toxicbantha

[toxicbantha]

warnings: minors dni. explicit.

okay, hear me out. this, but in an omegaverse au

maybe you're simon's fated mate, maybe you're a soft, innocent omega and he's never been with an omega before, or maybe you're simply someone whom simon cares enough about to do right by. either way, you're revered as this beautiful thing to him; delicate and precious, and made just for him. to fit into the shell of his palm, to be molded against his skin—skin to skin, flesh to flesh—to be claimed by his alpha—his ghost—and carted around flooding in his scent, whispering mine, mine, mine.

and that’s the problem. because simon is nothing but a damn dog when ghost takes control.

ghost doesn't know the first thing about how to court someone properly, (least of all an omega), or how to be gentle with someone as valuable as you. he only knows how to possess you, domineer you, bite and tear you to pieces like everything else around him. you, this special, treasure of a thing to simon, whom ghost wants nothing more than to devour and ravage—to suffocate until there's nothing left of you but himself. all the things simon hates.

his alpha may not care about your fragility or your comfort, or your smile, but he does. simon does. always.

and so simon does what he needs to. he finds price. price, their captain. price, the older, more experienced alpha, who knows exactly how to leash something feral like simon riley. something feral like ghost. price, whom even the worse, broken, and unruly parts of himself recognize as the man in control.

later, when simon comes to you, introducing you to his superior and admitting to you that this is how it has to go; that he needs price as much as he needs you for this, and that price owns him in a way no one else can, you think you start to understand their relationship. later still, when simon has you beneath him, cock splitting you open with his hot breath against your neck, lips flush to your skin, and price standing right there beside him, you think you start to understand yours.

you're lost to the scent of him, then. lost to the feeling of him above and around you, inside you, fitting so perfectly. his hands have captured your wrists, pressing them into the bed's soft mattress, sharp teeth moving and scraping against your throat. so, so lost, that you don't realize what's happening until it's too late. but price does.

you see the captain out of the corner of your vision, focused like the soldier he is. his mouth is pulled tight, blue eyes hard and steely as they bore into the side of his lieutenant's head. it's almost as if he can sense something about to happen before it does. like he's waiting out a shift in the younger alpha's behavior, preparing for the correction to follow.

you realize what it is the moment simon nips at you. right there on the side of your neck, along the carotid artery, something ghost has severed more times than he can count. you hiss when he bites down, and instead of letting go, like the swipe of a knife, pulls at your skin with his teeth, moving with the power of his thrusts.

price steps forward the second he does. dauntless, he wraps a strong hand around the nape of simon's neck and squeezes firm. a warning. the muscles in his chest and shoulders flex beneath his shirt, a silent display of dominance. "easy, ghost," he cautions, voice a deep alpha rumble, "ya know what simon wants."

but simon—ghost—doesn't stop. not yet.

his hands grab at your thighs, gripping and squeezing where they wrap around his waist. his cock, hard and heavy as it continues to pound into you, wet and slipping as he rocks you against him. grunts in your ear, breath hot across your skin, flesh tight beneath his teeth and salty beneath his tongue.

only when simon bites down harder and you hiss a second time, do price's eyes flash. "enough," he growls, the sound like a shockwave through your systems. he's squeezing so hard that the flesh around simon's neck has turned a bright-red beneath his fingertips.

for a moment, you're afraid simon will turn on his captain instead of submit. turn on you, the mess beneath him, but he doesn't. almost immediately, he recognizes the authority of his superior and his hips go flush against yours. he stills. his whole body stiffens. not a heartbeat later, his jaw loosens.

you exhale in relief as he does and notice price loosen his grip just as quickly. but when simon's deep breath remains where it is, silence from him otherwise, you know without looking that his eyes are closed, the scent of disappointment wafting from him in waves. price gives you an approving look over his shoulder, a sign that simon's alright to be comforted—an understanding between two alphas, a captain to his second—and only then do you card a hand through simon's messy, blond hair.

you bring his face to yours, eye to eye. "look at me," you whisper to him, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. his brows are pulled tight, a crease between the center. when he doesn't respond, you try again, "look at me, si"

slowly, he does. he opens his eyes, dark orbs meeting yours, rimmed in red.

you hold his cheeks within your hands. "you're alright," you tell him.

"i hurt you," he says, instantly. bitterly. he looks down at your neck, sees the irritated, red flesh there and cringes knowing that it will bruise come morning. he shakes his head and blinks wildly before meeting your stare again. "m' so sorry, pet. didn't want—"

you lean over and silence him with a kiss. "you're alright," you repeat, and fix your hands around his face again for good measure. "i'm alright," you tell him, "we are alright."

he grunts softly. "you 'r not—"

you kiss him again. "we are alright." and again, slowly. "just kiss it better and be done with it."

simon make a noise deep in his throat, but before he can say anything, price snorts from beside him. he's still just as close as before, still standing with his hands wrapped around the nape of simon's neck. waiting, there and ready. "i'd listen if i were you, son."

a friendlier warning or not, simon huffs to himself, giving you a look before doing just that. you try not to smile at the way his cheeks tint red. gently, he leans down and presses his lips to the side of your neck. when he meets your gaze again, he asks, "what now?"

you put a hand to his waist and slip the other to his chin. "now," you say, and guide his hips against yours, feeling the weight of him still heavy and firm above you. "you finish what you started."

"and you stay with me, simon riley." you finally allow yourself to smile against his lips as price catches your eye, a firm nod of approval. "stay with us," you say, "we've got you."

im not interested in writing a threesome that isn't ghoap x reader because im way more into that, but im chewing on fucking leather thinking about Ghost not just looking for but needing Price's approval, needing just that moment of understanding between them that lets Ghost know that he's got his back.

he doesn't want Price to fuck you, but he needs him in the room, just Price's voice in his ear and your voice in his ear and his captain's big hand on his nape making sure he doesn't mess up, making sure he doesn't screw up when he's pounding into you, making you take something big and brutish. something that could hurt you if he isn't careful. because he's an angry junkyard dog that bites hard and doesn't let go, but Price is the one that holds his leash and makes sure he doesn't break the most important thing in his life.

[toxicbantha]

reminders of home

pairing: ghost x f!reader, könig x f!reader summary: when 141 calls, kortac answers; and they bring with them more than weapons. they bring with them memories. the dead. ghosts. warnings: angst. amnesia. ptsd. violence. notes: this is not a poly fic. this is a reimagining of 'ghost x roach' featuring amnesia (identity loss) and a masked-man love triangle. hella canon-divergence.

[ ao3 ]

prologue—

The dream is always the same.

She is lying in the dirt somewhere: a halfway place between the earth and the sky, and a ditch for a grave; and there is the smell of gasoline in the air and blood beneath her fingertips and flames. Angry, orange shades that lick across her skin and dance there, blazing to the song of her flesh as it burns, burns, burns, until suddenly, it doesn’t.

It stops.

A man stares back at her from across the clearing.

He wears a cover and shades, and it is hard to make out any parts of him that are not more than a blur or shadows, but even with her clouded mind and the lapses of his name, she can still feel him. She knows this man’s touch somewhere deep within her bones. She knows the rumble of his laugh and the taste of his smile, and his love, deeper still. And his soul.

She doesn’t know how she knows these things. So little of her mind has been salvaged from the time before he found her, and it is just a dream, after all, but somehow she does. As if she is sure of anything, it is this.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and this man is hers.

And his soul is her home.

He too, is covered in flames—a bullet hole gaping through his sternum—and at the site of his unmoving body, her fervor lurches.

Her own pain diminishes to nothing and instead, there is only the need to be near him. To draw him into her arms and smother the blaze within her limbs. To drain the blood from her veins and feed it to his heart so he is the one still beating.

She tries to reach out to him.

She tries to bury her nails into the soil and pull herself forward; dragging, crawling, as if she is an infant deigned to nothing more, but then he’s too far gone. Blink, and he’s a meter away, a hundred, a kilometer, looking right at her but still never moving. Still never close enough.

And she tries to scream.

She tries to howl and cry herself coarse, but somehow she knows that doing so is her most useless attempt. She can feel the anguish building in her chest and knocking against her ribs, begging for a freedom that never comes. She opens her mouth, and nothing comes out.

The silence wraps itself around her throat and tightens, forcing itself down, down, until she is condemned to it even in her dreams.

It is not until sometime later when the heat has gone cold and the rain comes instead, that she realizes the dream is not really a dream at all. And not a nightmare either, but a memory.

A haunting.

The emptiness is too consuming.

The ache is too real.

The scars remain atop her skin long after she wakes, and the recollections that lead to it, no matter how many days pass, never surface.

She is still just as lost the moment she opens her eyes as when she closed them. No matter how many times the cycle ends just to begin again.

.

chapter one should be posted on monday, 5/29/23.

tags: @xyzm00n @useless-creature-213

[toxicbantha]

does the amnesia fic have any reader in it? i would totally read it either way i’m just curious lol. ❤️‍🔥

Yes! Sorry, I should have been more clear there. Roach will actually be a reader insert.

[toxicbantha]

mi mariposa

pairing: academy! marcus moreno x f!reader word count: 2k summary: marcus tries to get away. unfortunately, he wasn't the only one with that idea. comments: this is the beginning of a series that never was. found in the drafts after a year (sending into the void not edited either. yikes)

Leaves crunch beneath his boots each step through the orange turned forest, twigs and branches snap with every little brush against his pants legs.

Marcus takes his secret path to his secret place.

Just outside of campus along the coastal shore, where he goes to find peace after a day that was all too much. To feel the sun on his skin and watch warm colors dance across the sky. To be grounded and remember what he is doing all this for. Why he is doing all this.

For his Papa. To make him proud.

He pulls at his uniform as he nears the cliff’s entrance. Deaf fingers unbutton the top of his dress blouse and tug at the tie around his neck, remove the red chord from around his bicep and shove rough fabric into an empty pocket.

He had already forgone his glasses somewhere among the training site, leaving them apathetically before stalking off in frustrated glory. Smashed to pieces or regarded carefully, Marcus could not care less in the end. It was becoming too much, all of it too much. He just needed to calm down and get away. To feel the breeze beneath his collar and be alone—

Except, he is not alone.

His secret path to his secret place… That maybe is not so secret after all.

Eyes darker than a Winter’s night greet him as he steps through the clearing. Hard and yet frighteningly soft. Her expression holds no shock nor concern when she sees him, as if she was expecting his inevitable arrival from miles away.

Maybe she has super-hearing. Maybe his footsteps were louder than he thought.

In a beat, Marcus rakes over her frame, taking in her matching uniform and for the first time, where she is sitting. He nearly lunges realizing how close she is to the edge—how her legs could easily dangle over if she only moved a few inches closer. How quick it would be for her to slip and fall into the roaring sea below.

He takes in a shallow breath, just barely holding back. It is the super in him that makes him want to say something; to leap into action without a second thought.

Maybe her power is flight. Maybe she can control the wind.

Marcus tries to recall if he has seen her before: on campus, around town, anywhere. Just to discern her abilities, he tells himself. But he knows he hasn’t. All his life, he’s never seen eyes that dark; they would have never left his mind had he.

When her features narrow a slither, he realizes he is staring; held in a daze somewhere between captivated and curious. A blush rises to his cheeks. He blinks it away and gives her a simple nod, hoping it is enough.

Somehow, it is. For she nods in return and just as simply, returns to the retreating sun.

It’s just past sunset by the time the next human noise is made. Leaves continue their rustle in the wind and waves still crash against the rocky mountainside, but no sound words or sounds were ever exchanged between the two.

Marcus squeals when the little black creature perches itself on his nose. Six long legs and the face of an alien staring right at him. How he hadn’t noticed the fluttering thing until it was too late, he would never openly admit. Surely, it was not because he was more captivated by the steady rise and fall of her shoulders than anything else.

She hadn’t moved yet, so sunset or not, neither had he.

Frozen still, his heart begins to race and his lips curve to blow a large gust of desperate air upward, trying to shoo the insect away. But the butterfly makes no move to leave its spot, as if completely unfazed by his attempt. He almost laughs—it is not that he is afraid of bugs, it is just creepy this close. Just his strange luck.

His hand rises to scare the creature away, but before he can get close enough, all too gentle fingers touch his wrist. “Wait,” a voice says.

Her voice.

Marcus stills instantly, her voice touching deep in his stomach. It was not until she spoke that he noticed how near she had come. How she is only inches away from him now. And how much more beautiful she is up close.

His concern disappears as she sets his eyes on her again.

He really hopes her power is not mind-reading.

She flicks a glance up to him and then back down to the butterfly, a slight smirk splaying over her lips as she bends closer. “She likes you,” she teases, extending a finger out to the creature. It goes to her almost embarrassingly smooth, crawling onto her hand without a pause of hesitation, as if coaxed by her presence alone.

Talking to animals, then?

The sky’s remaining glow catches on her profile as she turns to the side, warm rays bathing her body in light. And with nothing more than an effortless blow, the butterfly takes off, returning its beating wings to the wind.

A sight like this, Marcus feels, he could watch forever and never grow tired of.

He smiles, readying gratitude to leave his lips. But then something else catches his eye. “You’re an orange…” he says.

Orange. The line between an ability labeled a gift or a curse. A super with immeasurable power. A villain, if only they chose to snap their fingers a little too hard. It makes sense now, why he’s never seen her before.

She stills—caught, almost—and her shoulders go rigid. Thick tension suffocates the air. “Yeah,” she finally says, and then yanks at the chord from around her arm and turns away. “I’m an orange.”

Marcus winces at the hurt in her voice and stands slowly. He wasn’t trying to pull a nerve; he should be saying thank you, not starting a fight. “I’m sorry,” he tries, “I’ve just never met an orange before.” For good reason though, they always try to say.

When a red gets mad, they can level a city. But when an orange loses control… They can level the world. Even he was only a red—all the academy’s best prospects were. So, to be an orange… That meant no super hearing, no talking to animals, no control of the wind. It was something much much worse.

A bubbling part of him should be cautious now knowing the truth, but she seems so normal.

She speaks again softly, still not facing him. “There aren’t many of us,” she agrees, “and we don’t exactly get out much.”

It is a dig, he realizes, but he does not take it to heart. It’s common knowledge that they are not allowed to leave campus.

But here she is.

Suddenly she turns and meets his eyes, something akin to worry blooming beneath her eyes. “Are you going to report me now?”

It is a prison to them, this academy. This locked down campus. It is not like they chose their own gifts. Marcus shakes his head, because rules or not, future leader or not, if he can give her this—he will. “No, I’m not,” he says, and means every word.

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes.

Thank you. It should have been left at that, but curiosity… It is such a dangerous thing.

“How’d you do it anyway?” He gestures back in the direction of the academy. “How did you get past the sensors?”

She considers him a moment, then shrugs. “I was cloaked.”

Cloaked? That doesn’t say much. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for more of an explanation.

“Invisible?” she adds.

But still, it doesn’t aid his confusion. Turning invisible gets picked up by the censor. It is also not nearly enough to be an orange. And doesn’t explain why she was so unconcernedly close to the cliff’s edge.

“I never said that was my power.”

Marcus winces—he must have said that last part out loud. She gives him a curious look before smirking playfully. “You trying to ask me something, Moreno?”

His shy smile is traitorous. He should be embarrassed, but instead blush rises to his cheeks for another reason. He does not need to ask how she knows his name; everyone knew his father. It’s the reason he’s come out here. And besides, he likes the way it sounds from her lips.

He scratches at the back of his neck and cocks his head to the side. “Show me what you can do?” he asks.

She smiles thoughtfully and rakes her eyes over the landscape. “Tell me a secret first,” she proposes. “It’s only fair, since you know one of mine.”

Yeah, that is true, he guesses. Marcus nods. Maybe this is part of her powers too? “This is kind of embarrassing,” he chuckles, “but when I was younger, I used to always wish I could fly. So, I used to put a metal harness on and try to make myself levitate all around the yard.”

She grins. “And did it work?”

“Nope,” he sighs, running a hand down his face. “Just ended up with a huge wedgie every time.”

Her laugh is his new favorite sound.

But he grows confused when her smile falls, and she still doesn’t move. “That was funny,” she admits, “but it’s not really the kind of secret I meant.”

Marcus frowns, not knowing her meaning.

“Well,” she shrugs, “why’d you come out here for?”

He turns quiet a moment and rakes a hand through his hair, features drawn tight. Not to talk about it, that is for sure. But the crashing waves reminds him. “I don’t know”—to watch the sunset, to feel the wind, to take a breather—“to get away, I guess.”

“From what?”

His jaw tightens, frustration suddenly taking over. Talking is the exact opposite of what he came for. “What did you come out here for?” he bites back, unable to stop himself.

She only shakes her head slowly, not entertaining his tone. “That wasn’t part of the game.”

Marcus huffs a bitter laugh. He does not want to admit the truth—he has never even said the words out loud before. But she is right, this is what he asked for. And it is just his strange luck a stranger would be the one he tells his most naked thought to. One more look into her pitch-black eyes and he falls.

“Sometimes I think I’ll never amount to half the leader my dad was. And that he would be disappointed to call me his son.”

If he expected a reaction, he does not get one. She only regards him silently, never once dropping his stare. Somehow, he is grateful for that. Grateful that she doesn’t have any pity for him, only whatever she is showing. It is strangely comforting.

She gives him a moment, then flicks her head to the side and extends her hand out to him. Still no sympathy to be seen. “Come here,” she says.

And it is the simplest direction he has been given all day. He does not need to be told twice. Marcus steps over and slots his fingers through hers. Her touch feels nice, normal in a strangely familiar way. It sends goosebumps to his heart.

She looks up at him and squeezes his hand. “Don’t let go of my hand, okay? No matter what you see.”

He nods.

She turns their bodies toward the forest clearing and draws a single hand into the air. Excitement floods his veins. "They say butterflies are an omen of good luck.” Her eyes catch his and she smiles softly. “I don’t believe in luck,” she admits, “but you might think you need some.”

Her hand flicks back, and suddenly, darkness overtakes them.

[toxicbantha]

yes to heaven. preview.

inspiration: yes to heaven by lana del rey pairing: simon "ghost" riley x f!reader "reaper/lyra" full summary: when a familiar face comes back to haunt him, ghost thinks this might be his second-chance. he won't let her slip away so easily this time. full warnings: depictions of violence. angst. fluff. hypothermia, you almost died smut. secret pining. past dynamics. screw the hierarchy.

a/n: coming out of the trenches for this man. here's a little preview of a fic i plan to release soon. looking for a beta-reader! taglist here.

"Still compromised, then?"

She huffed. Shook her head against his chest, and when she spoke, a new smile was evident in her voice. "You've got no idea, Riley."

But he had. He had more than some idea.

Nearly a whole year of it.

Ghost hooked a finger under her chin, guided her face toward his. Golden flames danced in her eyes, and even with the dirt and grime, the dried blood, and something more still staining her cheeks, he couldn't help but think she looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful.

He'd tell her more when this was over. There wouldn't go a day where those words didn't fall from his lips.

"Help with the mask, love?" he asked, and before she could question him, he hushed her with a near-whispered, "please." The word from his mouth was a rare plea, a silent promise for more. "I'd like to do it properly this time."

Properly.

No rushed scrapes against fabric or heavy-lidded eyes; something tangible, as thick and thunderous as the storm around them.

When the full meaning of his words settled, she blinked, and her eyes set anew. It felt like a millennia before she rose onto her knees and gently hooked the pad of her thumbs under his balaclava.

Part of him was terrified. And it shouldn't be this terrifying—before, they'd been intimate dozens of times, done things far scarier, dozens of times. But somehow this was different. This was their moment.

This, in this rundown shack in the middle of enemy lines, during a white Russian winter with no supplies to last time without an evac. He was bleeding from one side, throbbing from the other, but now they were finally alone. And it was quiet. And it was lovely.

It was theirs.

The fire burned, burned, burn—

She lifted upward, and her hand brushed his stubble, delicate fingers tingling his skin. A chill wisped across his face as his mask rose further—above his lips, his nose. She stopped suddenly and pulled away.

Ghost caught her wrists in his hands.

"I don't understand," she started. "Why here? Why—?" Something dark and furious shifted in her eyes. She snapped. "No," she said and pulled against his grip. "You are not dying, Simon."

The ends of his lips curled. "Never said that, darling."

"Then why?"

Because why not, he thought. Because she'd just scaled the tundra for him. Because he wanted to give her something. Everything. Himself.

"Because," he said and soothed a circle into her skin, "I want you to see me."

She shook her head. Blinked at him. He wanted to reach out a finger and lull the crease in her brows. "But I don't need to see your face for that," she said. Her eyes drifted close and she sighed. When she opened them, she was looking at him—really looking at him. "I already see you, Simon."

A new warmth bloomed in his chest. "I know," he said. She had always seen him; she was perhaps the only one who ever truly did. "But I want this, yeah." He led her hands to his lips without struggle and kissed her palms one by one before returning them to the edge of his mask. "It's just us here," he reminded her. "Me n’ you."

Her shoulders deflated, and she blinked again—her eyes swam with something new. "Me and you," she relented. Then, ever so slowly, curled higher.

[toxicbantha]

The way for love has me on a chokehold ngl, I don't like modern aus in general but this one just hits the spot for me

Thank you 😭💛 I’m working on it, I promise

[toxicbantha]

Absolutely! I'm so glad you're liking it 💛

for love. chapter 2.

tmmc - forbidden romance pairing: modern! pero tovar x f!reader bella word count: 2.3k summary: your bestfriend is a grumpy spanish teenager. warnings: language. alludes to violence. self-contained pining/feelings. notes: chapter serves as an interlude spanning the years between chapter 1 and chapter 3. had to speed it up here a little to make way for things next time.

[ ao3 ] [ tmmc masterlist ] [ ch.1 ] [ ch.3 ]

The Past: Chapter 2

[Bella. Eleven-Years-Old.]

Years of climbing down this incessant rock wall from your bedroom window and it never gets any smoother. Nor does the harping seal looming below ever let up pestering you with his concerns.

You should be grateful – would be – that Pero cares so much, if not for the smug way he shows it. You imagine he already has his hands on his hips, a deep scowl plastered over his caramel-rich face.

“You are going to fall,” you hear him say, a Spanish accent and irritation roughening the edges of his voice.

You spare a look down, straining with only the moon as a nightlight to see, but notice you’re almost there – you should be able to make it. “I’m not.” Even though you probably are.

His response comes quick. Well-practiced. “You always fall.”

Ass.

Years. Of this. He’s right, of course; eventually, you always find a way to end up dropping the last few feet, no matter how careful you are. And Pero, with his ridiculous hovering, is always there to catch you. It’s helpful when you’re actively trying to avoid spraining an ankle, but not so much during the actual climbing part.

You sigh, warm breath fanning over dark stones. “Quit hovering Pero, you’re stressing me out.”

Step by careful step you tune him out and continue your descent, realizing at last, that you’re almost there. Wow, you’re really going to make it-

A hand wraps around your ankle and you squeal, releasing your hold in surprise. You drop down, landing – coincidentally – into the waiting arms of a familiar Spaniard boy. Pero’s scar glistens in the moonlight, and his cocoa eyes meet yours with a smirk. “You fall,” he says, pointedly, and you want to smack the smug look off his face.

You cast him a glare and push against his chest so he releases you. “I had it this time.”

“Si,” he shrugs.

He can be so strange. “Then why did you pull me down?”

Pero turns casually and picks his backpack off the ground, regarding you over his shoulder. “Because Bella, you always fall.”

It’s so quiet and you’re so confused you almost miss it. But wait- “Bella?” He stills putting the straps over his shoulders and you know you’ve caught him. “Did you just call me ‘pretty?"

“N- no,” he sputters, “it means something entirely different in Spain.”

You grin, not able to help yourself. “What does it mean, then?”

Pero spins back around to face you showcasing his usual scowl. A cover. “Monkey,” he says, flatly.

Spanish is no Italian, but you don’t think for a moment that’s what it really means.

.

[Pero. Fourteen-Years-Old.]

Pero holds the knife by its blade and soaks in the feel of the cool metal against his skin. The touch is comforting, grounding in all the ways another person's should be. Familiar in that it's all he knows.

Eight years here already - exactly half his lifetime now - and sometimes, even this early, he can't help looking back and not remembering anything else. His first home is just a distant memory compared to the new life he's been pulled into; the Made as his new family.

He should hate what he's become with the Famiglia - hate what they've turned him into - but deep down it feels as if he was always meant to be here. As if becoming a killer and a thief was just a step he needed to take before realizing something wanted - needed - him here all along.

He thinks, maybe, he already knows what it is.

Because she is the only thing to him as constant as the knife within his palm.

With a thud, Pero steps up for his turn at the target. He draws a breath staring down the center and exhales just as quickly, everything going dark around the board. He throws the knife casually, further demonstrating his skill with the blade, and the point hits the bullseye without a slither of doubt. He throws again and again until there are no more knives on the table - all hitting home.

Some of the younger trainees appraise him with awe, the older with envious eyes. Training or not, it's always a competition here - no one wants to be laughed at or "removed" for being unskilled. Though Pero would never have to worry about either while a fire-breathing Bella is around.

Even just fourteen, she is truly her Papa's daughter.

"You gonna slap me, Rocco? Teach my little girl ass a lesson?

Then you better make it fucking count because come morning your ass will be carved up and thrown out into the river.”

Pero pulls the knives from the target and heads to the weapons table to switch them out. There are an assortment of practice metals to choose from, all varying in shapes and sizes. Setting the blades down gently, he feels someone move to stand beside him, their sleeve brushing his.

William – a new Irish “hire” with a similar origin to Pero’s (despite the whole saving the Don’s daughter thing) – greets him with a genuine smile. Strangely, Pero found William’s company to be the least irritating out of the other men, even with his need for idle chit-chat. He also found the man was extremely gifted with a bow – regardless of how blatantly not-convenient the skill seemed.

William reaches to the far end of the table and removes a larger cutter from its scabbard, turning and holding it out to Pero. "Try this one next. It might make for a challenge."

The Spaniard cocks one curious eyebrow before accepting. "Why a challenge?"

"The weight's off."

Ah. That excuse.

Pero takes the weapon with delicate fingers. He assesses the metal structure, notes the feel of the pommel within his hand - where the weight lies, how far off its true center is. Still, the blade's touch feels the same. Familiar.

He smirks, catching waiting blue eyes. "Maybe you are just no good."

The Irishman chuckles. "By all means," he challenges, motioning to a target board nearby.

Silently they both walk to the line.

Pero steps up readily, his muscles taking over without a second thought. He's practiced this move a thousand times before, excelled each and every time, just bullseye-ed out a few minutes ago. The off-weighted blade means nothing.

He raises his hand upward and flicks his arm back to throw-

A familiar trill of laughter sounds from across the courtyard and his concentration snaps. Unable to stop himself - like a siren's call - he instantly turns in its direction.

Pero's arm drops to his side as he sees her. Fondness blooming on sight.

William's already saying something. He doesn't hear him.

He only sees her. And despite himself, can't look away.

"-she’s a pretty las."

Pero jerks, his eyes turning voidlessly-feral as they narrow on the Irishman. That's apparently all it took. "Avert your eyes, amigo. Before I carve them out."

If William were any lesser man the threat alone would have turned him to dust. But the archer - seemingly unconcerned - just laughs, patting Pero on the shoulder before motioning to the abandoned target. He must have already expected as much.

.

[Bella. Sixteen-Years-Old.]

"I-"

Pero frowns, looking down where your eyes meet his chest. "You don't like it?"

"I-" You don't know what to say, how to even put this feeling into words. You wonder if there's even a strong enough term for how you feel.

It's not the black-inked tattoo itself that makes you want to cringe. You've already seen the brand dozens of times before; on Papa, on Antonio, on any Famiglia man that's over eighteen, really. It's a common site among the Made - one and the same - nothing abnormally detestable about it.

But it's the way the tattoo looks on Pero that you particularly don't like. The way the dark inks mars his beautifully golden skin.

Anything that ruins his wholeness you'd automatically hate. You do hate. No matter what it is, but especially if it's only there because of you.

Lingering, you see Pero pull back and realize he must have already seen it in your eyes. The resentment. The guilt.

Shit.

"I do!" But the words come out too fast, too thoughtless, without an ounce of believability behind them.

Pero's smile is soft. Sad. "It's okay, Bella," he mutters, in that voice that makes you want to curl away. Already, he's rebuttoning his black dress shirt, eyes fixed on the grass beneath instead of you.

And for a moment, you think, you might even hate this more.

"I'm sorry, Pero." You can't begin to imagine what's going on in that dark and gloomy mind. You can only hope it isn't something too extreme, too critical, but it's in his nature to push the cusp - to think too deeply, act too harshly. "Whatever you're thinking, Pero, it's not like that." You try to assure him - hope it works - but then when have you ever given him anything else to wonder?

Pero only hums, his soft-skinned fingers deftly continuing their purpose.

Give him this. You have to give him this. "I just-" you start, releasing a breath. It's hard showing this new side to him, especially since you've only just realized it yourself. "I just feel you have enough marks because of us already." Because of me.

You expect him to cave now, turn and ask what you're going on about. But the words only earn you another frown. Pero pauses a moment, but it's the only acknowledgment you're given.

That in itself is strange. But what part of the world you live in isn’t?

You cast your own eyes down, linger on the tall green blades and run your fingers through them, crush the feeling within your palm. You always forget at the most inconvenient times how much your opinion matters to Pero, how he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks except for you. Your thoughtlessness must have hurt him too much for just a simple apology to fix.

You sigh, releasing a last hope kind of breath. The words feel traitorous, but it's the only thing you can think of in the moment. "I'm sure the ladies love it though.” You scoot closer, ignoring the way his shoulders tense. “The scar, the tattoo-" you gesture to his chest - "they probably think it's hot." You even make to smile, but it only comes out half-hearted; it's all you can muster with the bitter taste in your mouth.

You know he's seen other girls before, gone out to bars and clubs with the other men before even turning eighteen. It's in his right to experience those things, even if you can't - not that he's ever pushed it in your face before. What you have is only friendship, nothing else.

But it still doesn't stop the hurt from popping up.

Truthfully, you're not even sure when the switch happened. Somewhere within the last few months, you think, maybe even years. Somewhere along the line of when Pero's broad shoulders grew to be even broader, when his young and awkward facial hair turned into something dark and complimenting. Your body reacts to even the most innocent of his touches now, everything feeling less platonic, more heated without an actual reason. It’s not the same attraction you have for other men, not even close.

But more than anything it's just straight-up annoying.

"And let me guess," you feign a deep-thinking look, pretending to remember the scene. As if you could ever forget it. “You tell them a niñita got lost in the market, and you saved her from a very bad man.” Again, his reaction is expected, but you still can't help the sting when his cheeks reddened. It's the truth of course, but it's also just like him.

Having to watch your touches all the time. Watch your words. Never being able to act on anything. Being afraid of ruining it all.

It's exhausting.

But then losing Pero? You'd never survive it.

Finally, he turns to face you, humor dancing in his eyes as a soft grin sprouts from his lips. "You tease me, Bella."

Of course, you think, it's your job. You can't help but return his smile, cheeks blushing with his admission. But then your face falls just as easily, your gaze catching on where it all began.

The sight of his scar – the scar you’ve come to loathe – transports you back to the marketplace, focuses your mind on remembering it all as it was. Forces you to relive the moment a strange Spaniard boy saved your life.

It's not a joke, it's never been a joke.

Without thinking, without stopping yourself this time, you reach out a hand to him and gently press the pad of your thumb to his cheek, smooth over the line running down his face. "I thought you were a hero," you whisper, completely mesmerized by the sight.

To your surprise, Pero covers your hand with his own. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm, the gesture veering on intimate. It sends a tingling warmth through your whole body and as much as you think you should pull away, your muscles can't help but freeze - soak it all in. "Then we are both heroes," he whispers back.

Huh?

You pull back and look up at him, your brows furrowing in confusion while you search his eyes for a silent answer. But Pero doesn't let go of your hand, he keeps it steady against his cheek. There's nothing you can read from him.

Thankfully, he voices again, a newfound smile tugging his lips. "You saved me too."

.

[ masterlist ] [ tmmc ] [ ch.3 ]

[ taglist ] @littlemisspascal @marydjarin @elegantduckturtle @just-here-for-the-moment @andiesturgss @ajeff855 // @literallydontlook @elinedjarin

[toxicbantha]

I had a lot of fun writing that one. I’m so glad you enjoyed! 💛

for love. chapter 2.

tmmc - forbidden romance pairing: modern! pero tovar x f!reader bella word count: 2.3k summary: your bestfriend is a grumpy spanish teenager. warnings: language. alludes to violence. self-contained pining/feelings. notes: chapter serves as an interlude spanning the years between chapter 1 and chapter 3. had to speed it up here a little to make way for things next time.

[ ao3 ] [ tmmc masterlist ] [ ch.1 ] [ ch.3 ]

The Past: Chapter 2

[Bella. Eleven-Years-Old.]

Years of climbing down this incessant rock wall from your bedroom window and it never gets any smoother. Nor does the harping seal looming below ever let up pestering you with his concerns.

You should be grateful – would be – that Pero cares so much, if not for the smug way he shows it. You imagine he already has his hands on his hips, a deep scowl plastered over his caramel-rich face.

“You are going to fall,” you hear him say, a Spanish accent and irritation roughening the edges of his voice.

You spare a look down, straining with only the moon as a nightlight to see, but notice you’re almost there – you should be able to make it. “I’m not.” Even though you probably are.

His response comes quick. Well-practiced. “You always fall.”

Ass.

Years. Of this. He’s right, of course; eventually, you always find a way to end up dropping the last few feet, no matter how careful you are. And Pero, with his ridiculous hovering, is always there to catch you. It’s helpful when you’re actively trying to avoid spraining an ankle, but not so much during the actual climbing part.

You sigh, warm breath fanning over dark stones. “Quit hovering Pero, you’re stressing me out.”

Step by careful step you tune him out and continue your descent, realizing at last, that you’re almost there. Wow, you’re really going to make it-

A hand wraps around your ankle and you squeal, releasing your hold in surprise. You drop down, landing – coincidentally – into the waiting arms of a familiar Spaniard boy. Pero’s scar glistens in the moonlight, and his cocoa eyes meet yours with a smirk. “You fall,” he says, pointedly, and you want to smack the smug look off his face.

You cast him a glare and push against his chest so he releases you. “I had it this time.”

“Si,” he shrugs.

He can be so strange. “Then why did you pull me down?”

Pero turns casually and picks his backpack off the ground, regarding you over his shoulder. “Because Bella, you always fall.”

It’s so quiet and you’re so confused you almost miss it. But wait- “Bella?” He stills putting the straps over his shoulders and you know you’ve caught him. “Did you just call me ‘pretty?"

“N- no,” he sputters, “it means something entirely different in Spain.”

You grin, not able to help yourself. “What does it mean, then?”

Pero spins back around to face you showcasing his usual scowl. A cover. “Monkey,” he says, flatly.

Spanish is no Italian, but you don’t think for a moment that’s what it really means.

.

[Pero. Fourteen-Years-Old.]

Pero holds the knife by its blade and soaks in the feel of the cool metal against his skin. The touch is comforting, grounding in all the ways another person's should be. Familiar in that it's all he knows.

Eight years here already - exactly half his lifetime now - and sometimes, even this early, he can't help looking back and not remembering anything else. His first home is just a distant memory compared to the new life he's been pulled into; the Made as his new family.

He should hate what he's become with the Famiglia - hate what they've turned him into - but deep down it feels as if he was always meant to be here. As if becoming a killer and a thief was just a step he needed to take before realizing something wanted - needed - him here all along.

He thinks, maybe, he already knows what it is.

Because she is the only thing to him as constant as the knife within his palm.

With a thud, Pero steps up for his turn at the target. He draws a breath staring down the center and exhales just as quickly, everything going dark around the board. He throws the knife casually, further demonstrating his skill with the blade, and the point hits the bullseye without a slither of doubt. He throws again and again until there are no more knives on the table - all hitting home.

Some of the younger trainees appraise him with awe, the older with envious eyes. Training or not, it's always a competition here - no one wants to be laughed at or "removed" for being unskilled. Though Pero would never have to worry about either while a fire-breathing Bella is around.

Even just fourteen, she is truly her Papa's daughter.

"You gonna slap me, Rocco? Teach my little girl ass a lesson?

Then you better make it fucking count because come morning your ass will be carved up and thrown out into the river.”

Pero pulls the knives from the target and heads to the weapons table to switch them out. There are an assortment of practice metals to choose from, all varying in shapes and sizes. Setting the blades down gently, he feels someone move to stand beside him, their sleeve brushing his.

William – a new Irish “hire” with a similar origin to Pero’s (despite the whole saving the Don’s daughter thing) – greets him with a genuine smile. Strangely, Pero found William’s company to be the least irritating out of the other men, even with his need for idle chit-chat. He also found the man was extremely gifted with a bow – regardless of how blatantly not-convenient the skill seemed.

William reaches to the far end of the table and removes a larger cutter from its scabbard, turning and holding it out to Pero. "Try this one next. It might make for a challenge."

The Spaniard cocks one curious eyebrow before accepting. "Why a challenge?"

"The weight's off."

Ah. That excuse.

Pero takes the weapon with delicate fingers. He assesses the metal structure, notes the feel of the pommel within his hand - where the weight lies, how far off its true center is. Still, the blade's touch feels the same. Familiar.

He smirks, catching waiting blue eyes. "Maybe you are just no good."

The Irishman chuckles. "By all means," he challenges, motioning to a target board nearby.

Silently they both walk to the line.

Pero steps up readily, his muscles taking over without a second thought. He's practiced this move a thousand times before, excelled each and every time, just bullseye-ed out a few minutes ago. The off-weighted blade means nothing.

He raises his hand upward and flicks his arm back to throw-

A familiar trill of laughter sounds from across the courtyard and his concentration snaps. Unable to stop himself - like a siren's call - he instantly turns in its direction.

Pero's arm drops to his side as he sees her. Fondness blooming on sight.

William's already saying something. He doesn't hear him.

He only sees her. And despite himself, can't look away.

"-she’s a pretty las."

Pero jerks, his eyes turning voidlessly-feral as they narrow on the Irishman. That's apparently all it took. "Avert your eyes, amigo. Before I carve them out."

If William were any lesser man the threat alone would have turned him to dust. But the archer - seemingly unconcerned - just laughs, patting Pero on the shoulder before motioning to the abandoned target. He must have already expected as much.

.

[Bella. Sixteen-Years-Old.]

"I-"

Pero frowns, looking down where your eyes meet his chest. "You don't like it?"

"I-" You don't know what to say, how to even put this feeling into words. You wonder if there's even a strong enough term for how you feel.

It's not the black-inked tattoo itself that makes you want to cringe. You've already seen the brand dozens of times before; on Papa, on Antonio, on any Famiglia man that's over eighteen, really. It's a common site among the Made - one and the same - nothing abnormally detestable about it.

But it's the way the tattoo looks on Pero that you particularly don't like. The way the dark inks mars his beautifully golden skin.

Anything that ruins his wholeness you'd automatically hate. You do hate. No matter what it is, but especially if it's only there because of you.

Lingering, you see Pero pull back and realize he must have already seen it in your eyes. The resentment. The guilt.

Shit.

"I do!" But the words come out too fast, too thoughtless, without an ounce of believability behind them.

Pero's smile is soft. Sad. "It's okay, Bella," he mutters, in that voice that makes you want to curl away. Already, he's rebuttoning his black dress shirt, eyes fixed on the grass beneath instead of you.

And for a moment, you think, you might even hate this more.

"I'm sorry, Pero." You can't begin to imagine what's going on in that dark and gloomy mind. You can only hope it isn't something too extreme, too critical, but it's in his nature to push the cusp - to think too deeply, act too harshly. "Whatever you're thinking, Pero, it's not like that." You try to assure him - hope it works - but then when have you ever given him anything else to wonder?

Pero only hums, his soft-skinned fingers deftly continuing their purpose.

Give him this. You have to give him this. "I just-" you start, releasing a breath. It's hard showing this new side to him, especially since you've only just realized it yourself. "I just feel you have enough marks because of us already." Because of me.

You expect him to cave now, turn and ask what you're going on about. But the words only earn you another frown. Pero pauses a moment, but it's the only acknowledgment you're given.

That in itself is strange. But what part of the world you live in isn’t?

You cast your own eyes down, linger on the tall green blades and run your fingers through them, crush the feeling within your palm. You always forget at the most inconvenient times how much your opinion matters to Pero, how he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks except for you. Your thoughtlessness must have hurt him too much for just a simple apology to fix.

You sigh, releasing a last hope kind of breath. The words feel traitorous, but it's the only thing you can think of in the moment. "I'm sure the ladies love it though.” You scoot closer, ignoring the way his shoulders tense. “The scar, the tattoo-" you gesture to his chest - "they probably think it's hot." You even make to smile, but it only comes out half-hearted; it's all you can muster with the bitter taste in your mouth.

You know he's seen other girls before, gone out to bars and clubs with the other men before even turning eighteen. It's in his right to experience those things, even if you can't - not that he's ever pushed it in your face before. What you have is only friendship, nothing else.

But it still doesn't stop the hurt from popping up.

Truthfully, you're not even sure when the switch happened. Somewhere within the last few months, you think, maybe even years. Somewhere along the line of when Pero's broad shoulders grew to be even broader, when his young and awkward facial hair turned into something dark and complimenting. Your body reacts to even the most innocent of his touches now, everything feeling less platonic, more heated without an actual reason. It’s not the same attraction you have for other men, not even close.

But more than anything it's just straight-up annoying.

"And let me guess," you feign a deep-thinking look, pretending to remember the scene. As if you could ever forget it. “You tell them a niñita got lost in the market, and you saved her from a very bad man.” Again, his reaction is expected, but you still can't help the sting when his cheeks reddened. It's the truth of course, but it's also just like him.

Having to watch your touches all the time. Watch your words. Never being able to act on anything. Being afraid of ruining it all.

It's exhausting.

But then losing Pero? You'd never survive it.

Finally, he turns to face you, humor dancing in his eyes as a soft grin sprouts from his lips. "You tease me, Bella."

Of course, you think, it's your job. You can't help but return his smile, cheeks blushing with his admission. But then your face falls just as easily, your gaze catching on where it all began.

The sight of his scar – the scar you’ve come to loathe – transports you back to the marketplace, focuses your mind on remembering it all as it was. Forces you to relive the moment a strange Spaniard boy saved your life.

It's not a joke, it's never been a joke.

Without thinking, without stopping yourself this time, you reach out a hand to him and gently press the pad of your thumb to his cheek, smooth over the line running down his face. "I thought you were a hero," you whisper, completely mesmerized by the sight.

To your surprise, Pero covers your hand with his own. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm, the gesture veering on intimate. It sends a tingling warmth through your whole body and as much as you think you should pull away, your muscles can't help but freeze - soak it all in. "Then we are both heroes," he whispers back.

Huh?

You pull back and look up at him, your brows furrowing in confusion while you search his eyes for a silent answer. But Pero doesn't let go of your hand, he keeps it steady against his cheek. There's nothing you can read from him.

Thankfully, he voices again, a newfound smile tugging his lips. "You saved me too."

.

[ masterlist ] [ tmmc ] [ ch.3 ]

[ taglist ] @littlemisspascal @marydjarin @elegantduckturtle @just-here-for-the-moment @andiesturgss @ajeff855 // @literallydontlook @elinedjarin

[toxicbantha]

for love. chapter II.

tmmc - forbidden romance pairing: modern! pero tovar x f!reader bella word count: 2.3k summary: your bestfriend is a grumpy spanish teenager. warnings: language. alludes to violence. self-contained pining/feelings.

notes: this chapter serves as interlude between ch. 1 and ch. 3. the age given is always reader's, not pero's (though he is only two years older).

[ ao3 ] [ tmmc masterlist ] [ ch.1 ] [ ch.3 ]

The Past: Chapter II

[Bella. Eleven-Years-Old.]

Years of climbing down this incessant rock wall from your bedroom window and it never gets any smoother. Nor does the harping seal looming below ever let up pestering you with his concerns.

You should be grateful – would be – that Pero cares so much, if not for the smug way he shows it. You imagine he already has his hands on his hips, a deep scowl plastered over his caramel-rich face.

Between the rustle of leaves and the night’s quick, haunting wind, you can barely hear him from below. “You are going to fall,” he says, a Spanish accent and irritation roughening the edges of his voice.

You spare a look down, straining with only the moon as a nightlight to see, but notice you’re almost there – you should be able to make it. “I’m not.” Even though you probably are.

His response comes quick with well-practice. “You always fall.”

Ass.

Years. Of this.

He’s right, of course; eventually, you always find a way to end up dropping the last few feet, no matter how careful you are. And Pero, with his ridiculous hovering, is always there to catch you. It is albeit helpful when you’re actively trying to avoid spraining an ankle, but not so much during the actual climbing part.

You sigh, warm breath fanning over dark stones. “Quit hovering Pero, you’re stressing me out.”

Step by careful step you tune him out and continue your descent, realizing at last, that you’re almost there. Wow, you’re really going to make it-

A hand wraps around your ankle and you squeal, releasing your hold in surprise. You drop down, landing – coincidentally – into the waiting arms of a familiar Spaniard boy. Pero’s scar glistens in the moonlight, and his cocoa eyes meet yours with a smirk. “You fall,” he says, pointedly, and you just want to smack that know-it-all look off his face.

You cast him a glare and push against his chest so he releases you. “I had it this time.”

��Si,” he shrugs.

“Then why did you pull me down?”

Pero turns casually and picks his backpack off the ground, regarding you over his shoulder. “Because Bella, you always fall.”

It’s so quiet and you’re so confused you almost miss it. But wait- “Bella?” He stills putting the straps over his shoulders and you know you’ve caught him. “Did you just call me ‘pretty?"

“N- no,” he sputters, “it means something entirely different in Spain.”

You grin, not able to help yourself. “What does it mean, then?”

Pero spins back around to face you, his usual scowl now showcased. A cover. “Monkey,” he says, flatly.

You laugh outright. Spanish is no Italian, but you don’t think for a moment that’s what it really means.

.

[Pero. Fourteen-Years-Old.]

Pero holds the knife by its blade and soaks in the feel of the cool metal against his skin. The touch is comforting, grounding in all the ways another person's should be. Familiar in that it's all he knows.

Eight years here already - exactly half his lifetime now - and sometimes, even this early, he can't help looking back and not remembering anything else. His first home is just a distant memory compared to the new life he's been pulled into; the Made as his new family.

He should hate what he's become with the Famiglia - hate what they've turned him into - but deep down it feels as if he was always meant to be here. As if becoming a killer and a thief was just a step he needed to take before realizing something wanted - needed - him here all along.

He thinks, maybe, he already knows what it is.

Because she is the only thing to him as constant as the knife within his palm.

With a thud, Pero steps up for his turn at the target. He draws a breath staring down the center and exhales just as quickly, everything going dark around the board. He throws the knife casually, further demonstrating his skill with the blade, and the point hits the bullseye without a slither of doubt. He throws again and again until there are no more knives on the table - all hitting home.

Some of the younger trainees appraise him with awe, the older with envious eyes. Training or not, it's always a competition here - no one wants to be laughed at or "removed" for being unskilled. Though Pero would never have to worry about either while a fire-breathing Bella is around.

Even just fourteen, she is truly her Papa's daughter.

"You gonna slap me, Rocco? Teach my little girl ass a lesson?

Then you better make it fucking count because come morning your ass will be carved up and thrown out into the river.”

Pero pulls the knives from the target and heads to the weapons table to switch them out. There are an assortment of practice metals to choose from, all varying in shapes and sizes. Setting the blades down gently, he feels someone move to stand beside him, their sleeve brushing his.

William – a new Irish “hire” with a similar origin to Pero’s (despite the whole saving the Don’s daughter thing) – greets him with a genuine smile. Strangely, Pero found William’s company to be the least irritating out of the other men, even with his need for idle chit-chat. He also found the man was extremely gifted with a bow – regardless of how blatantly not-convenient the skill seemed.

William reaches to the far end of the table and removes a larger cutter from its scabbard, turning and holding it out to Pero. "Try this one next. It might make for a challenge."

The Spaniard cocks one curious eyebrow before accepting. "Why a challenge?"

"The weight's off."

Ah. That excuse.

Pero takes the weapon with delicate fingers. He assesses the metal structure, notes the feel of the pommel within his hand - where the weight lies, how far off its true center is. Still, the blade's touch feels the same. Familiar.

He smirks, catching waiting blue eyes. "Maybe you are just no good."

The Irishman chuckles. "By all means," he challenges, motioning to a target board nearby.

Silently they both walk to the line.

Pero steps up readily, his muscles taking over without a second thought. He's practiced this move a thousand times before, excelled each and every time, just bullseye-ed out a few minutes ago. The off-weighted blade means nothing.

He raises his hand upward and flicks his arm back to throw-

A familiar trill of laughter sounds from across the courtyard and his concentration snaps. Unable to stop himself - like a siren's call - he instantly turns in its direction.

Pero's arm drops to his side as he sees her. Fondness blooming on sight.

He thinks William's already saying something, but he can’t hear him fully. He only sees her. And despite himself, can't look away.

"-she’s a pretty las."

Pero jerks, his eyes turning voidlessly-feral as they narrow on the Irishman. That's apparently all it took. "Avert your eyes, amigo. Before I carve them out."

If William were any lesser man the threat alone would have turned him to dust. But the archer - seemingly unconcerned - just laughs, patting Pero on the shoulder before motioning to the abandoned target. He must have already expected as much.

.

[Bella. Sixteen-Years-Old.]

"I-"

Pero frowns, looking down where your eyes meet his chest. "You don't like it?"

"I-" You don't know what to say, how to even put this feeling into words. You wonder if there's even a strong enough term for how you feel.

It's not the black-inked tattoo itself that makes you want to cringe. You've already seen the brand dozens of times before; on Papa, on Antonio, on any Famiglia man that's over eighteen, really. It's a common site among the Made - one and the same - nothing abnormally detestable about it.

But it's the way the tattoo looks on Pero that you particularly don't like. The way the dark inks mars his beautifully golden skin.

Anything that ruins his wholeness you'd automatically hate. You do hate. No matter what it is, but especially if it's only there because of you.

Lingering, you see Pero pull back and realize he must have already seen it in your eyes. The resentment. The guilt.

Shit.

"I do!" But the words come out too fast, too thoughtless, without an ounce of believability behind them.

Pero's smile is soft. Sad. "It's okay, Bella," he mutters, in that voice that makes you want to curl away. Already, he's rebuttoning his black dress shirt, eyes fixed on the grass beneath instead of you.

And for a moment, you think, you might even hate this more.

"I'm sorry, Pero." You can't begin to imagine what's going on in that dark and gloomy mind. You can only hope it isn't something too extreme, too critical, but it's in his nature to push the cusp - to think too deeply, act too harshly. "Whatever you're thinking, Pero, it's not like that." You try to assure him - hope it works - but then when have you ever given him anything else to wonder?

Pero only hums, his soft-skinned fingers deftly continuing their purpose.

Give him this. You have to give him this. "I just-" you start, releasing a breath. It's hard showing this new side to him, especially since you've only just realized it yourself. "I just feel you have enough marks because of us already." Because of me.

You expect him to cave now, turn and ask what you're going on about. But the words only earn you another frown. Pero pauses a moment, but it's the only acknowledgment you're given.

That in itself is strange. But what part of the world you live in isn’t?

You cast your own eyes down, linger on the tall green blades and run your fingers through them, crush the feeling within your palm. You always forget at the most inconvenient times how much your opinion matters to Pero, how he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks except for you. Your thoughtlessness must have hurt him too much for just a simple apology to fix.

You sigh, releasing a last hope kind of breath. The words feel traitorous, but it's the only thing you can think of in the moment. "I'm sure the ladies love it though.” You scoot closer, ignoring the way his shoulders tense. “The scar, the tattoo-" you gesture to his chest - "they probably think it's hot." You even make to smile, but it only comes out half-hearted; it's all you can muster with the bitter taste in your mouth.

You know he's seen other girls before, gone out to bars and clubs with the other men before even turning eighteen. It's in his right to experience those things, even if you can't - not that he's ever pushed it in your face before. What you have is only friendship, nothing else.

But it still doesn't stop the hurt from popping up.

Truthfully, you're not even sure when the switch happened. Somewhere within the last few months, you think, maybe even years. Somewhere along the line of when Pero's broad shoulders grew to be even broader, when his young and awkward facial hair turned into something dark and complimenting. Your body reacts to even the most innocent of his touches now, everything feeling less platonic, more heated without an actual reason. It’s not the same attraction you have for other men, not even close.

But more than anything it's just straight-up annoying.

"And let me guess," you feign a deep-thinking look, pretending to remember the scene. As if you could ever forget it. “You tell them a niñita got lost in the market, and you saved her from a very bad man.” Again, his reaction is expected, but you still can't help the sting when his cheeks reddened. It's the truth of course, but it's also just like him.

Having to watch your touches all the time. Watch your words. Never being able to act on anything. Being afraid of ruining it all.

It's exhausting.

But then losing Pero? You'd never survive it.

Finally, he turns to face you, humor dancing in his eyes as a soft grin sprouts from his lips. "You tease me, Bella."

Of course, you think, it's your job. You can't help but return his smile, cheeks blushing with his admission. But then your face falls just as easily, your gaze catching on where it all began.

The sight of his scar – the scar you’ve come to loathe – transports you back to the marketplace, focuses your mind on remembering it all as it was. Forces you to relive the moment a strange Spaniard boy saved your life.

It's not a joke, it's never been a joke.

Without thinking, without stopping yourself this time, you reach out a hand to him and gently press the pad of your thumb to his cheek, smooth over the line running down his face. "I thought you were a hero," you whisper, completely mesmerized by the sight.

To your surprise, Pero covers your hand with his own. He nuzzles his cheek into your palm, the gesture veering on intimate. It sends a tingling warmth through your whole body and as much as you think you should pull away, your muscles can't help but freeze - soak it all in. "Then we are both heroes," he whispers back.

Huh?

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your brows furrowing in confusion while you try to search his eyes for a silent answer. But Pero doesn't let go of your hand, he keeps it steady against his cheek. There's nothing you can read from him.

Thankfully then, he voices again, a newfound smile tugging his lips. "You saved me too."

.

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[toxicbantha]

tmmc masterlist

-

JOIN A TAGLIST [ X ] // READ ON AO3 [ X ]

Featuring various PP characters as popular mafia romance tropes. Imagine an arranged marriage with Maxwell Lord, a forbidden childhood romance with Pero Tovar, becoming the center of dirty federal agent Dave York's mad obsession. And more.

Each mini-series can be read as a stand-alone, but are also listed in chronological succession below and linked accordingly (unless otherwise stated). General warnings for each include descriptions of violence, smut, and other adult themes.

For Love.

A Forbidden Romance with Pero Tovar Raised in a world fueled by threats and blood, you - the princess of Chicago's American underworld - grew up denied nothing. Until the day a new, forbidden desire emerges, and your young Spanish protector's heart is ripped away by your own Papà's hands.

the past: [ ch.1 ] [ ch.2 ]

Read With: Love Story by Sarah Cothran

Upcoming...

Maxwell Lord - For Duty

Marcus Pike - For Blood

Dave York - For Temptation

Oberyn Martell - For Vengeance

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[toxicbantha]

for love. chapter I.

tmmc - forbidden romance pairing: modern! pero tovar x f!reader bella word count: 2.9k summary: pero tovar grew to be many things. a friend, a soldier, a lover. but the first thing he ever was to you? a protector. warnings: descriptions of violence. alludes to child abduction.

[ ao3 ] [ tmmc masterlist ] [ ch.2 ]

The Past: Chapter I

[Bella. Six-Years-Old.]

Blocks of rich, charcoal tinted cobblestone pass before you're finally let out of the car. What remains of the familiar Spanish sea's cool, crisp smell, instantly greeting you with the wind.

Though even despite the gentle breeze, the streets of Spain feel hotter than you remember. Some equal parts lonelier too, if you're being honest.

Mamma and Antonio don't come on Papa's business trips anymore. Not since the day Mamma screamed that Anton was still too young to start working. Not since Papa demanded Anton cut off a man's finger in the middle of your hotel suite.

You had just turned five that summer, but your older brother was already nine - an age, Papa doubly complained, he was already forced to do so much worse.

It was then you knew your father wasn't a good man. Not with his black-suited soldiers that followed like leashed dogs, not with his cold as ice glare that made even the biggest of men cower.

But at least, you thought, he was still a good husband. A good dad despite everything he was – everything you later learned he had been born to become.

Now it's a race against time before Anton fills his shoes

But it was still the only reason Mamma won. And the only reason you're standing where you are now.

It was a stretch - getting him to even consider this.

“A farmer’s market isn’t safe,” he had said, “too many people.” Too many opportunities, he meant.

Enemies against the Famiglia lurked everywhere. They crawled out from gutters like low-sunken cockroaches whenever a member was around - maybe even ten times worse when it was a Capo in town. So the welcome that awaits the Don? The man's guards could have checked the same corner a hundred times, and it still wouldn't have been too much.

It was just your convenient luck, then; as far as Chicago's American underground went, your father is King of it all.

Which means everything is off-limits.

You tried batting your lashes first, buttering him up like you always did before he eventually caved, but his admission didn't come this time. Papa didn't even blink before denying you again. "No," he repeated, and the word sounded final.

To him at least.

You cast him a glare, pursing your lips in a child's pout. "Then have fun traveling by yourself next month." It was a low blow and you knew that, especially coming from his little princess. But then what did he really expect? You are his daughter after all: one of the only two heirs to an empire built on threats and blood.

Even just from the hotel window, the market looked too good to pass up. It looked exactly like that scene out of 'Ferdinand.' And you needed to see it, be there, explore it yourself.

The threat struck - seemed to do the trick. That's all it took before he conceded, crossing the hotel room in two long strides and picking you up in his arms, tickling your side until tears sprang from your eyes.

The Don's guards circle as he steps out, and it isn't long before you feel your father's familiar presence behind your back. "Stay close, bambina," he says lowly, extending a hand out for you to take.

Even surrounded by his six other men it was worth it.

The marketplace is beautiful. It's overfilling with vibrancy in every direction: artwork and flowers and pastries lining the walls from stand to stand. It looks even better than you thought; feels like something new to explore – like an entirely new world in itself.

And you're intent on exploring it all, dragging your Papa and his burly boys to every stop there is, if you have to.

But then of course, it doesn't feel like long at all before you have to stop again - for what feels like forever. Your exploration comes to an early standstill all because someone - a "coworker" - in the crowd of people recognizes your father and decides now is the best time to "talk to him."

Ugh.

But there's still so much to see...

It's all a blur before you realize what you've done.

Your hands are empty now, no longer clutching onto the man who kisses you goodnight before bed every night. And your little legs have taken you somewhere else, to the middle of an almost empty street you don’t remember seeing before. There are no black suits to be found, no landmarks or faces you even vaguely recognize.

You’re completely lost, feeling completely alone. Surrounded by only a trickle of strangers.

And it's all your fault.

How did you get here? How did they let you slip away?

Then you hear him. This new friend that isn't a friend. A man you know in your gut would never be allowed to speak to you, touch you, take you.

His Spanish accented English reaches your ears, somehow knowing who are without a single question first. "I'm so glad I've found you," the man cheers, huffing a long breathe in relief. "Your Padre is worried sick."

A box ticks. Padre.

The one term is enough for your Papa's words to come back to you. The same words you've been drilled to remember since as soon as you could speak: don't trust a single soul. You settle your quickening heartbeat and regard him first, "how do you know my Papa?"

"I'm a friend," the man smiles, a menacing gleam in his eyes - a gleam you've seen on dozens of untrustworthy black-suited men before - "your friend."

Nerves prick on your skin, your breath turning short before you can help it. Don't trust a single soul.

You're still. Frozen. Terrified. This was a mistake. You never should have prodded; you should have listened, accepted it, lived with it. A little market would never be worth this.

This feels wrong.

This man isn't a friend of your father's, he isn't a friend at all. He looks slimy - shady - not like someone you should trust. He's not someone you trust.

The man draws closer, nearly reading your thoughts with his narrowed eyes. “Come now,” he says, gritting his jaw in a tight smile, “don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Run. You need to run.

Your feet take off, but you aren’t fast enough. The man gets a hold of you easily, keeping down your violent struggle and quieting your screams with a strength you couldn’t possibly parallel. There’s no one around to hear you, no one around to see you, save you. You’ve lost, you’re-

Suddenly, you’re dropped. You free-fall from your carried hold and land with a thud on the solid ground. Your body rocks with the impact and you groan, opening your eyes to see the man fall beside doing the same. He’s clutching the back of his head - blood coating his fingertips as a crimson-stained rock rolls at his feet.

You’re dazed and confused - not sure of a single thing that just happened. But you don’t even care.

Because you’re free.

You push off the ground to stand, but only barely get to your feet before you’re hoisted up fully, a hand grabbing yours in a death grip and pulling you up and away. Already, you’re stumbling, being dragged without a word back into the marketplace - back into a watching and waiting crowd. Following someone new now, you notice, someone closer to your own smaller height.

It's all happening too fast. You still don’t know what’s going on. But then a part of you still doesn't care. As long as you’re getting far far away.

The two of you run without looking back – with heavy breaths and barely registering a thing – not daring to stop for even a second while you’re being led away. To safety, you hope. You run until you can’t possibly run anymore, and then, only then, your savior finally stops, pulling you one last time around the corner of a building and releasing you to catch your breath against a solid wall.

Now do you dare spare a glance and see who’s standing beside you.

A boy, you realize, with golden-caramel skin and almost raven-black hair. He’s wearing a little too big cotton shirt that even young his already broad shoulders look strong beneath, and you notice he’s a little taller than you standing straight, looks a little older even - maybe closer to Anton’s age.

Reaching your sight, a scowl crosses the boy's face and his cocoa-brown eyes you recognize from hot chocolate, turn a little darker. He meets your stare, body narrowed like a predator on patrol.

You can only knit your brows at him, your breath still catching up.

Spanish flies from his lips. Angry and pointed and... vulgar. Your Italian is enough to know those words shouldn't be repeated, and it doesn't take a genus to know they shouldn't be directed at you.

And this boy is very clearly, directing them at you.

You grit your teeth and push a finger into his chest, standing your ground like you've seen Papa do a hundred times before. "Hey!" you seethe back, "don't yell at me!"

But the Spaniard boy only pauses for a moment. He looks down at your finger like it means nothing - like it's disgusting - and swats it away. "Stupid girl," he mutters, and you can't stop the frown from forming.

Heir to an empire built on threats and blood... but that one still hurt.

"You don't have to be so mean."

"Me?" he scoffs, amusement clearly lacing his new tone. "You would think niñitas would complain less after being saved, no?”

New found irritation suddenly fills you. "You would think heroes wouldn't yell at the people they've saved, no?"

He tried to hide it, you think, but you don't miss the vacancy that passes through his eyes. If only for a blink, it was there. "I am no hero," he says. You've seen that vacancy before, know the idea well from other "bad men" that can also be good.

Your voice turns soft, curiosity now rising instead. "Then why did you save me?"

The boy rakes you over with scrutinized eyes. He takes in your fancy white sundress and designer shoes, your golden necklace and small jeweled earrings that other, ordinary children wouldn't be wearing. “I am hungry,” he says plainly, as if the statement holds no more value than a pointed finger.

But you also see the desperation there, the sadness that looms deep beneath. His disheveled raven hair, his stained cotton shirt, his ripped and torn shoes.

You feel it. And somehow, he feels it too. "Don't," he warns, as if reading your thoughts. "Don't pit-"

"What's your name?"

He pauses, considering you - each second that passes turning his glare less threatening. "They call me Tovar," he says at last.

Tovar? But it sounds strange on your tongue. Like something is missing. They? They who? "Your family?"

A simple nod. You know what it means.

"Your friends?" you try again.

A single laugh escapes Tovar’s lips, but his words are no less devoid of joy. “I do not have friends.”

Oh.

No family, no friends…

You can’t help but think back to the man you just met. “I’m your friend,” he had said, but he didn’t mean it. You think back to the playdates that never happened, the homeschool you endure, how the only way you ever meet anyone is with a black-suited guard looming by. The words come out softer than you'd thought they could, “me too.”

It also doesn't need to be said. You see the way he reads your eyes. You only hope they convey something else too.

Don't trust a single soul. But you might like too, learn to with this one.

He cocks his head to the buzzing market street. "We should-"

A voice growls from the other side of the alleyway and you recognize it immediately. "You little bitch!" the man yells, teeth flashing and cheeks red with anger. Instantly, he's gaining on you, looking worse now - even more violent than before. "I'll gut you!"

The words sink and you shiver, but calloused hands are on you immediately, already pushing you towards the street with wide eyes and a frantic voice. Tovar. He's keeping you present, aware, positioning himself between you and the man. It's a move Antonio would do, something you would expect out of Papa and his guards - not something earned from a stranger. Especially not twice.

"Correr!" he pleads, "run and do not turn back!" So much for not being a hero. "Anda! Go!" he yells again, nearly begging now. For what reason, you can't possibly figure out. There's nothing he could gain from being dead.

But it doesn't matter now anyway. You've already decided you're not going to leave him, and there's nothing that can sway your mind.

The man draws a knife and forces Tovar to the ground, grabbing his face beneath one large palm and holding him pinned to the gravel. He's kicking and thrashing against his hold, trying to break free - but it's not working. You run to his side and try to push the man off, grunting and growling with all your strength, digging in your nails and scratching at his exposed skin.

The man yelps and his arm flies back, slamming a hand across your face and sending you to the ground. The taste of copper floods your mouth and before you can help it, tears start to spring in your eyes. Pain radiates all over your body, and you could lie here forever, you think, if not for what else is going on.

Tovar screams - in agony, in pain - and it sends you flying back up, instantly starting towards his side again. Sharp fury forms with the need to help him. The man has a knife to his face, a wicked grin sprouting as he presses the tip of the blade to his golden skin - blood drawing tenfold to the new cut on your lip.

Such coldness radiates from your chest, you barely notice arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you in the air. You scream, instantly slashing against the new contact trying to break free.

You don’t bother looking at who’s holding you back. Again, you don’t even care.

All that matters is Tovar.

In your haze, you miss the two black suits hauling the man off. Throwing him into the wall and crowding him, already beating on him like a bag of meat. You’re too far gone to care, too lost and haunted, intent on flailing instead. Doing whatever it takes to break free, to help your friend.

It’s only the sound of your father’s voice that has you pause. His familiar baritone shocking your body still. He was the one holding you back, and you hadn’t even noticed. Not that it would have mattered.

You turn in his arms and fling yourself around his neck, inhale the sweet-comforting smell of his cologne, and no longer keep the tears at bay. You let it all out into the crook of his neck, unable to stop yourself, thinking you shouldn’t even try to.

Your Papa smooths a large palm down your back, murmuring solace into your ear. “Papa is here,” he whispers. “You’re okay, you’re safe.” He repeats it over and over, trying to convince himself, you think, not only you. Because your father wasn't the one who actually saved you moments ago.

No. It was Tovar.

The movement of his feet forces you to pull back and remember the only priority you had before he arrived. His grip is strong around your waist, but a push against his chest and you manage to slip from his arms. As soon as you hit the ground, you're running to your Spaniard's side.

He’s unconscious, blood dripping down the left half of his face. A beautiful and bloody mess. It’s only right you repay the debt, even though you know you'll always owe him more than you could ever possibly give.

You find your father’s gaze, new tears soaking your eyes. “Please, Papa” you sob, “ple-please help him. Please.”

If this is the last thing you ever ask for, so be it.

-

You watch Tovar as he sleeps. Pero Tovar, you learned from Papa his name was. You imagine how he’s feeling, how you would feel waking up alone in a place you’ve never been before - hooked up to beeping machines and a bandage covering half your face.

It only takes a second before you make up her mind. Decidedly abandoning your own bed without a second thought to join his instead.

You step around the mattress and pull the covers down carefully, crawl in beside him while trying not to make too much movement. Trying not to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is.

Instinctively, you reach your hand under the covers to find his, take his palm into your own like he did yours all those hours ago. “Thank you, Pero,” you whisper - to him, to the darkness that surrounds you - “for saving me.”

Sleep finds you before you can feel Pero’s hand tighten around yours.

.

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