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andr0medafallen · 2 years

Text

Legitimate

A/N: My baby. My masterpiece. Absolutely the most filthy thing I have ever written. This is a repost, but it must be said that this would not have been written if it weren't for @foxilayde 1. Telling me to watch For Greater Glory (not a great movie, but 10/10 grime boy) and 2. encouraging well...everything deranged that can be found in this fic (no regrets).

Pairing: Victoriano "El Catorce" Ramirez

Warnings: Smut, oral sex, p in v, inexperienced reader, innocence (?) kink, some religious imagery, lots and lots of spit (I won't apologize)

Description: "What is the name of your legitimate wife, if I may ask?" “Señor, every woman is legitimate.”

Word Count: 3.3k

Dinner is a silent affair in your household tonight. You were not there when the Cristero had arrived; You had been out with the chickens, collecting eggs on the small farm which you help your parents take care of. It’s small—both the ranchero town you live in and the barely on the right end of bankrupt farm where you had grown up—the sort of Jalisco affair where everyone and their grandmother have never even seen another county. Small farm, small town, small life.

If small farm town life is good for one thing though, it’s gossip. You have heard whispers of “El Catorce” all day, everywhere you turn. The fourteen. Named such for the fourteen federales who he’d defeated in Christ’s name when he’d been ambushed. It was all anyone would talk about, to the point that you had almost begged for a subject change while buying ribbons at the local depot. And now, here he is, El Catorce, breaking bread at your table.

You know that your parents support the rebellion, but if anyone had been so kind as to tell you that it was your very own parents harboring the fugitive during the market gossip, you would have laughed in their face. Evidently, this incorrect judgement was a misstep, but you could tell that your parents were praying for him to leave soon. There is a lot that your parents will do in God’s name, but apparently making polite conversation is not one of them.

You consider breaking the silence, but ultimately decide that it is much safer just watching. Watching as Señor Victoriano Ramírez López tears into the bread that you’d baked this morning, each muscle in his forearm visible due to the rolled up sleeves of his dirty linen shirt. He breathes heavily as he chews, sharp jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. Everything about it is so… Animalistic. So feral.

It is clear that your father feels the same way, but you doubt that his own opinion of Catorce is clouded by a stirring of excitement.

“The rumors of your travels precede you, Señor Ramírez.” It is your father who finally breaks the silence. Your mother clutches her pearl rosary below the table as if she doesn’t think that you would possibly notice.

“If you’re hinting at something, it may help to be specific.” Catorce met your father’s gaze, strong and proud. Your mother kept clutching that damned rosary, and you were left as the only sane person at the table wondering what in hell had gotten into the lot of them, God forgive.

“What is the name of your legitimate wife, if I may ask?” Whether or not your father ‘may’ ask the question, he asks it regardless.

Your cheeks burn with heat at the shock of such an uncouth question, but Victoriano seems unphased, leaning forward to tell your father, “Señor, every woman is legitimate.” His new posture leads him closer to you, and you can smell him, his sweat mingling with the grime of the valley. It should disgust you, it would disgust any proper lady, but it only seems to leave you intoxicated and wanting more. It certainly does not help that his eyes flick to you, locking with your own over the flickering candle at the center of the wooden table when he utters the phrase; An admonition of his own sin.

When silence falls back over the table, you are quick to finish your stew and ask to be excused, but even in the comfort of your own room, you cannot stop thinking about him. Victoriano Ramírez López. El Catorce. You should just leave it. The man is a Cristero, a man of God, but even so, you could see it in his eyes. The forbidden desire which you desperately wished you did not share. The right thing to do would be to fall asleep now, and forget about his intrusion into your life beyond anything more than petty market gossip.

But you cannot. You have tried; Both falling asleep and forgetting about him, but neither seem to work very well. When twilight relinquishes its light to the stars of the night and you still find yourself unable to do anything other than twist and turn in bed, you decide that you will see him. After all, you would only be talking to him. Surely it would be better to satiate your curiosity now than to be distracted an entire harvest season by a man who has no right to distract you.

You can’t just go, though. He would think you naive; Eager. So you fold up your blanket, twisted in knots from your turmoil. You’d had no plans for sleep anyways, and you could stop by the closet on your way back for extras if you are truly cold. Maybe he will smell your own scent on it and become just as affected as you were by his. Maybe, when you leave, he will submit to his own iniquity with your scent in his nose and your image in his mind—Your face flushes at the thought. The idea that you would have such an effect on him as he has on you is ludicrous, but you cannot help but find it intoxicating nonetheless.

The walk to the barn is a short one, but it is dark, and the autumn wind chills you to the bone. Autumn may be a festive season, filled with mirth and fertility, but even so near the equator you sometimes wish for the warmth of summer. Of course the opposite is true come July. Still, given the drafty nature of the wooden barn, surely you won’t be spurned for the kindness of an extra blanket.

You don’t bother to knock. There is no need to risk getting caught before you even have the chance to reap your reward. You open the door, not trying particularly hard to hide the creak of the hinges as you enter. Catorce doesn’t announce himself as you climb the steep wooden stairs to the hayloft, but he meets your gaze when you are within sight of where he is sprawled against a bale of hay, cigar in his mouth, sturdy thighs spread, and boots abandoned in the corner of the small loft.

“Señor Ramírez?” You ask, stepping up the remaining steps and kneeling on the floor to avoid the stoop of the low ceiling. You are suddenly aware of your attire, feeling bare in the thin nightdress which you had changed into when your plans for the night had been to actually submit to sleep. “My mother noticed the draft and asked if I would bring you an extra blanket?” You curse yourself for how uncertain you sound, taking a deep breath to calm yourself.

Catorce takes a drawl from his cigar, blowing the smoke out without regard to your proximity. “You know, I used to be a ranchero from around this area. Do you know what allows a ranchero to become a decorated warrior in Mexico’s succeeding rebellion?” When you don’t answer, he continues, gesturing toward you with his cigar. “Ruthlessness, sure. Not many men can say that they’ve killed fourteen in an ambush waged against them, your Padre certainly can’t. But what really elevates your rank and ability is a low tolerance for bullshit.”

You gulp, shifting. If you could, you would bring your knees in towards your chest, but you fear that if you do so you will become much less covered than you are now.

“Now I’m no fool, I know that your parents are no great worshippers of mine, but your own mother told me that she gave me every spare blanket in the house. You aren’t calling your madre a liar, are you?”

You shook your head rapidly. “No, of course not.”

“So what was your plan then, hmm? Give me your only blanket? Are you truly so worried for my comfort that you would go cold tonight?”

You don’t respond. What could you possibly say? He has already caught you in a lie, there is no reason to dig yourself a deeper grave.

“Do you want to know what I think?” When you still remain silent, he prompts, “Say it. Say, ‘General Catorce, please tell me what you think.’”

He waits for you, dark eyes boring into your soul. You know that he holds all the power. If he tells anyone what you have already done tonight, you will be in trouble for ages, cursed to an unending purgatory of confessionals and isolation. So you do what he says. You quietly parrot, “General Catorce, please tell me what you think.”

“I think that you did not come here to make sure that I was warm. I think that you came here to get warm.” He advances on you, snubbing out the cigar which leaves a dark scorch mark on the wooden floor. You can feel his breath on your face when he nears you, your wide eyes looking up at him. You gasp when he pinches your nipple through the thin night dress, the calluses on his fingers providing a delicious and terrible friction; Your nipple was already hard and pebbled, and while you are sure that he is merely emphasizing his point about you needing the blanket more than him, it is all you can do to stifle a moan.

The cristero smirks, eyes fluttering down where your nipple pokes through the thin linen which covers the soft hills of your chest. He is gentler this time as he brushes his fingertips against your breasts, no longer goading, but curious.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” Catorce mumbles, low voice an intoxicating rasp. You can smell the tobacco on his lips, and wonder what they might taste like against yours.

“It’s a sin,” you insist, although the only person you seem to be trying to persuade was yourself.

“We can say our ‘Hail Mary’s’ after.” Catorce cups your breast in his large palm, and breath leaves your lungs in a weak moan as he squeezes you in just the right way, an unknown feeling washing over you. You should resist. Surely that would be the righteous thing to do—but it isn’t what you want. You want him. So when he presses his lips against yours in an anything-but-chaste kiss, there is nothing to do but to kiss him back, pressing your body against his, which is warm and hard in all the right places.

Catorce’s tongue is in your mouth, his hands roving against your body and pushing up the white fabric of your dress, gripping your thighs. You’re both kneeling—the low ceiling unable to accommodate either of your heights—but he eases you backward, legs swept out from under you until you’re near on your back, trying to remain upright. He does not aid you in your goal, instead shoving you down by the shoulders and breaking away from your mouth to trail down your neck.

“Catorce…” you moan as he sucks bruises into your skin. Asking him to stop doesn’t even enter your mind as an option, your body so desperate for more, more, more.

You whine when he lifts his head from your neck. Your eyes act of their own volition, tracking the trail of spit which still connects your body to Catorce’s lips, now pink from use. This is interrupted, though, when he grabs your chin and forces you to look him in the eyes. “General,” he commands, and you wriggle against him, nodding.

“General,” you echo, arching your back against him, wanting nothing more than to get closer, to feel his warmth against you. Catorce tuts, and leans back further, dark eyes gliding across your body as you pout below him. When he finally touches you again, you’re desperate and needy, like a starved man presented with food for the first time in his God-forsaken life. The general moves to spread your legs, but they remain shut in a self-conscious clouded panic.

Catorce’s palm meets your cheek, not in the slap you had been expecting, but in a cradling motion which you lean into. His voice is stern, though, when he says, “Behave.”

You obey, and he spreads your thighs, gripping at the soft skin and flesh. Catorce’s thick fingers prod at your lips, separating them and moving around the warm slick that has accumulated along your folds. When he leans in and inhales, nose pressed against your core, you think you might die and go to hell right then, and you’re not even mad about it. This ridiculous man is so deliciously sinful and carnally sacred.

Your face is hot as Catorce leans back, looking down at your spread thighs—parts of you which no man before him has ever seen—and you’re half tempted to hide in embarrassment and shock when he spits—spits on you, right at your mound. The act is blasphemous, but your hips involuntarily rut up, craving any touch that this man will give you. Any amount of disgrace which this man gives you is a boon to your unclean soul. Catorce is grinning up at you from between your legs and your hands find their way to his greasy locks, your chest heaving beneath your gown.

He pins you down against the wooden floor by the hips and starts lapping and sucking at your core. It is passionate and unrestrained in a way that you have never known, and though you know you shouldn’t, you can’t help but push against Catorce’s hold, doing everything you can to grind against his face and the delightful scratch of his mustache. You are pulling at his hair, hips pushing at his hands, and he slaps you on the thigh to bring you back in line, only causing you to become louder.

“General…” Your back arches against the floor, wooden slats and alfalfa digging into your shoulders.

Catorce breaks away for just a moment, lips glistening with your juices, to say, “You can scream, chiquita. They won’t hear.”

You do scream. You scream his name, you scream every swear that the boys at the market have taught you. “Señor Ramírez, I—I don’t—” An unfamiliar feeling washes over you, like a knot tightening in your stomach. Catorce loosens one of your hands from his hair, linking your fingers as he persists in his ministrations. He carries you up and through the pleasure; You feel like you’re flying, soaring above the clouds, and you don’t have a single coherent thought in your head as you moan and grind against the general’s face.

When he is satisfied that he has pleased you, Catorce removes his tongue from where it had been attached to your clit and leans up to kiss you, tongue dipping into your mouth. You can taste yourself on his lips, and you try to follow when Catorce leans up, but he breaks away.

“You did well,” he placates, sitting further back on his heels.

“I’m not done.” Catorce’s eyes light with surprise when you say this, but are quick to darken again when you sit forward, ignoring the ache in your body as you lean into him and press the flat of your palm against his cock; You can feel it throb, straining against the confines of his dark pants. “I did not think you were one to quit in the middle of something you’ve started, General.”

He chuckles darkly, eyes watching you with some mix of amusement and lust. “You’ve sure got a lot of audacity for someone with no experience.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

He grabs your chin, forcing your mouth open, tongue sticking out. For the second time this night, he spits on you, this time right on your outstretched tongue. “You’re desperate.”

You thickly swallow Catorce’s spit, holding his gaze. “So are you.”

It does not take long before you are back on the floor, frantically pulling at Catorce’s clothing. When he takes your night dress off, you are completely exposed beneath him. He sucks at your breasts as he pushes a finger into your core. The stretch stings, but he is sucking bruises onto your tits, and it isn’t long before you can’t think of anything other than how good it feels; How much more you want, how you will take any drop he’ll give you.

Catorce slides another finger into your wet heat. You gasp, hugging his face to your chest. Whining, you wrap your legs around the general’s hips, drawing him in towards you and fumbling with the clasp of his trousers.

“Be patient,” he commands, even while aiding you with his free hand, his other still pumping in and out at a leisurely pace. He doesn’t shuck his pants all the way off, merely enough to expose himself. He’s big. The ruddy tip and thick veins make your mouth water, even if you are a bit nervous.

“Eyes on me, chiquita,” Catorce prompts, and you comply, bringing your gaze to meet his brown eyes. His hand stills at your core, before slowly sliding out.

“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please,” you beg, your mind a broken record. Your eyes are still on the cristero’s face; He makes sure of it, any time you try to look down, he tilts your chin back up. He seems to take pity on you—your body at his command below him and tears leaking out of your eyes—when he slides the tip of his dick inside you. The stretch is nearly unbearable, your fingers gripping the hay that you laid on as you breathed heavily. Catorce pauses, a hand on your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Keep–keep going.”

He pushes further into you at your request, and it isn’t long before you decide that he isn’t going fast enough and place your hands at his hips, pulling him further into you. Catorce grabs your hands, pinning them to the floor above you.

“You will take what I give you, understand?”

“Yes, General,” you agree, before smirking and continuing, “As long as you plan to give me what I want.”

He rolls his eyes at you, the snarky son of a bitch, and snaps his hips until he is fully and completely pressed into you. Evidently deciding that he’s had enough of your smart mouth, he presses his fingers against your tongue, and you suck on them, moaning against the digits with a furrowed brow. You can taste yourself on them, Catorce’s thick fingers that had been inside you only moments prior.

“So naughty, hermosa,” Catorce teases, speeding up his pace as you fall apart beneath him. “Are you going to show me how naughty you are, hmm? Are you going to come on my dick?”

You nod frantically, your lips still wrapped around his fingers, and when he rubs the thumb of his other hand against your bundle of nerves, letting go of the hands he had been holding in place above you, you feel your body begin to spasm and shake for the second time tonight. All thoughts exit your mind as you grab onto Catorce’s broad shoulders, clutching onto them like a lifeline as he fucks you dumb. All you can feel is pleasure, your head spinning as you come down from your high. Catorce doesn’t stop until you’re whining under him from overstimulation; Then he pulls out of you, using both hands to finish himself off, slowly twisting them along the shaft of his dick as you watch, mesmerized. You can see it in his eyes, in the curl of his lip, that he is about to come. Beads of pearlescent liquid spill over your chest and stomach as Catorce jerks himself to your image with a low grunt.

When he’s finished, he tucks himself back into his trousers and lowers himself beside you in a heavy thunk.

You lay there, naked on the hay and covered in his cum, before asking, “So… Will you be staying for mass tomorrow?”

“You are a very dirty girl chiquita.”

#oscar isaac fanfic #reader insert #oscar isaac x reader #im just using OI tags cause who tf has even seen this movie #oscar isaac smut #I mean I guess I have seen it #But like even I don't follow any catorce tags #Also I love being disrespectful towards christianity

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