leave your horse.. she can eat and get warm in here” a voice calls out from behind you “Come.”

 You follow him into the small cottage but not before pulling off your ruined sandals and pulling on the bottom of your skirts; mindful not to trek the mud across his floors.

 He pointed to the tub in the middle of the room, being heated by a small fire beneath. “I am going to bed. You should clean yourself and your clothes. Marianne will not even humour you if you present yourself in this state. You will stay here for one night only, and I will show you the way into town on the way to work in the morning. Wring out your clothing and let it dry by the fire. I won’t enter in the morning until you’ve assured me you are clothed. A pot of tea is heating.”

 You open your mouth to speak and he shakes his head, turning on his heels and entering the other room. You immediately strip off and lower yourself into the tub, not checking the temperature first. The water goes murky but you don’t care, you scrub your skin until the mud disintegrates and your skin can breathe again. It would be easy to spend hours in this tub, relishing in the way the water sloshes against your soft skin but instead you pull yourself out and begin to work on cleaning the only clothing you own. Covering yourself with the rags to dry that he had set out for you, you do the best to beat the dirt off your skirts and wring them out before laying them to dry in front of the wonderful fire.

 A pile of blankets and a pillow waits on the table in the corner of the room and you quickly drink down the warm tea before compiling them into a makeshift bed. Wrapping yourself in the other dry rag and carefully diving under the covers.

That night, sleep comes easier than it had in months.

 He clears his throat behind the door and the unexpected intrusion to your slumber makes you bolt upright; “Are you decent?”

 You’re still covered by the rags and blankets he kindly left out for you “Yes I am covered” you inform him your voice still thick with sleep.

 He enters the room and you’re almost immediately taken back by how he looks, you’d not really been able to take much of him in the night before, darkness had already blanketed the streets by the time he had found you and he barely stayed within your eyeline in the small time he had spoken to you before making his way to bed.

 He was handsome. Rugged. Hair overgrown just enough to reveal small curls and a large scar had covered one of his eyes. You notice his eyes flick down the length of your body before he walks into the kitchen without another word.

 “Put on your clothes, Girasol.” He calls from the other room, “We will eat quickly and then leave. I have lots of work to do.”

 You’re pleasantly surprised to find your clothes almost entirely dried. You pull them on as quickly as you can and start to pull your fingers through your hair, attempting to make it look at presentable as possible. 

 “I am dressed.” You call through to the other room, and a few moments later he emerges carrying a small pot of steaming hot oats and two dishes in the other hand. It isn’t until the smell hits your nostrils that you realise how hungry you are, having not eaten since the morning before.

 As he said you both eat quickly and in silence, you feel his eyes on you a few times throughout breakfast but you’re careful to look away and only look up when you don’t feel him looking your way.

 Few words are exchanged as you make your way out of his cottage and he locks up, you look down at your sandals and grimace at the amount of mud coating them and he gestures to the well in front of the house.

 “Clean them off and i’ll get your horse, Girasol.” 

 He saunters off towards the stable and you make quick work of cleaning your sandals, but before you’ve finished he’s already stood and your side with Astra.

 “Let’s go.”

 You follow silently and enjoy the gentle heat from the rising sun covering your silhouette. The walk is shorter than you’d anticipated and he stops outside a small workshop.

 “The tavern is through the slip just up there. Your horse needs her hooves cut and new horseshoes, I shall bring her by later.” 

 “I can’t… I have no coin.” You mumble back at the prospect of this man providing you with more kindness.

 “I didn’t ask for coin. She needs new horseshoes, I don’t want her to suffer.” He grits back before pointing in the direction of the tavern again and then disappearing into the workshop holding onto your Astras reins.

Those were the last words he had spoken to you. You offered him a small smile and nodded as you made your way into the direction he had pointed out, and later that day you were informed by another barmaid at the tavern your horse had been left in the stable by the blacksmith. 

 Throughout the day you’d heard whispers about the blacksmith coming to the tavern by locals and it didn’t take long to realise that he was a quiet man who enjoyed his solitude. It would take weeks for you to earn enough coin to pay him back for his kindness, so you set on finding another way to show your appreciation.

 Flowers. The beer garden was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds are beautiful flowers. That very first night you’d come up with a plan to show your appreciation.

*

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar x f!reader #my fanfiction #my fanfics #fanfics #pedro pascal fanfiction #the great wall #the great wall fanfiction

[sirowsky-stories]

Collision

Description: A bad evening turns into a horrendous night when an accident threatens to rob Pero of the one friend he really has. But not everything is as it seems, and over the course of just one day, his life is turned upside down.

Warnings: Pero Tovar x OFC, no reader insert, Pero's pov, car-crash, hospital scenes, accidental pregnancy, cursing, angst, reference to smut, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, secret identity, AU fic. Rating: Mature/Explicit 18+ONLY Word Count: 6400 Series Masterlist

Author's Note: I can't leave this man alone. I have no idea what this might turn into, it was just an idea for the Pedrostories 1k Celebration and I ran with it. So let me know if you want to read more about these guys. And thank you to the wonderful people behind @pedrostories ! You do amazing things for this fandom <3

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   He doesn’t hate her. That’s as much as he can be sure of when it starts. She’s interesting, different from most other women he’s met, especially in how she never asks him for anything. She shows up when she needs him physically, just like he does with her, and that’s as far as it goes.    And in that sense, she’s perfect. She takes what she needs and allows him to do the same, and it works. They work.

   Until the day it all goes to Shitville.

   “Please, just listen to me!” she yells, trying to be heard over his endless growling and spitting, but he is as far from a listening mood as he’s ever been.

   “Get the fuck out of my house!” he yells back, unable to even be around her in that moment.

   He actually tries to walk away from her even though he’s in his own home. But she doesn’t let him, following him through the hall towards his bedroom, where he stops before crossing the threshold, whirling towards her to try and get rid of her.

   “I’m not doing this, Niki!”

   “No, you already did!” she fires back. “It’s not like I can make a fucking baby on my own!”

   “And why should I believe that its mine? Hm?” he challenges, and sees her eyes shift from anger to something colder.

   He’s about to cross a line and he knows it. He knows that she doesn’t give herself to anyone else, she’s not trusting enough for that. It had taken two years before she’d even let Tovar anywhere near her body.    But he doesn’t want this. Just the thought scares him worse than anything ever has. Badly enough that he can’t even have a conversation about it.

   “We’re not together, you could’ve been with a hundred guys for all I know!” he presses, fully aware that he’s way out of line, but too riled up to stop himself.

   Niki, meanwhile, is too stunned to speak. She just stands there, staring up at him in disbelief, no doubt trying to understand why he’s being so cruel when this isn’t her fault.

   “Get the fuck out,” he repeats, low and menacing, making her shiver and step back.

   She’s always known that he has a bad side, she’s seen it more times than most people around him. But she’s never seen it aimed at her before.    The one reason why she had eventually decided to trust him with her pleasure, is precisely that he’s always allowed her to see those parts of him. That he’s honest, even about the things he finds ugly in himself. And that’s why she also believes him now.

   He can see the moment in which that trust crumbles to pieces. Five years of progress, undone by something that is still, no matter how much he wants to deny it, not her fault.    She grants him his wish, and leaves without another word, while tears break the dam of her lower eyelids, spilling down her cheeks in softly sparkling streams. And he wants to wipe them away, to wipe this whole fucking mess away, but he can’t.

-=¤=-

   The ringing wakes him in the small hours of the night, tearing him out of a hazy dream filled with strange lights and ominous shadows, no doubt brought on by the bottle of whisky he’d all but gulped down in his efforts to silence the guilt and allow him to rest.    It’s an unknown number. He never answers unknown numbers, so he mutes the call and tries to go back to sleep.

   But it rings again. And again.

   “I’m trying to sleep, stop fucking calling!” he snarls instead of a greeting, when he finally answers to try and shut the caller up so he can get some sleep.

   “Sir, I’m calling from the County Hospital, I need to know if I’m speaking with Pero Tovar?” the male voice on the other end replies, and he sobers up slightly.

   Why would anyone from a hospital be calling him? The last time he’d gotten hurt had been over a year ago, and there wouldn’t be any follow up to that this long after. Especially not in the middle of the night.

   “Yes, this is him,” he says, considerably less confrontational.

   “Mr. Tovar, my name is Frank and I’m a registered nurse at the County ER. We have a patient here named Nikita Morse and yours is the only name listed as her emergency contact in the ICE information on her phone,” the man answers, and something cold and terrible shoots through Pero’s blood over the two seconds that it takes for him to absorb what he’s heard.

   “Is… Is she-…” he tries, needing to know if she’s alive, but he can’t get the word out. “What happened?” he asks instead.

   “A car accident. As I understand it, Ms. Morse wasn’t responsible, but I’m afraid that it was a severe impact, sir,” the nurse explains, and when Pero still doesn’t reply, he continues. “You should know that she’s alive, but her condition is critical.    You might wanna get down here, sir.”

   “Right…” he answers in a daze, and then hangs up the phone.

   He has never once imagined that she might get hurt. It hasn’t crossed his mind, because he’s never thought of her like that. Like someone he should care about in that way or to that extent. He’s never thought that he does.    Niki is a friend, sure, but a fuck-friend more than anything else. She isn’t someone that he hangs out with socially in the classic sense.

   They don’t have dinners or go to the movies or pubs or anywhere together. They meet up, have sex, and then part ways. Usually without even talking much and never staying the night. It’s simple and that’s why it works. Because there aren’t any feelings involved.    Or so he thought.

   He sits up on the side of the bed, holding his own head for a minute to try and stop the throbbing in his temples. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the alcohol or the shock, he just knows that it fucking hurts and he wants it to stop.    He doesn’t want to care. Caring is so complicated.    But she’s hurt, once again to no fault of her own, and he can’t just leave her there alone.

   She doesn’t have anyone, and neither does he. She doesn’t know how to trust people, and he doesn’t want to. They’re both each other’s exception. That’s why they work.

   He gets dressed and splashes cold water on his face. Not to sober up, the call took care of that, but to make sure that this isn’t a dream. He wishes that it was, so he’s disappointed when the water doesn’t jolt him awake.    Even with the keys rattling in his hand, he almost forgets to lock the door. The drive passes in a blur while his thoughts erratically jump between memories and imagined scenarios, his fears creating haunting images before his eyes.

   Parking is free outside the emergency room, but he wouldn’t have remembered to feed a meter regardless.    He gives his name at the front desk and is shown to a smaller waiting room further into the building, reserved for friends and family of patients in intensive care. It’s empty when he walks in. No other patients are as bad as Niki tonight.

   It takes thirty minutes before the door opens and a woman enters, closing it behind her.

   “Mr. Tovar?” she asks, and he nods, feeling his throat go dry at the blank expression on her face. “My name is Penelope Jackson and I’m one of the doctors who worked on Ms. Morse when she was first brought in.”

   The room is small enough that it only fits eight chairs. Three along the far wall, two on each side and one beside the door. He’s sitting on the first seat along the left-hand side wall, and she takes a seat in the single chair by the door, putting her at a ninety-degree angle to him.

   “I’m gonna be frank with you, sir. The accident was bad, and her injuries are severe. She’s already been in surgery for three hours,” she begins, and he feels himself restlessly looking for something to busy his hands with. “But she’s fighting. The surgeon who’s working on her right now says that she’s remarkably stabile, considering her injuries, so she clearly wants to live, and that’s half the battle.”

   He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling or thinking, let alone how to express any of it.

   “I’m sorry that it took us so long to call you. She had no ID on her when she arrived, and it took the police a while to find her purse and phone. They got thrown out of the car by the force of the impact.”

   An image of contorted metal and a broken body in a driver’s seat unbiddenly flashes before his eyes, and he closes them against the disturbing picture.

   “May I ask how you know her, Mr. Tovar?” Penelope inquires softly, but he doesn’t know how to respond.

   The memories of how they met replace the disturbing image in his mind. The in-house mechanic who had come to fix his forklift when it had broken down in the middle of his shift at the warehouse. The way their short conversation hadn’t felt uncomfortable even once. The rare smile that her careful attempt at a joke had put on his lips.    She’d told him later that she’d never felt so instantly secure around another person before that day.

   “We work together,” he finally says, rubbing his face against his palms to try and scrub the mental pictures from his view.

   Happy memories don’t seem to fit into this scenario.    Doctor Jackson doesn’t look surprised to hear that his relationship with her patient isn’t closer than that. Obviously, it is, but he can’t find the words to talk about that with a stranger. However tolerant she might be, he doesn’t want this woman to judge them, and anyway, their relationship, however unusual or strange, is their own business.

   “Do you know if she has any allergies or pre-existing medical conditions?” the doctor asks then, and he answers without looking up at her.

   “Isn’t that in her records?”

   “She doesn’t have any,” Penelope replies, and he snaps his head up to meet her eyes.

   “What are you talking about? She broke her collarbone eight years ago. She fell off a horse and broke her left arm and four ribs down her left side a year after that.    Of course, she has records, those things didn’t heal of their own.”

   “We did notice those scars, among others, but her treatment must’ve been at a private medical facility, because we can’t find any records of her anywhere in the country.”

   No… that makes no sense. To his knowledge, Niki isn’t and never has been anywhere near wealthy enough to afford private care. But the doctor has no reason to lie about it.    There’s no way for him to figure this out right here and now, though, so he refocuses on her question. Although, he only knows of one medical issue that’s relevant to the current situation.

   “Did you notice that she’s pregnant?” he asks quietly, as if just saying it out loud might make it more real somehow.

   It feels like it does.

   “Yes. A woman of fertile age being brought in without records or next of kin, we’re gonna try and learn as much as we can about before we send her down to surgery. Pregnancy is one of the first things we check in that situation.    She’s about six weeks along. Is the child yours?”

   He can’t say it out loud, so he merely nods again. But he knows that it’s true. No matter what he’d said to her last night, he damned well knows.

   “For the time being, the fetus is alive, but I’m sorry to say that there are no guarantees. If she makes it through this, the healing is gonna take time and a lot of energy, and her body might not be able to do both,” the doctor says, and she sounds genuinely sad now.

   Pero doesn’t know how he feels about this. He can’t tell if he’s sad or angry or worried. It’s just too much.    He wants Niki to survive. But beyond that…

   “We’ll let you know as soon as anything changes, okay?” Jackson offers, and again, he nods, unable to do anything but exist for the time being.

   Unfortunately, as she steps out, the police walk in, and he instantly wants to tell them to fuck off so that he can have one god damned minute to try and think.    His brain is a beehive, and the queen isn’t letting him think for himself. It’s just loud and incomprehensible and he wants to scream, if only to drown it out for a single second.    Instead, he sighs deeply and runs both palms over the sides of his neck, before leaning back and letting his hands come to rest in his lap.

   “Mr. Tovar?” the younger male officer asks while he and his partner, a middle-aged woman, take a seat opposite him.

   “Yeah.”

   “I’m detective Burns and this is my partner, detective Winson. We’ve been assigned to Ms. Morse’s case, and we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright?”

   What a stupid question. What is he supposed to say? No?    But they’re waiting for an answer, so the question apparently wasn’t just for show.

   “Okay.”

   “How long have you known her?” the man starts, taking out a notepad in the meantime.

   “A little over five years. She’s a truck-mechanic at the warehouse where I work.”

   “Do you know if she has any family?”

   “She hasn’t mentioned anyone.”

   “What about friends?”

   “So far as I know, just me,” Pero shrugs, but both the detectives seem to find that answer interesting.

   “You’ve known her for five years, but you have no idea what other people might be in her life at all?” the woman chips in, and he drops his gaze to the floor.

   “We’re not… close. Not like that,” he admits, for the first time feeling ashamed of the fact that he really doesn’t know the one person in his life that he calls a friend.

   “Like what, then?” the man presses, and Tovar nervously scratches at his own palms.

   “We don’t talk much, we just… hook up.”

   He doesn’t want to see their judgement, but he glances up anyway, to make sure that they understand what he’s saying. Unexpectedly, he’s met by indifference from them both, which actually sets him at ease.

   “I see. So, you wouldn’t have noticed any suspicious activities around her?” detective Burns asks, thereby shifting Pero’s entire perspective on the events which have put him in this room tonight.

   “Suspicious activities?” he asks, wanting to know if they’re referring to Niki doing something questionable, or someone else acting dubiously towards her.

   “Any faces that kept popping up around her, cars that seemed to show up wherever she did… that kind of stuff.”

   “You think someone was following her?” he wonders, and the thought makes him feel sick.

   But it also makes him think back on what the nurse on the phone had said.

   “Wait… the accident wasn’t her fault, right? Did someone hit her on purpose, is that what this is about? Is someone trying to kill Niki?” he demands, feeling anger begin to take hold of his senses.

   Anger is less crippling than care and much easier than pain, so he clings to it, hoping that it’ll give him a place to put all the shit that he doesn’t know what to do with. And more than that, if there really is a human being who is responsible for this, that gives him someone to blame. Someone to hurt.    But the policemen remain guarded.

   “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, sir,” detective Winson takes over. “Do you know anything about her past? Her hometown, school, sports or social activities that she took part in? Her interests or hobbies?”

   “No. All I know is that she likes horses and dogs. And Chinese food.”

   And me. He doesn’t say it, but he feels certain that Niki likes him.    He doesn’t know how much she cares about him, maybe not at all, but he thinks so. He thinks that that’s why she sticks to their unspoken arrangement without fail. Because he’s all she’s got, which means that he’s probably the only one she really cares about. Enough to make sure that she’ll never lose him.

   How horrible it must’ve been, then. To come to his house with the news of the baby, knowing that it would likely tear everything apart.    Sitting there with the police, and his only friend on an operating table somewhere beneath his feet, he suddenly wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t thrown her out. If he’d had the courage to talk to her.

   Would she have been safe right now?

   “Alright, I’m gonna level with you here, Mr. Tovar, because you seem like the kinda guy that might go off and do something stupid with the wrong sort of idea in your head,” Winson continues, bringing him back to the moment.

   He doesn’t like her tone, though. There’s something unsettling about it. He can’t tell what exactly, but it feels like this woman might be a problem waiting to happen.    He hopes that he’s imagining it.

   “Obviously, we haven’t had time to really investigate much yet, but the first step of any case is to learn more about the people involved. And since the other driver fled the scene, Ms. Morse is the only person that we have available to us, so that’s where we’ve focused our efforts so far.    However, our initial look at her has already created quite a few question marks,” she explains, and the unsettling feeling in his gut intensifies.

   “About what?” he asks, finding himself getting almost desperate to learn more about Niki, the one thing he has never wanted before today.

   “Well, for starters, her personal file indicates that she’s attended public school in New York, with stellar grades and commendations from her teachers, before being accepted to MIT, where she studied mechanical engineering and graduated with honors.    Quite a good start to life, wouldn’t you say?”

   “Sure,” he shrugs, because while he knows that MIT is considered a prestigious school, academia has never interested or impressed him.

   “Most people would agree. So, why then did she completely disappear after that?” the detective wonders, clearly not expecting him to have an answer as she carries on. “From the day she graduated, more than fifteen years ago, right up until she was hired by her current employer nearly six years ago, there’s no record of her at all.    She’d never leased an apartment or bought a house, never had a membership card to anything, never bought a car, never traveled abroad because she’d never had a passport made.    Then, six years ago, she pops back up here. She buys a car, rents an apartment and gets hired by your employer, all in the same day.”

   Shit. Those are all pretty good examples of “suspicious activities”.

   “Okay… What does that mean?” he asks, playing dumb, because he’s already got a few guesses of his own.

   But he wants to know as much about where their heads are at as he can, and in which direction that they might be about to take this investigation.

   “We don’t know yet. It’s been five hours since the crash and all we do know at this point, is that your friend’s past has a big hole in it. Which also means that we can’t be certain about anything concerning the accident.”

   “So, what? You think that she could’ve done this to herself?”

   “No, another car obviously hit her. But since this was a hit-and-run, we don’t know what happened or why.    And until I know what’s going on with Ms. Morse, I’m not ruling anything out.”

-=¤=-

   It takes another two hours of surgery before she’s taken off the table and brought to the ICU, where he’s allowed to see her for a few minutes.    She looks… wrong. Her eyelids are too heavy, her body too limp. The color of her skin is off. He’s never seen her sleeping, but it looks more like she’s already dead rather than asleep.    He’s been informed that her spleen, stomach and left lung has suffered damage, and that they’ve had to repair a tear in the wall of her heart. It all sounds so bad.

   Her right arm is in a cast and there’s a thick bandage on her right thigh, where a large gash has been torn through the skin by either metal or plastic broken off from the center console of the car. Her face is covered in both smaller and larger cuts, some of whom have needed stiches, others that are just taped or glued.    She has a concussion, but miraculously, her brain hasn’t swelled. Not yet anyway.    They say that she shouldn’t be alive, but she is.

   He doesn’t know what to say as he stands there beside her while nurses make sure that she’s properly connected to all the machines around her and that the pillows which support her injured arm and leg, won’t cause her any discomfort.    She’s all he has, and yet he can’t find the words to tell her that. To ask her to keep fighting just so that he doesn’t have to lose her.

   So much of her is broken and cut up that he doesn’t dare to touch her either, afraid that he might hurt her even with something as simple as a brush of his fingertips.    He just stands there, staring at her as if he could wake her up by sheer willpower.

   “Her left hand is undamaged,” one of the nurses says, in a voice which is so genuinely warm and caring that it almost makes him cry.

   He’s not even sure why. Perhaps just from the knowledge that truly kind people still exist. Or maybe it’s just plain and simple gratitude.    But he doesn’t cry, nor does he take Niki’s left hand. He turns and then walks out of the ICU and out of the hospital, back to his car.    Once behind the wheel, he just sits there for a minute, breathing hard against the internal distress which plagues him.

   He doesn’t know how to handle this.    He shouldn’t leave. But he does.

   The accident took place somewhere on her route home from visiting him, so he traces it, looking for the scene, not even sure why he wants to see it.    He couldn’t have missed it if he’d tried. The rescue vehicles have left, but the police are still there, and the entire scene is cordoned off while the CSI team works.    It looks like a bomb went off.

   There’s debris everywhere. And not just shattered glass and pieces of the body of the car. Engine parts, entire sections of the exhaust system, things from the boot of her SUV have been thrown as much as a hundred feet from the actual point of impact.    The car itself is unrecognizable, standing against a broken lamppost on the wrong side of the road. They’d had to cut the roof off to get to her, but the entire frame of the car is curved in the middle, where the other vehicle ran straight into it.

   The side airbags saved her life, but if the point of contact between the two cars had been just one foot further towards the front of Niki’s car, her body would’ve taken the entire force of the impact. She could never have survived that. Which had undoubtedly been the intent.    Now that he sees it, Pero is convinced that this crash happened on purpose. There’s no redlight, which means no cameras, and the speed limit of the road wouldn’t have enabled a crash this severe.

   He can see how it had happened. Niki is a responsible driver; she obeys the law and is always focused on the task of driving. She had right of way and even if she hadn’t slowed, she would still have checked both directions as she came into the intersection.    The other car would’ve had to be coming at her so fast in between the buildings to the left, that even if she had seen it, she wouldn’t have had time to swerve or even react.

   But why would someone want a simple mechanic dead?

   Clearly, Pero doesn’t know her, he’s never made much effort to, so it’s possible that those nine years in which no one seems to know where she was or what she was doing, she could’ve lived a different life. Perhaps one which made her some enemies.    He doesn’t know her, but now he needs to. He needs to understand this. Because whatever happens next, the events of this night have changed things.

   He doesn’t have any other friends, but he knows some people. People who can help him dig up some information. So, he leaves the crash-site and heads across town.    It’s not even 5 am yet, but the man he needs to see is already up, he’s sure of it. The guy rarely sleeps more than four hours a night, courtesy of PTSD from his time in Afghanistan.    And sure enough, the door opens just seconds after he knocks, and a pair of wide awake, crisp blue eyes seek him out.

   “Tovar… Long time no see.”

   “Hey, Will,” he nods, just as the man takes in the state of him.

   “The fuck happened to you?”

   “Shit. Shit happened,” he deadpans, and then sighs heavily and rubs his forehead for a moment. “I need you to help me find something.”

   The man deliberates for a few beats, hearing that. There’s water under the bridge between them, lots of it, but he knows Pero well enough to know that he only ever asks for help when something is seriously wrong.

   “Yeah, alright,” he finally decides, letting go of the door and turning to head back into his house, knowing that his guest will follow.

   They walk into the kitchen where his host prepares coffee for them both, before they take a seat at the table.    Will might be a war veteran, but he’s better off than most. After his service, he started up a private company which he can manage from home, and which keeps him in good financial order. The house isn’t particularly fancy, but if one looks around, there are items in there which seem too pricy for someone like him to afford.

   Such as a top brand coffee maker. The type that can use those little capsules for each cup, or grind beans to the drinker’s preference.    Further into the house, there’s a computer system which would make NASA envious, where he does all of his work, primarily consisting of background checks, which anyone can hire him to do, entirely legally.    But his skillset is much more extensive than that.

   “So, who am I looking at?” he asks once they’re settled.

   “Her name is Nikita Morse. She works at OffSup too, but she’s a mechanic,” Pero explains, hoping that there won’t be too many follow-up questions.

   “And why am I looking at her?”

   “Because I think someone’s trying to kill her, and it seems to have something to with a nine-year period when the police can’t find any records of her.”

   “Okay. But why am I looking at her?” Will repeats, obviously referring to why his guest has taken an interest in this person at all.

   He doesn’t want to talk to anyone about Niki, and least of all someone who might ridicule him for it, but the man won’t help him unless he answers his questions.

   “She’s a friend,” is all he says, hoping it’ll be enough.

   “You don’t have friends.”

   “She’s the exception.”

   William thinks on that for a moment, studying his guest closely over the rim of his coffee cup while he takes another sip.    He knows that Tovar deliberately avoids making friends with people, and he knows why. So, he has every reason not to believe him.

   “You fucking her?” the man asks, and he damned near throws his coffee at him.

   He doesn’t need to know that. He’s only asking as a way to gauge his guest’s honesty on the subject, which might determine whether or not he agrees to look into it.

   “Yes,�� Pero begrudgingly admits through tight jaws, daring the man to try and pry any further, but he wisely decides not to.

   “So, what’s happened to bring you to my door?”

   “There was an accident and now the police are looking into her life, and I got the feeling that they want to find something incriminating about her.    But that might just be how my fucked-up brain interpreted a strained situation… I don’t know,” he offers, hoping that by being a bit more open, Will might feel somewhat more cooperative.

   “You think they’re looking for a scapegoat? For an accident?”

   “It wasn’t an accident. Like I said, there’s stuff in her past that doesn’t add up and I need to know what the hell it is before the cops find out, or I’ll have no chance to protect her.”

   “You actually care about this woman?” his host asks, but with contempt more than incredulity, which makes Pero decide that the conversation is over.

   “Please, just look into it,” he says, before standing and heading for the door, leaving his empty cup on the table.

   On his way back to his house for a shower and some breakfast, and more coffee so that he’ll be able to think rather than just stay awake, it occurs to him that she might not be safe at the hospital either.    Whoever it was that had hit her car, they must’ve left thinking or at least hoping that she’d died, so once they learn that she’s still alive, there’s every chance that they might try to silence her again.

   The thought worries him. But so long as she’s in the ICU she should be safe. There’s too much staff there all the time for any unfamiliar face to slip past. The nurses all know each other and the entire support-staff by name, they have eyes on the patients constantly and because of the very limited timeframes in which loved ones are allowed to visit, they keep track of everyone who comes and goes.

   But his hair is still wet when he returns to the ward, with a thermos mug in his hand since he’d opted to eat in the car on the way instead and has yet to finish the giant espresso that he’d made for himself.    He registers with the nurse at the front desk of the ICU. The nametag on his chest says “Frank”.

   “Sorry about before,” Pero apologizes, to which the nurse looks puzzled, so he adds: “I screamed at you on the phone.”

   “Oh, that’s alright. Most people dislike being called in the middle of the night. But thank you,” Frank replies with practiced ease, no doubt used to verbal abuse on the job. “Nikita’s doing better, so if you like, you can stay with her for a bit.”

   He’s surprised to hear that. It’s only been a couple of hours since she came out of surgery, after all. But it’s good news. And he’s in dire need of good news.

   “Thanks,” he says and then walks over to the third slot where her specialized bed is parked in the middle of an array of machinery, and a blue sheet is all that separates her from the other slots.

   There are four in total, but only one of the others is in use for the time being. Which means that the ward is pretty quiet that morning. The staff is working on computers, writing in charts and quietly talking amongst themselves.    As he sits there, watching Niki fight for every breath, he listens closely to everything around him, trying to learn the noise of the hospital so that he’ll know if something changes.

   But soon enough, looking at her takes hold of his entire focus. She’s so fragile. Breathing on her own but otherwise motionless, in that way that only dead things are motionless. Stationary. Static.    It makes him want to shake her. To provoke some form of a reaction, even just a flutter of her eyelids. But he knows that he can’t.

   He closes his eyes against the uncanny stillness, preferring even the darkness to the visible evidence of her torment. But it isn’t darkness that meets him when the image before him falls away. Instead, the memory of their first time together pops up in his mind.    She had asked him if she could come over for a drink that night, but he’d known as soon as she’d spoken what she’d really meant by that. The words might have concealed her true motives, but her face and body had not.

   She’d walked into his house that evening with a hunger in her eyes. He’d offered her a beer and after just one swig, she’d stepped closer to him, eyeing his lips and licking her own.    The kiss had been chaste. Brief and tentative, like a person about to take a bath, putting their fingers in the water first, to check the temperature. But they’d both wanted more, and they’d both asked for it, with everything except words.

   Her hands had been demanding on his hips, craving friction, and he’d given it to her. She’d been so brave that night, letting him explore her skin, learn her desires and soft spots, her cravings and pleasures. And in turn, he’d shown her his.    In just a couple of hours, they’d learned more about each other than they had in the two years leading up to it.

   He has never failed to make her come. She looks so beautiful when she climaxes that he would never settle for less than getting to see it at least once each time.    She never fails to make him feel complete. More than just satisfied, he feels proud and grateful when she reaches for him. When she tells him how much she loves what he does to her, even when he does his damnedest to tease and frustrate her.    Even when he’s in a mood and needs to take before he can give.

   Those are the only times that he feels ashamed. The only times he worries that she might not let him touch her again. He’s rough when he gets like that, but he never wants to hurt her, or make her scream.    He’s never told her that, but she still knows it. She knows what he feels better than he does himself, but she never tries to teach him how to better understand himself. If that was something he wanted, she assumes that he’d ask for it.

   He opens his eyes again, leaving behind the soft shimmer of the sweat on her skin after she’d come undone for him that first time, within his mind’s eye where nothing can ever destroy it.    He returns to the ICU. Her skin is too dry here, in the air-condition.

   “Good morning, Mr. Tovar,” a familiar voice says to his right, and he looks up to find Doctor Jackson coming to a stop beside him. “I see you’ve been through a shower. Or did you just stick your head in the sprinklers outside?”

   His hair is still not dry. He runs a hand through it to try and get some more air into it.

   “Went home for a bit,” he answers, and she hums in agreement.

   “Good. Don’t forget to take care of yourself too. But anyway, I just wanted to let you know that my shift is over now, and that Doctor Leo will be replacing me for the dayshift. He’ll be coming by in a while to check on her.”

   “How is she?” he asks, hoping to hear that the doc can read something out of all those monitors that he can’t, and that Niki is still improving.

   “You know, throughout all of this, her heart has never faltered,” Penelope says, and there’s admiration in her voice. “Even when she was first brought in, broken and shocked and having lost so much blood, her heart drummed steady and firm.    That’s what convinces me that she’s gonna make it. The machines tell me that her vital signs are good, but I don’t trust them even half as much as a person’s heart.”

   She squeezes his shoulder gently, and then leaves, but her words stay with him. He likes those words. They give him peace of mind.

   A little while later, a nurse he hasn’t met before, another dayshift replacement, approaches him and tells him that he has to leave for a while. He doesn’t protest. But he doesn’t step any further away than that he can still see everyone who walks into her slot.    Doctors and nurses walk in and out, the sheet is pulled back and forth in between procedures and cleaning routines for her wounds, new IV bags are placed. Everything is fine.

   Until he walks in.    Pero knows the moment he sees him, stepping into the ward and stopping to survey the area, that he doesn’t belong. He’s too calm. Practiced sort of calm.    The ICU is a place of distress, either internal or external, but both are visible in all the people who wander around in there, save for the staff.

   This man isn’t here to meet a loved one, he’s here to work. But if he was part of the staff, he wouldn’t need to orient himself in the environment. He wouldn’t stop just inside the door, he’d go to his colleagues, or find the locker rooms and get changed.    Tovar watches him as he locates Niki, stares at her as though she was little more than a sheet of paper, and then turns around and leaves.

   She’s not safe here anymore. But how the fuck is he supposed to get her out of here in her state? Where does one even hide an intensive care patient?

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

Part 2

Thank you for reading, and remember: I have no taglist anymore. Follow @sirowsky-stories and turn on notifications for updates on my writing :)

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[perotovar]

i need your help lol

so like, for anyone that's interested in my holiday pero fic, would you give a shit if there was no romance? like, it was just kind of like a character study? this fandom is horny as hell so i feel like i know what the answer will be, but i need to know if anyone is gonna fucking read this or not lmao

#pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #ppcu #polls

[sirowsky]

Driving Mr. Tovar

Chapter 1 - Don't Get Comfortable

Description: We’re introduced to Reader, as you drive out of the city to meet the reclusive billionaire Samuel Rose, hoping to go to work for him at his estate.

Author’s Note: I chose to make reader in her 40’s because I wanted her to have history to bring to the table. This is a slow burn romance but will feature no pregnancies/babies.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Pero x female reader, cursing, slight angst, Pero being mildly threatening. Word count: 3231 (335 words added) Masterlist (this story) Author’s Masterlist

   You were never late. That was a fact of your existence. You always started too early, just in case, and your mind was always ten steps ahead, to make sure you didn’t miss anything.    This morning, you’d gotten up at 4 am, to have time to do your yoga, go for your run, have breakfast, shower and get ready, and manage the hour-long drive from your apartment to the estate, all before 7 am.

   In truth, you hated getting up early, and you absolutely despised morning workouts. It took time for your body to wake up properly, which made it feel a bit like trying to run whilst drunk. Nothing responded the way it was supposed to, and that put you off balance and made your body feel heavy and sluggish.    You’d started the pre-run yoga routine in order to make sure your body was at least moderately awake by the time your feet hit the pavement, and it did help, but you really didn’t enjoy it.

   So, why go through all that trouble?    Because you thrived on discipline and descended into complete disarray without it. You might have hated it, but you needed it to stay sane. And quite possibly, alive.

   You’d spent many long years making your way through the workweeks on caffeine and little else, and over time, it had worn you down to the point where your health had become an issue at just 40 years old.    Your doctor had urged you to make some changes to your life, starting with your job, to get your internal stress under control, and he was also the one who had suggested you force your body into new routines.

   You’d always been good at taking orders, as well as organizing and planning (as long as it wasn’t for yourself), so when he’d made it clear that if you wanted to live past 60, his admonishments shouldn’t be considered suggestions, you’d obeyed.    You’d been a personal assistant to the owner of a bank for the better part of a decade, and she’d come to rely on you to keep her life outside of work on track. So much so, that her teenage children had been heartbroken to find out that you’d quit.    You’d practically raised them.

   But you did want to live to see retirement one day, and you’d begun to search for other jobs, trying to find something you might be good at that wouldn’t require you to keep another person’s entire life under minute control, whilst burying and disregarding your own.    And that was how you’d ended up driving to an interview at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere.

   The application had been for a live-in driver but didn’t specify any more than that.    But it was way out in the country, a lone estate on a huge property owned by a tech-genius, and you were a good driver, even if you’d never contemplated doing it for a living before.

   You arrived at the huge, locked gates, nestled into the twenty-foot-high stonewalls that surrounded the main property, fifteen minutes early, and you were about to park the car a bit to the side while you waited for your appointed time. But just moments after you got there, the gates begun to swing open.    No one was there to ask for ID or check your car for anything dangerous, you were just silently invited to enter.

   This made you wonder two things: firstly, what piece of advanced technology had already determined your identification, and where was it? And second, what type of weaponry was being aimed at you, right now?

   You drove inside, and the massive iron gates closed behind you, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit like a mouse in a trap. But then, that was probably the point.    A sharply dressed man was standing by the foot of the front steps to the main house, directing you to park right in front of him, before opening the door for you as soon as you came to a stop.

   “Good morning, miss,” he greeted politely.

   He was probably in his mid-fifties, tall and just a bit plump, with an air about him that suggested he was at least somewhat trained as a butler, although he seemed more like someone that had been groomed by life, than school.

   “Good morning, sir,” you answered. “I’m a bit early.”

   “That’s fine. Mr. Rose appreciates the respectfulness and consideration for his time. He’s having breakfast at the moment, but he won’t mind starting the meeting early.    I’ll show you to him. My name is Coulson.”

   You gave him your name in return and thanked him as he led you up the stairs and held the front door for you.    The main house was… huge. Some twenty rooms, you guessed. And while the outside design of it gave the impression that it was old but perfectly reconditioned, you knew that Mr. Rose had had the place built just ten years earlier, and the inside of it clearly reflected that.

   The entry-hall was massive, with a large black granite staircase winding its way up to the second floor, taking up most of the rear half of the hall. And the placement of the rooms, the size and shape of them, all indicated that a modern designer had been involved with the architecture. It was efficiently designed and tailored to fit the needs of its owner. And most of the materials were modern and sustainable.    It was beautiful.

   Coulson led you through the left side of the house, past what appeared to be a smaller ballroom, and then a dining room that connected to the kitchen, in which Mr. Rose was indeed sitting, having breakfast and reading a newspaper.    He was younger than you, mid-thirties, and average built but with an impeccable posture to help him carry the tailored suit he wore. His skin was almond colored, and his black hair was cropped short, simple and efficient, and the only jewelry he wore was a watch of a brand you didn’t recognize.

   “Your seven-o-clock appointment, sir,” the butler announced while gesturing for you to approach.

   “Thank you, Coulson,” Mr. Rose replied to him.

   The butler just nodded and left, the same way you’d come in, and Mr. Rose gestured to a chair opposite him at his small breakfast-table.

   “Welcome. How was the drive from the city?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested even in such a bland subject.

   “It was good, thank you,” you answered, before trying to find a more rewarding reply. “I had plenty of time to go over just how many ways to screw up an interview, so if I still do, I’ll really have to kick myself.”

   He chuckled a little and folded the newspaper away.

   “I’m sure you have some questions. Feel free to ask them.”

   “Um, well… When your assistant called me to set the meeting, I kind of expected to get some more information on what the job really is, but she said that I’d have to ask you about that.”

   “First off, I don’t have an assistant, the woman you spoke to is my housekeeper, Laura. You’ll meet her later,” he explained, making you wonder why he would introduce you to the staff before even hiring you.

   “Secondly, the application was quite vague,” he carried on, “but that was intentional. I didn’t want to narrow the applicants too much.    I’ve learned that merits on paper do very little to tell you which person is going to fit any given position, so I like to keep the options open.    Also, this job is going to be… challenging. I doubt that any previous merits would do anyone much good with this, although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have some experience with assisting… shall we say demanding individuals.”

   “That’s pretty much all I’ve ever done,” you conceded. “But I get the feeling we’re not talking about you, here?”

   “No. But before we get to that, I’d like to talk a little more about you," he redirected, and you were instantly self-conscious. "From your records, I can see that you’ve been a very diligent worker your entire adult life. There’s nothing but praise for you from your previous employers. In fact, most of them cited you as being irreplaceable.    So, why the sudden change?”

   “Because it turns out that I’ve been a little too diligent. Sacrificing not just my personal time and social life to my jobs, but my health as well,” you explained. “I need a change of pace and if it comes with a change of scenery too, that’s probably just for the better.”

   “I see,” he said after a brief pause. “What about family?”

   “I have a sister, but we’re not close, we never really have been.”

   He stayed quiet and just studied you for a few beats, before he spoke again.

   “Okay, any other questions?” he asked, making you mentally start preparing for the end of this conversation, since that was what it sounded like you were heading for, and no three-minute interview had ever landed you a job before.

   “Just about the security of this place,” you shrugged, “but I doubt you’d wanna share that with me until you’ve decided if I’m hired or not.”

   “Oh, you are,” he said without pause, as if it was completely obvious. “Assuming you’ll still want the job once you’ve learned what it really is.”

   You stared dumbly at him, feeling quite confused, since you’d just dismissed your own chances completely.

   “I-I am…?”

   “That surprises you?” he asked, looking somewhat bemused.

   “Well, yeah. I mean, I assumed you’d have other applicants, other interviews to do before you made up your mind. Holy shit…” you breathed, truly staggered at this turn of events, while the billionaire across from you merely smiled softly and shook his head slowly a couple of times.

   “It’s rare that I like a person on paper. Even rarer that I continue to like them after thoroughly researching them, and downright unique that my interest in them only grows as I meet them.    You weren’t the only applicant, but you are the only one being interviewed,” he explained calmly.

   “Oh,” you said, genuinely struggling to find any actual words to offer in return. “Sorry, I don’t know how to respond to that.”

   “That’s okay,” he said with a small chuckle. “And about the security, there’s plenty of it, but it’s specifically designed not to be easily detectable, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t share the details of it.    But, sufficed to say, I knew exactly what time you’d be arriving.”

   “I assumed so. And I also assume I was allowed onto the premises without any obvious screening, because there are security measures in place that wouldn’t have allowed me to escape, had I come here with malicious intent?” you shared your observations, and that earned you a fuller smile from him.

   “Exactly right. You’re gonna fit right in here, if you chose to stay.”

   “You don’t seem very confident that I’ll want to…” you prodded, and his smile went from mildly impressed, to a bit annoyed.

   Affectionate, but annoyed.

   “Yes, well I suppose I can’t put it off much longer,” he sighed. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

   He got up and led you back to the front entrance, and outside where he walked along the right side of the house, around the corner and onto a gravel path that led to a smaller side-building, nestled in between four big old oak-trees.    It was small compared to the main building, but it was still a full-sized house. One floor, probably four or five rooms, plus the kitchen, and a big porch at the back.

   Mr. Rose knocked on the door, and a muffled male voice called for him to enter. He nodded at you to follow him inside, and then started chatting as he walked into the kitchen.

   “Morning, Tov. How’s your hand?”

   You stepped into the hall, and just a few feet in, the living room opened up to your left, while the kitchen was a little further in, to the right, past the coat-hangers and closets in the hall.    You stopped to admire the beautifully furnished living room, with a big fireplace taking center stage, while the tv was surpassed to the right wall.    There were positively packed bookcases as well as glass cabinets filled with movies and LP-records, on every wall of the room, and the sofa and the two pulpy-looking armchairs just screamed leisurely comfort.

   “Fine. Don’t tell me you came down so early to check on a few cuts, jefe.”

   The grumpy, deep voice, with a thick Spanish accent, snapped you out of your reverie, and you quickly followed the sound over to the kitchen.    You came into view behind Mr. Rose just as the unknown man turned from the kitchen counter, grasping a coffee-mug and bringing it to his mouth.

   “No, I came to introduce you to your driver,” Mr. Rose declared.

   The mug froze a few inches from the man’s lips as he saw you, and when he heard his boss declare who you were, his arm dropped all the way down to his waist, and a downright scary looking scowl came over his scarred face.

   “Hijo de puta…” the man spat between tight jaws.

   “Tov, we talked about this.”

   “And I told you: I don’t need help,” the man snapped, getting angrier by the second, but Mr. Rose took it in stride.

   “Since you refuse to get a driver’s license, you need a driver, you know that. I can’t keep sparing people from other positions to help you run errands.”

   “Errands? I do not run errands, I do what must be done.”

   “As do I,” Mr. Rose returned, and there was suddenly an authority to his voice that made the other man hold his tongue. “This is not a debate, Tov. I’m your boss and I’m telling you – this woman is your driver from now on.”

   He gave the grumpy man your name, at which point he turned away from you, as though he could make you disappear if he just couldn’t see you.    Mr. Rose seemed to stifle an eyeroll as he angled himself more towards you.

   “I apologize for this man’s less than polite behavior, but if it’s of any comfort to you, he treats everyone like this.    His name is Pero Tovar, and he’s what you might call the manager of this estate. His primary function is to take care of my horses, but he seems to just generally know everything that goes on here, from who the gardener’s dating, to which one of the housekeeper’s granddaughters just took up ballet.”

   Mr. Tovar was busying himself with needlessly rearranging and fiddling with the things on his counter, anything to not have to turn around and acknowledge your presence.

   “I have eyes and ears. This is all it takes,” he grumbled, but his employer just huffed at him.

   “Honestly, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that he’s some form of sorcerer. But he’s also a skilled fighter, and his attitude of just not giving a shit if people like him, makes him good at weeding out bullshit. Which is just one of the reasons why I like to bring him along as my personal security from time to time.    Now, since he doesn’t trust anyone else to tend to the horses, he’s in charge of making sure they have everything they need, which means weekly trips into town to restock on their feeds, treats and anything else he feels that they are lacking.    And since he meddles in all other aspects of this estate as well, he usually ends up running errands for Coulson, the gardener, the cook and the housekeeper too.”

   Mr. Tovar still had his back to you, and he grumbled something you couldn’t interpret, but Mr. Rose just ignored him and kept going.

   “The problem is that he keeps borrowing people from my security team in order to run said errands, which was fine a year ago when I didn’t have that much need for them, but my circumstances have gotten more delicate, and I need them where they are.    Obviously, that’s where you come in. And just so we’re clear: Tov is one of very few people I trust, and that makes him invaluable to me.    So, in addition to driving him anywhere he wants to go, I’m expecting you to look after him, however much he protests, since he’s hopeless at taking care of himself.    I have a room ready for you here, and I’d prefer it if you lived here while you work for me, even if it does mean sharing house with a brute.”

   Right. Okay. This was so not what you’d expected.    But, despite his gruffness, the Spaniard had something appealing about him. He was scarred and troubled, and inherently distrustful, as well as surprisingly easily offended for someone who was obviously held in the very highest regard by his employer.    Still, he clearly took great pride in his work, and that was something that you understood, and respected.    You squared your shoulders.

   “Thank you for your trust, Mr. Rose. I won’t let you down.”

   He seemed relieved that you didn’t just turn around and run away, making you wonder if there had been others that had.    He thanked you in return, and told you to take the day to get familiar with everything, before he said something in Spanish to his friend, and then excused himself to get started on his workday.    Allowing you and the brute a chance to hash it out.

   “Just to be clear, Mr. Tovar; I won’t expect or ask you to like me, only that you respect that I have a strong work-ethic, just like you.    I like to earn my keep, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

   He scoffed as he finally turned back towards you, to thoroughly look you over, head to toe and back again.

   “A woman as soft as you, has not known hard work.”

   “How would you know how soft I am?” you challenged.

   “Your hands,” he replied with a sneer. “They are smooth, not used to toiling, no dirt under your nails. You are soft. No probado.”

   Oh, was that how it was gonna be? Fine. You could play this game too.

   “I might not have any battle-scars that you can see, but there’s more than one way to know hardship.    You know nothing more about me than I do about you, so how about we get the pissing contest over with: Since you’re the only dick present, you’re automatically the biggest one.    I am in no conceivable way any threat to you, so just let me work, okay?”

   He just glared at you, still with something conniving in the depths of his eyes.

   “Would you at least show me which room is mine, so I don’t wander into yours uninvited?” you asked with a mildly exasperated sigh.

   He finally sipped his coffee, then pushed off the kitchen counter and headed off towards the bedrooms.    He led you to the last room in the hall, and then just leaned against the doorframe while you walked inside and looked around. It was almost bigger than your whole apartment.

   “Don’t get comfortable, blando. You won’t be staying.”

>>>>>>>>>> <<<<<<<<<<

Link to Chapter 2

Thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging. I would dearly appreciate it <3

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