OK, so that's not what I was thinking while I played the game for the first time. Still, I'd be lying if I said that I was anything other than intrigued when one of my most favorite deviantartists, madamluna, shared (via Twitter) a link to a piece of Muscle March fanfic she'd penned a while back.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuvm-pn_nVhIqEdw5TtHHulPiAy45jJ_-GHavkvb3Nsgm4_R65fiThZ9Xw9xatM2IVUyWRESPyrOQHpuBYu2odydJnk1NNQsm3s9hfKaOA1nYsp2IbwO_yNzS8QfYhb0X30Nf6DA/s400/musclemarch.jpg)
The piece is called "Love and Muscles," by the way, and it's quite a hoot. (Does anyone under the age of 80 use that term? No? Oh, well.) Don't take my word for it--read the following paragraphs and find out for yourself:
Call him typical, but Pedroso lived for the hunt. The hunt of the heart, that is--the passionate dance of flirtation and courtship that set his Spanish blood a-boiling. The stolen glances, the gentle kisses, the tiny, expensive presents given to coax out the glow in a lady's eyes! Oh, just the thought of it was enough to have him dancing on air for days! Pedroso knew his stuff, all right, and many a señorita had fallen gracefully into his arms.
Which is why it nearly broke the poor man's heart when Abebe, gorgeous, chiseled, newest-member-of-the-team Abebe, spurned Pedroso's every advance. He used the man's rose petals to line his pet chick's 'fro-nest, pulled away in boredom at his veiled romantic poetry, and didn't look at all impressed when the keepsake silver bracelet snapped in half as he flexed his wrist. Pedroso could only watch in horror as every one of his attempts turned into a disaster right before his eyes, and at the end of it all he dragged himself back to his villa, in the deepest despair he'd ever known.
If you were at all tickled by what you just read, I'd highly recommend reading the rest of the piece at archiveofourown.org.
See also: Previous Muscle March posts