#latine reader

[pricesugarwife]

If another alternative universe John Price and I get married, this picture of us would be hanging in the wall of the living room. And maybe I show it to everyone who visited us.

[mikichko]

the idea that nanami has an incredibly sassy daughter has been in my head all day

he makes her upset and she just gives him the biggest side eye. she makes the most disgusted faces when he tried to talk to her. even has the audacity to huff at him 😭 like he had to take a breath mid argument and ask whatever entity exists where his daughter got all this attitude from.

she purposefully starts talking in only spanish to leave him out of conversations too. it’s genuinely the funniest thing hearing her tiny little voice talking to you while nanami lectures her about her behavior in an exasperated voice. she’s legitimately the only one that can get him to this state, besides gojo at his most annoying.

when nanami tries to apologize and asks her if he’s forgiven she only humphs at him and turns away.

“but i apologized to you, are you going to forgive me?””

“no! porque fuiste grosero conmigo!” (no! because you were rude to me!)

the only thing that earns him her affection again is the promise of a melopan after work tomorrow. he even gets a kiss when he says he’ll make sure to get the turtle shaped one

[buttdumplin]

Of course you want to show off the food of your hometown to the boys, but this really should have been a solo date with Kyle. Still, you manage to sneak some time together.

cw: Gaz x reader, fat latine reader, gn!reader, implied poly 141, established relationship, mexican slang word count: 1845

You throw the car into park and glance up at your rearview mirror. The three white boys smushed into the backseat push at each other to try to take a look through the window, grunts and mumbles escaping them. Kyle chuckles from the passenger seat, watching the commotion unfold.

“Are we sure this was a good idea?” you turn to Kyle, “We could have brought it back to the house for them.”

“No saben igual después de tanto tiempo, y tu bien lo sabes, tesoro,” Kyle responds, an impish smile on his face.

With a groan, you close your eyes and throw your head against the headrest. It’s the first time yall are back in your hometown for more than a week, and with all the extra time to yourselves, the plan was to eat as much good food as possible. One of your tías told you about this place, where they serve al pastor straight from the trompo, each slice almost caramelized to a delicious crunch. They’ve got the pineapple sitting on top, too. She said it was the best quality she’s seen in town to date. Even her husband won’t stop talking about it. And now here you all are, parked against the curb with the air on full blast.

Every time you’ve gone to a mom and pop shop like this, it’s been you and Kyle stepping in first. You go in with kindness and chatter, and the older ladies always helplessly swoon over Kyle. Laughter bubbles and you both eat happily, and sometimes the ladies sneak extras onto your plates. It’s a sacred time full of loud smooches, the staff going “UUUUU’ all around you, a deep blush on Kyle’s face as you wipe at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his radiant smile set to make your heart burst. It’s perfect. It’s home.

Once you’ve scoped out a place with your own private date, then you bring your white boys over. At that point, you’ve already tried the place, showered Kyle in kisses, and built rapport with the staff. So by the time they step in, the sun drawing eyes to their paleness, the staff won’t try to upcharge you. It’s a genius pull, honestly, one you’ve done yourself with tremendous success. The white folks always have more than enough money to spare, and since they usually don’t know the prices, well that’s on them. But as you sit here in the car, listening to them point out all the little details of the shop to each other, you can’t help but wish you’d left them at home.

Kyle notices the disappointment on your face as you pick at your fingers. Try as you might to keep your face neutral, your expressions are always so easy for him to read. This is the first time your private outings have been interrupted, all because the shop is just a bit too far from the house for the tacos to travel well and your cousin had to fucking say so. He reaches for your hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss, waiting for you to make eye contact with him. There’s a distinct sadness in his eyes, a bittersweetness that’s never appeared on these outings before.

“Next time?” a little bit of hope cracks through his voice.

“Next time,” you swear, noticeably glum.

A thought freezes you before you can undo your belt. You reach for Kyle’s hand again, silly grin on your face, and turn around towards the other boys.

“How do you ask for the price of something?’ you ask them.

Kyle holds back his laughter at the question, squeezing your fingers with excitement. There’s joy on his face again and that’s all it takes for you to know you made the right call.

¿Cuánto cuesta?” they all say as one.

“No,” you say, your splitting with a grin, and Kyle can’t hold in his laugh. “Sorry boys, you’re staying here. Kyle and I will be right back.”

They don’t have the chance to protest or question before you’re bolting out of the car, coming around to open Kyle’s door and pull him from his seat. He lets out another loud laugh, the crinkles around his eyes sending warmth blooming in your chest. You’re both still giggling, if a little out of breath from sprinting inside, when one of the staff steps up to greet you, an older woman who's clearly enjoying the life you’re bringing into the place.

“Hola, mis niños. ¿Es su primera vez aquí? No me acuerdo haberlos visto antes, y a esas caritas las recordaría.”

“Primera vez. Un primo nos dijo de este lugar. Y nomas al verlo, se ve rebueno,” Kyle says, bringing you in closer as you wrap your arm around his waist.

“Una cita con el novio,” you tell her. It’s hard to keep a smile off your face with your sudden success, and it seems to catch in the staff member as well.

As she goes off to put in your order, Kyle helps you pack up some salsa, holding the small containers for you to scoop the goods into. You’re trying to figure out just how many containers you can fit into your hands, Kyle reminding you that you’ll need more guacamole than any salsa, when she returns with a big bag full of much smaller plastic bags of guacamole for you. Before you can even thank her, she’s handing each of you a plate with two smaller tacos, winking at you.

“Si quieren, pueden esperar ahí,” she points towards the door with her eyebrows, where there’s a couple of swings.

Walking over, you eye them a little nervously, worried about the structural integrity. The last thing you need is for it to give out on you, regardless of how nice it might be to reminisce in the seat.

“They’re welded,” Kyle whispers in your ear, “They’re solid.”

Sweet tears brim your lashes as you pull him down to cover his cheek in quick kisses. You can feel his shoulders shake with quiet mirth as he stays in place, accepting as much love as you’re willing to give him. If it were up to him, he’d never move from the spot, not even if his back starts aching or if hunger pangs strike. He’d stay pressed to you until something or someone forced him away. So for now he takes what he can.

“We should eat these before they get cold,” the false concern in your voice clear as you gently rock in the swing.

“Definitely. Wasting them would be disrespectful,” his voice low, pulling at the chain of your swing to bring you close together.

The first bite has you turning to look at each other with wide eyes, a pleasant shock bouncing between you. Words can’t do it justice. Your tía’s husband hyped these tacos up so much that you were a little worried about being disappointed. Turns out he didn’t talk about them enough. All either of you can do is let out groans as you chow down silently, Kyle’s strong arm keeping your swings connected.

“Hijo de su pinche putisima madre,” you say, gulping for breath around the sheer ecstasy of the food.

“Que chingandos fue eso?” he says, soft eyes searching yours as if you have the answer. They say food is sex, but the closest he’s ever come to feeling like this has been with you. What the fuck did they put in this. He leans back to face the woman behind the counter, “Seño, nos puede dar otras dos órdenes más porfa?”

“Ya te las puse, precioso,” she says, stepping towards him with a bulging bag in her hand, “Sabía que iban a necesitar más. El amor hace que te dé más hambre.” Before either of you can get up, she’s shoving another two little tacos into your hands, pressing a finger to her smiling lips.

You take slower bites this time, smiling at each other with cheeks bulging full of food. Now that you know what you’re in for, you’re going to savor every piece. Swings still connected, you nudge Kyle’s foot with the toe of your shoe, pressing your knee more firmly against his. He looks so at peace, his shoulders slightly scrunched as he carefully brings the food to his mouth, his nose crinkled up with delight at each bite he takes. You have the brief thought that maybe you should take a picture of this moment, but you can’t bear to tear your eyes from him. And when he turns, those big brown eyes locked on you, you’re sure you’ll never blink again.

“¿Que piensas, mi vida?” he caught your stare.

“Que te adoro,” you speak the words into his skin, kissing the arm holding your swings together.

“En aceite?”

“Clarín.”

Kyle quickly scans the room, just enough to make sure no one is looking your way, before bending and planting a tender kiss on your lips. His lips taste faintly of salt and fat, just as yours surely do, and you wish you could deepen the kiss, wanting more of the delectable combination. But he pulls away before you can, hunger for you burning in his eyes.

His voice is rough when he speaks again, tongue peeking out in search of the lingering taste of you, “We should get back to them.”

“When we get home?” your voice so breathless you barely recognize it as your own.

Kyle nods and stands, holding the bag of food in front of him, trying to discreetly adjust his pants. You’re both giggling again as he reaches for you, gently helping you up from the swing. Smiles are still stuck in place when you reach the car, slipping into your seats without saying another word.

You pause for a moment, waiting for some kind of commentary from the backseat. Now that you’re back in the car, you can look over and see that the swings are in clear sight of the car. A glance up at the rearview mirror shows you three grinning faces, each one more knowing than the next. They could dog you, tease you, joke about the scene they surely saw. But they don’t. Instead, Simon’s tummy breaks the silence, a loud rumble echoing through the car.

The entire car bursts into peals of laughter, the racket interrupted only long enough to deal out plates and servings. Kyle was right about the guacamole, as the boys pour entire little baggies of it on their tacos. Can’t blame them, honestly. That shit is creamy. And then a corus of moans breaks out in the backseat, first bites hitting hard enough to make the most stoic of them break into delight. You look over at Klye, find him already looking at you, and you both nod enthusiastically, biting into your food.

“We’re coming back,” he says, and then lower, “Just us next time.”

“Fuck yeah we are, that was set in stone the moment the woman greeted us. Gotta show off my boyfriend again,” you wink at him.

[ghoulishfrk]

PAIRING — WARNINGS — WORD COUNT!

〘 Romantic Hobie x Miles Older Sister , Platonic Spiderverse cast x Miles Older Sister | Slight spoilers | ~ .7K words 〙

MASTERLIST !! PINNED POST 🎧💿

ੈ ✮ ˳ Lulus Notes :: Repost, set after ASTV

✩°｡ Tagging :: @punkologist , @neptunes1nterweb , @honeybleed

Miles older sister who takes care of him. She’s the one who knows when something is up and is the one always giving advice.

Miles older sister who had a hunch something was up with her lil brother but wasn’t sure what exactly until she caught him red handed. Him still on his suit in his room.

Miles older sister who had to take a minute to process that her little brother was fucking Spider-Man and understood why he didn’t tell her or their parents.

Miles older sister who becomes his girl behind the screen. She tells him whenever a villain is causing chaos and calls the cops to get the villain he apprehended.

Miles older sister who gets her brother out of suspicion and trouble with their parents, always having a convincing excuse.

“Mija, have you seen miles?”

“Oh, he went to the store to buy more ice cream cones since he ate mine.”

Miles older sister who never leaves her brother suffer by himself. Always hearing out whatever is bothering her brother and giving advice only an older sister could.

Miles older sister who gets caught up on the whole multiverse stuff by her little brother and learns of all the other spidermen her brother considers his friends.

Miles older sister who meets Peter B. Parker and Mayday and is immediately in love with her. She always counts on him to take care of Miles and is ok with babysitting Mayday.

Miles Older Sister who, when she meets Miguel, is not the friendliest. She’s not over how he treated her little brother and doesn’t hide it. She later on goes easier on him since she sees how he’s genuinely sorry and embarrassed by how he reacted.

Miles older sister who is a bit doubtful of Jess. She didn’t think someone who was a mother would’ve acted like she did towards a kid. She learns to trust her later on.

Miles older sister who meets the other spider kids closer to Miles age and immediately approves of them. She’s even willing to make sure they don’t get in trouble with their families.

Miles older sister who becomes an older sister to Pavitr, Gwen, and Peni. She listens to them and gives them advice like she does with Miles. She’d go insane if anything or anyone hurt her kids.

Miles older sister who meets Gwen and immediately likes her. She gives her advice on wooing her brother and getting the approval of their parents.

“Miles loves drawing so you can never go wrong with giving him stuff like drawing books and markers. Oh, and you should call our parents by our last name. Mom hates when kids call her Rio.”

“Wait, seriously? Why didn’t Miles tell me?”

“Cuz he was probably too whipped to tell you lmao”

Miles older sister who, when she meets Hobie, clicks with him in a different way than when she meet the others.

Miles older sister who gets flirted by Hobie and responds with flirting back, only to get caught by Miles and seeing his hilarious reaction.

“Seriously? My sister?!”

“Aye, calm down Peter Pan.”

“C’mon man! Why it gotta be my sister?”

“Miles relájate nene.”

“What do you mean relax?! If i hadn’t come in you probably would’ve been eating each others faces!”

“PFFT-“

Miles older sister who sneaks in Hobie through her window, having to shush him so her parents don’t hear them and have her father storming in.

Miles older sister who gets caught by Rio one day, with her and Hobie having been sitting on her bed talking about random things.

Miles older sister who has to introduce Hobie to her parents. Rio and Jeff are apprehensive at first, Hobies punk appearance not being what they expected for their daughters boyfriend.

Miles older sister who’s glad Hobie gets along with her mom and tries to be civil with her father and tries not to get into politics or fights with them.

“So, Hobie, what do you do for a living?”

“Kick fascists ass and play in my band.”

Just Miles having a nice and caring older sister <3

© all rights are reserved to @gyal-bunny. Do not steal, modify, copy, and/or repost my works anywhere.

[greatdecaygreatrenewal]

need….more shigaraki x latinx! reader content.…

[itsfairly]

yo hold on, i forgot Latine Heritage Month ended yesterday 🧍‍♀️ like i had a couple of fics here and there but maybe next time I'll plan something.

anyways, if you didn't catch them it's this one about Nanami and you dancing to a Latine playlist and this drabble about pan dulce and Nanami.

happy Latine Heritage Month y'all!

[twice-in-a-blue-moon]

when solomon has sex with you for the first time, he makes sure to absolutely worship your body. during the first kiss scene with him, he said he's been waiting for a chance to do it. so with this, he's going to make sure his patience will pay off. not an inch of your skin will be unloved by him. it may have taken so long, but the end result will be perfect as the two of you are satisfied, love growing by the second

(Ooh, thank you for the food, anon!! Solomon's first kiss scene will forever have my heart) Reader is GN! :)

Minors DNI!

"Why don't you come just a little closer?"

You shift a little closer until there's no space between you two on the bed, and his lips are back on yours. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, softly rubbing his thumb along to solidify in his mind that you are here and that this is happening.

Somehow, miraculously, he finally got you alone...and you want him too.

Though he fears he'll get too eager and move too fast for your liking, leading to crossing a boundary or scaring you away. So, he's careful, treating you as if you were glass, slow to do anything more than kiss you like this. Truthfully, he could just do this all night and he'd still be over the moon. But he can't deny in his heart the need for more.

His hand on your jaw slowly slides down your neck, simply letting his fingertips brush against the sensitive skin. It's warm, and he can feel your pulse thrumming just beneath. He wonders how it would feel against his lips.

Solomon reluctantly pulls away from your lips, leaning down to instead kiss along the column of your neck. It elicits a soft gasp, and he feels giddy that he can get such a cute response from you. It only serves him to want to hear more. A secondary motive.

With each article of clothing he removes from your body, he falls deeper in love as he sees his person bared completely to him. It signifies the trust you've built together. And he'll do everything to never lose it - a promise he quietly makes to himself.

From your neck, he lavishes kisses along your collarbones, down both of your arms, your shallowly rising and falling chest, your soft stomach, all the way down to your naval. Any further is iffy territory and he wants explicit permission before he does anything more.

Through a husky tone, he asks, "is this okay? Can I continue?"

Your approval and reassurance are resounding. The weight of worry eases a little, but he's still tentative to continue. He wants you to feel good. He wants this first time with you to be perfect. He can't help it, he's an ancient sorcerer in love for the first time in a very long time...if ever.

So, slowly, he ventures onward to where he sees the obvious impact he's had on you tonight. His talented silver tongue makes you squirm on the bed, your hands tangling in his soft locks as his name tumbles out of your mouth like a prayer. The taste of your sweet arousal is something he fears he could get addicted to.

Solomon can feel his own arousal growing past anything he's ever experienced before. He didn't know he had the capacity to feel so needy for someone else. Good lord, just what are you doing to him?

Once he feels he's prepped and pleasured you enough with his tongue and dexterous fingers, he pulls away to finally undress and bare himself to you. His eyes shift away nervously as he feels you studying his body now. He knows his skin is marred from centuries of living; the countless pact marks, scars he doesn't remember the stories of, and burns from experiments gone wrong. He's never felt self-conscious like this before, but it's another product of what you do to him.

When you sit up on the bed, crawling to him to brush your fingers along his skin, it takes his breath away. You aren't afraid to explore him. Tracing his pact marks, kissing his imperfections, never once showing disgust like he might've thought.

No, only care.

Solomon gently chases you back down onto the bed, crawling over your excited form with smiles and giggles exchanged in the otherwise quiet room. Once again, he gets your staunch permission before continuing. And once again, you reassure him that this is what you want. Any lingering doubt subsides, and with that, he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly slides in, letting you adjust once he's fully settled within you.

"D-Deus meus..."

His forehead rests against yours as his breathing turns ragged, reveling in how goddamn good you feel around him. It takes all of him to be patient, but he waits for your signal, and once he has it, he doesn't hesitate to start moving.

His hips snap against yours in deep, measured thrusts. Passionate kisses are shared, soft moans and grunts fill your ears, and his hands never once stop exploring your body. The love he gave it earlier wasn't nearly enough.

There's no rush. It's not frantic - it's not even desperate. It's slow and intimate as he guarantees you both feel good in this one moment of solitude.

Solomon isn't even thinking about afterwards or what those brothers might say. He's fully entranced by you. He makes love to you as if it's the last time he ever will.

Soon he brings you both to a mind-shattering orgasm. His body shudders above yours as he buries his face in your neck. The way you clench around him makes him consider asking for a second round. Though, he wants to take a break more - to love and care for you as needed. As carefully as he can, he pulls out, already missing being enveloped by you and your sweet body. The second his fatigued self hits the bed, you instantly cuddle up to him, locking him in place for the foreseeable future.

To say he's a little shocked is an understatement. Sure, you both just shared a moment of passion and pleasure, but there was still some part of him that wondered if you really wanted him. For you to take the initiative to cuddle up to him in the afterglow touches his heart. Solomon wraps his arms around you, humming at the shared warmth between your sweaty bodies and shielding you from the world outside of this room.

Tonight you're his. And he knows he'll always be yours.

[anis-sketches]

Capre Noctem

  ⋆⁺₊ ✧ ⋆ I´ve returned to life, Eternity begins tonight ·*･｡ ☆

Cryptid Sightings aswell as The Lost Episode belong to @naffeclipse

heres the other version

happy october everyone

happy birthday cryptid sightings

[satoruhour]

If you don’t mind (tho ofc you don’t have to write it if you don’t wish to), could we get a pt 2 of that priest geto fic? Where him and reader have been secretly fucking every damn where but especially in the church ever since that night, they both realise they have a thing for breeding kink so they don’t bother with protection either. Obv they have to hide what they’re doing and reader secretly gets away from her house at night to get dicked down frequently. and he knocks her up so they ultimately run away together ( or somewhere along those lines it’s totally up to you)

We missed you!! So good to have you back :D

DOMINE DIRIGE NOS !

wc: 7.8k (when will the horrors stop) / first part here ✶

warnings: DARK CONTENT, LORE, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), christian references, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, brief mention of abortion, described scenes of f! and m! masturbation, face-sitting, fingering, clit stimulation, both f! and m! receiving oral, praise, mild degradation, sex in a religious place, semi-public sex (blowjob while geto is conducting mass oop), deep-throating, lots of unprotected p -> v sex, LOTS of creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, abandoning home, n*sfw under the cut

“father geto?” you curl deeper into geto’s back in the rectory, the uncomfortable mattress below you just reminding you of your upbringing in this suffocating town and the proximity of everyone. since that night, the two of you have been insatiable, using the House of the Lord for anything holy and instead are filled with violent moans and constant skin-slapping. even to you, the Church has started to look darker and darker, painted with the sin of Pandæmonium’s pillars, each time you enter it.

mass is all about locking eyes with the other, a game to see who falls first. sometimes you’d come in the shortest dress you can find, staring up at him from the second pew from under your eyelashes just like how you’d suck his cock. sometimes father geto would have his hair tied up, revealing his neck and jawline — the priest had not much to experiment with, but it took equal effect on you, anyway. clenched thighs, stuttered words, fluttering eyes.

father geto fortunately finds it easier to evade parishioners after doing his morning greetings to everyone; with another older priest who didn’t request the rectory, he could hide away to stroke at his cock all he wanted while the other took over the later masses. you, however, needed to reject the holy pastor ever so often to stop your mother from thinking vile of your absence.

it still was father geto, though, so whenever you mentioned his name after morning mass, she lit up like a switchboard, happily ushering you away to spend time because it was always encouraged to improve your faith.

— improving your faith in a non-existing god, perhaps.

“you don’t have to call me father when we’re alone, baby,” geto reassured, accommodating you when you turned around to meet him halfway.

“yeah?” you whisper, like someone could hear you. it was taboo, shameful even. the neighbourhood good girl with a deadbeat father coalescing with the newly transferred priest — it was the blasphemous, sent to be burnt at the pyre sort of sin. the rectory felt odd, your house felt odd; there was no place for people like the two of you, driven by lust and forbidden love and sin in the eyes of God, but what could people do when sin just felt so right?

you relish in the father’s gasp when you grind your butt against his crotch which are concealed behind his trousers, biting your lip with a smile when you catch his small grin at your mischief. you continue your ministrations, rolling your hips and bringing his hands to your chest. your clothing has become shorter and shorter ever since you convinced him of your little sin back in the confessional booth of skimpy tops and skirts. geto takes over, fingers slipping under your camisole to pull down your bra, fondling with your tits and playing with your nipples.

“sneaky little baby, hm?”

“s-suguru—” you whine, hips bucking and cunt already clenching. “need your cock, tongue, anything—”

“i’m getting there, doll, wait for me,” he pants, hurriedly unzipping his trousers. his erection is pulsing and throbbing by now, letting out a small sigh of relief when he finally pulls down his underwear, but you’re confused when you’re turned around and before you can reach to sit yourself on him—

“sit on my face first, darling,” he slyly smiles, beckoning you forward. here, father geto suguru looks anything like a pastor and if you close your eyes and listen, the repetitive tweets of the morning mass birds sound a little sweeter and the rushing water of the stream nearby remind you of a countryside house far away from your parents, your faith, your life. but forbidden has a time limit without the luxury of listening in, so you only settle for a pout when you hear the slick noises of him pumping his cock.

“you did say tongue,” he grins, “i don’t disobey scripture.”

“i’m not the Bible, suguru,” you jest with a small smile.

“you are scripture to me — anything you say and do, i’ll follow.”

and that’s the first time it’s truly cemented in you how much father geto was truly willing to throw away, but you hardly have any time to react before he easily settles one leg over and pulls you toward his mouth. it’s so violent, the way he loves you that there’s a small hmph that sounds from his throat when your sweet, wet pussy meets his mouth. after, it’s just endless groans as he laps at your clit while you fill the rectory with your sinful moans, grinding your hips into his mouth over and over while he just hums in agreement.

“that— that’s it, useme, useme—” it comes out slurred and slippery, just like your dripping cunt and his leaking cock, wet sounds that surround the both of you as geto’s tongue continue to assault your sensitive clit. he licks and sucks endlessly that you have no choice but to grab onto his hair for support and he does to same to both your thighs.

“father suguru—! hnfuck . .” you whimper out, looking down at him with hooded eyes while he meets you with the same intensity. below you are just streams and streams of your juices flooding his chin and hair; he just ever so lightly dips his tongue down to your needy cunt, plunging it in and your back arches involuntarily, “o-oh, god!”

geto laughs into your pussy, arm still clutching your thigh but the other goes back to his neglected dick, pumping it in time with his tongue as he swirls it around and you just clutch tighter and tighter. you definitely soaked through the sheets by now, but you follow his command, riding his face over and over until you feel that familiar feeling in your stomach.

“su— suguru, i’m g’nna . .” you moan out quietly, but your priest already knows what’s in store for him, abandoning his own ministrations entirely to please you as he pulls you all the way up to his face, positively cutting off his air supply in the process but he doesn’t care. he only suckles on your clit harder and with more pressure before switching to licking, abusing your puffy clit until you’re speechless and all that comes out of you are ah’s. “cumming, cumming— fuuckk . . !”

“cum on my tongue,” suguru manages to get out in between breaths, “give me all y’r cum, darling.”

those words are enough to send you over the edge, hitting your high with a soundless whine as your hips roll into his face and relentless torture, body continuing to convulse in his hold at the climax. if, before your continued praises sung God, now they were just full of father geto’s name, enunciated through the lips like a passionate blessing before mealtime. suguru, suguru, suguru, even Lucifer was ready to make ready his throne for the both of you.

“shit— sweet as always . .” father geto moans, slurping up all of your cum and making a mess, so much so that you’re giggling shyly at the lewd noises. you rest upon his heaving chest, noting wet patches that stain his black shirt — he came as well. “you treat me so good, don’t you, doll?”

your face twists, “i think i should be the one to say that, father geto.”

“don’t—”

“i like it. rolls off the tongue nicely,” you smirk, easily scooting downwards before settling your pulsing cunt onto his softening cock. but he knows you can get him up at any instance, just as you start grinding your clit along his shaft. the pleasure-filled moan he sounds out never gets old, echoed at the front of the Church of not, “father geto.”

all he shoots you is an unimpressed look, but he can’t keep his look up because the sight of you always inspires a thousand sermons and questions of morality.

“i like the dangerous aspect of it, father geto,” you reason with a sultry voice, grabbing his hardening dick and teasing his weeping tip along your folds. the both of you shiver. “it reminds me of how a holy man like you so easily fell for some pussy and got addicted to it.”

“pretty slut’s developing a dirty mouth,” he laughs, “carry on.”

“fucked a clueless, innocent girl in such a holy place,” you whined when his tip nudges past your pussy and into your gummy walls, spreading you open so deliciously.

“need my help?” you shake your head defiantly, sinking down slowly with calculated steps, gasps escaping your mouth as his cock continues to impale you inch by inch.

“and then claimed her right at the apse of the Church. on the altar, where bread is b-broken and wine is shared.” your eyebrows have knitted together from the pure stretch, descending down fully where you sit a little uncomfortably. no matter how many times you take him, he’s still big and full in you, needing a few moments to adjust as you wiggle your hips.

“can man prevent himself from chasing after his darkest desires?” father geto asks, bumping up his hips just a little and he grins at the little whine you let out.

“no, but God can,” you reason and yet you know you wouldn’t want anything to have changed between the two of you. you still would have wanted father geto’s downfall, you still would have wanted to see him stroking his cock behind the velvet curtains of the confession box.

you momentarily lock eyes with geto, drunk off the feeling of his length in you and the friction of your clit against his pelvis that you naturally gravitate towards him, feeling tired from all the grinding from earlier. he coos, receiving you without any judgement just like how a good priest should do and you feel most at home in his hug.

“what if my God is my darkest desire?” you barely make the connection before geto starts to thrust up into you, not too harshly but not too gently, either. you limp forward and just let him do the work, praising and worshipping you with every snap of his hips from below you.

“o-oh, baby, you’re so tight . .” suguru mumbles, littering kisses all over your neck and face while you struggle to keep yourself up, held up by your weak elbows as you try to meet his eyes. it’s the purple eyes you want to see as he fucks you dumb on his cock, full of lust and only on you as you drop all of your walls for him to enter. suguru tries his best, too, treating you as gently as he can out of the bedroom, which frankly isn’t much, but he tries. he brushes away your hair when it gets into your tongue during communion, he massages your knees in the rectory, he brings chocolate cake whenever he can.

he tries in the bedroom, too, but you are just too much for him. too much in the way that the devil’s whispers start to sound more and more like O Emmanuel and too much in the way he can feel the swell of his heart when even your name is mentioned. father geto doesn’t want to name it love, because in his position it will simply come off as manipulation, deceit.

father geto needs to know you are willing, too.

“father g-geto,” you whine, hands upon his face and sweat lining your brow, “faster, p-please—”

he chokes out a moan, “o-of course, sweetheart.”

you just feel so damn good, clenching so tightly around him that he cannot stop rutting his pelvis into you. he can feel the ripple of your ass with each thrust, the snugly fit tip hitting your g-spot ever so often to pull out the most beautiful moans from you. you’re both so wet and sloppy that you both can hear it — the squelching of your cunt paired with the pre-cum of his cock, mixing at your connected bodies in noisy pap! pap! pap!’s.

“s-suguruuu . . pleasepleaseplease.”

“whaddaya want, baby? words,” geto slurs as well, hips never stilling but now grinding in circles. his glutes and thighs burn but he won’t stop until you tell him what you want.

“i w-want your cum, inside me,” you mewl out like it’s a secret, like he hasn’t been cumming inside you for the past multiple times that you meet, “w-want you to breed me.”

suguru chuckles like it’s a dangerous bet, like he hasn’t emptied his balls deep in your pussy before, “you’re still on the pills, right, baby?”

ah . . the pills, that’s what you wanted to ask him to get more of at the beginning.

you nod hurriedly, “yes— i am, f-fuck—!”

“oh . . my darling’s close,” father geto grunts out, angling his hips so his cock reaches deeper in you, arms trapping you in an eternal embrace like Eve and the devil’s Serpent. you give him lazy, intoxicated kisses, sucking at the skin until there’s bound to be purple and he does the same to yours, albeit lighter.

“y . . yeah, i’m yours, suguru,” you whimper softly, voice breaking from the sheer pleasure once your hand sneaks in between to rub softly at your clit. you suck in a breath when both his cock and your hand find that sweet spot, moans suddenly overflowing into his neck with repeated “yes”’s and profanities until you cum with a cry of suguru’s name, juices spraying everywhere. it’s messy and filthy, your cum soaking his balls and staining the sheets.

“that’s it, thaaat’s it . . squirt all over my cock, baby,” geto continues to ram into your pussy as he praises, hips faltering in the slightest bit, “that’s a good girl.” it only makes you clamp down on his cock harder, making him hiss.

“i w-won’t last long, sweetheart—” he warns you but it’s not enough before he’s stilling in you, pupils blown wide as he shoots spurt upon spurt of hot cum into your cunt, filling you up to the brim as his cock twitches in you. you shiver at the feeling, breathing heavily in his arms as he continues to pump you full. slowly you recover but he stays plugged in, heading back to your position on elbows.

“she’s satisfied?”

you grin with a sigh, “very.”

“that’s all i ever want.” father geto smiles, gently bringing your head down for a gentle kiss on your lips. it turns heated soon enough, the gesture prompting your hips to move again on his very sensitive dick. but with the distant clack of shoe upon cobblestone that increases in volume, the both of you freeze.

“father geto?” it’s a boy’s voice, possibly one of the altar boys.

“what is it?”

the boy seemed to be relieved, as if stepping near the rectory was a sin in itself, “father nanami unfortunately can’t lead the night mass at eight tonight, will you be available?”

you shoot him a disappointed frown, but it is still his job after all. all he manages is a forehead peck.

“a-ah, yes, i am,” father geto thinks if it’s worth asking the next questions, “how many people usually show up to the night mass?”

“not too many, father geto, but it serves mostly the truckers and people in our town who have night shifts.”

you nod since you’ve never attended the night mass at all. father geto has conducted it; it was right on that fateful night where you had texted him about an unnamed confession.

“thank you, go in peace . .” geto shouts his reply and then looks at you with a small smile, speaking softly, “i have an idea.”

it’s only the afternoon when you make it back to your house for lunch before heading back out again like you planned with suguru earlier, following him from a safe distance until you’re out of earshot and sight of the congregation, even if no one was there. he kisses you gently in the sacristy, body pressed up against decades old of wooden cabinets and drawers. you have no idea what your priest has up his sleeve, so your eyes blindly follow his figure that brings out a toolbox proudly, taking out a hammer.

“don’t even know why the sacristy has a toolbox.”

“. . you’re insane,” your mouth drops open when he gives a hint of homily and sermon that you connect the dots, following him a little worried to the apse. there, stands the podium where he gives his readings and sermons, hands going straight for the board that’s nailed shut. turning the hammer around, using the claw at the back of it to remove the nails that hold it down, removing the nails of the lectern one by one with muscles bulking under his robes before it’s revealed.

“looks . .” he whistles lowly at the pristine condition of the wooden podium, “. . i forgot they gifted me a new podium when i transferred.”

“new priest privileges.” you nudge him in the side.

“i’m probably going to get transferred out soon, too,” he jokes with an arm around your waist, and in a perfect world, this would be the two of you looking at your newly built home in those terrible films. instead, you’re here, faced with temptation and sin.

“are you gonna be okay? we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to—” you cut him off with a hand to his crotch, sparing a glance towards the double doors. the church was small, yes, but there was still a good amount of people that attended it, even if the night mass garnered less.

“i’ll be okay, suguru. i’m wet just thinkin’ about it,” the other only hums at your revelation, bending down with you as you slot yourself into the dark place, pockets of light fighting to get in from the amateur job of the podium, “you better go prepare.”

“you’re a gem.” with a soft kiss to your forehead, father geto leaves just as the first parishioner shows up for mass: a whopping 43 minutes before the start of mass. you’re not surprised by the faith in this town, sometimes coming in to complete a rosary, do some extra prayers or partake in confession — but you realise you’re going to have to stay in this lectern for 43 minutes and more before he starts his homily. it’s a perfect fit, but trying not to rattle the box while adjusting yourself seemed to be the most difficult thing.

he had no helpers tonight, no altar boys, such a prime time to commit such a foul act in the eyes of God while he finishes up on the Gospel and you feel your fingertips tingling when he walks from the altar to the podium, dress shoes clicking against the wood of the floor of the rickety Church.

thank god the alb is huge and so is the podium, and thank god there aren’t any pews at the sides of the church. you know he spares some glances, too, so after a few moments of silence to reflect on the words of the Gospel, you’re lifting the alb right to where his boner was. you palm the area in wonder, at the clear sin of the act that you’re currently committing and this is all new to you apart from fucking when the place is empty.

“so big . .” it’s like he hears your whispers, cock twitching under your hold when you slowly remove it from his trousers, slotting his hardening dick through the boxers and zip hole without bringing too much attention. you trail your thumb over his tip that’s leaking pre, a difficult thing to see in such a dark place but you know it’s there when you kitten lick the mushroom tip.

you can hear a falter in his sermon, a stutter of words. leaning forward, you awkwardly switch onto your knees before wrapping your mouth around his length and it’s more clear now when you’re closer to the source of sound.

“. . ory of G-God, excuse me,” geto coughs as if he’s got something stuck in his throat, pulling at his chasuble that feels like choking him at the neck. your mouth continues its teasing, holding onto his thighs as you continue to suck on his fat cock. even now, you struggle to take it all in your mouth, pumping at the bottom while you bob your head. you can only pray that the broadcasted words of the sound system can cover up the obscene noises that your mouth makes.

“mmhh . . j—just, sorry,” the less-than-thirty church-goers don’t pay any mind when his hand snakes down from the top of the lectern toward you, offering his fingers and it’s like salvation after being stuck in there for God knows how long. you grasp at the hand, using your hand to stroke his shaft while you suck on his fingers. in a moment of bravery, you stick your head out as the other wills not to look down, but with a calculated glance to everyone that’s either asleep or zoning out, father geto rewards himself with one gaze while you switch from fingers to his cock.

“oh . .” he restricts himself before any pet name can escape, seeing your pliant mouth take all of him just like that first night but someone coughs and it snaps him out of the daydream, hand going back up.

“we should prioritise the Lord at every part of our day,” geto breathes heavily when he feels you deepthroat him, hands dripping the sides of the podium that you were sure the cheap wood would splinter under his grip. you focus on getting him in your mouth when he steps closer to you and you let out a small sound of surprise; he takes that small break to quickly bun up his hair, all wet from the sweat on his neck.

“mmf—!” there’s a small relief that leaves your priest’s mouth at having his tip hit the back of your throat, muttering a lot of uhm’s and repeated words. he wants to cum, and he wants to cum quick from how his hips thrust into your warm mouth, wanting to do away with conducting mass and to just be in your pliant pussy.

“. . a-and to make sure all our actions honour the Lord our Saviour,” his hips continue to move, continually buried up to the hilt in your mouth over and over as he fucks your mouth. you receive it willingly, hands taking action to play with his balls and that has his thighs tensing up. “and while you continue to live your life in praise—”

“f-fuck,” it’s whispered away from the microphone but you hear it, length twitching in response to your hands before you come off with to breathe. both hands stroke his cock while you suckle on the tip, driving him into insanity that he’s struggling to finish his sermon.

“you’ll be given the greatest graces in Heaven,” father geto shoots his cum down your throat and it’s so much, muscles pulled taut as he continues to buck his hips needily. you can feel him slump forward and out of breath while you continue to milk him and his words start to slur just a tad bit and while you clean him of his semen, you giggle to yourself under the podium as he gathers himself for another look down at you.

the final blow is how you stick out your tongue to show him the cum that’s left, a grin spreading that he just has to give you his hand again as you hold it gently, “—together in eternal life with God Almighty and Christ.”

“i hope i wasn’t too obvious on the lectern two weeks ago,” father geto laughs into your neck at your place, seemingly so long ago where he decided to step into your room and questioned your thesis on Paradise Lost. it felt like it was just last week he was bringing cake to your place, sitting in on dinner, walking with you around the town. now you sit in his lap in the living room of your house, unassuming because of the five day vacation that your parents decided to take. your mother stayed with your father for what, you never could figure out, but with the baby dropped off at the family across the street (your mother knew you’d be busy with university work) and them out to the next town, you did what every university student would do.

you sneaked priest geto in on sunday night, letting him take you on every surface he knew you’d spread your legs for him on, and now sat, freshly showered and the television turned down to a low, you could only hope this was what a life of matrimony could look like. all the dreams and fancy stories your mother tells you, you think you could twist this sick relationship and forbiddenness into something normal for at least five days if you convince yourself enough.

“you were stuttering on every sentence,” you mumble into his hair that starts to smell more and more like yours, arms encircled around his neck while he sits in a mere singlet. “you like my mouth too much.”

“ego te adoramus.” father geto hums quietly, pulling away from the embrace as he looks up at you and he sighs. if only he had found you sooner before starting his theology degree, before he could hear God’s call for him into priesthood. he would be happy being your childhood friend, anything.

“do you ever wish you weren’t a priest?”

geto swallows, brushing away the strands from your face and adjusts you on his lap, “sometimes.”

“my parents were open with my choice, as they always are, but they valued how much i liked to explore and try new things. they only said that i should choose this path carefully because they knew time is something that no one can get back,” he explains, hands stroking your sides carefully and you let yourself dream that you were just a normal couple, “some friends were weird about it, telling me i would miss having sex and whatnot, but i still value my relationship with God and the many things i’ve learned from my journey in the seminary.”

“but?”

“i didn’t expect to . . meet someone like you so soon,” suguru laughs when you shout a small hey!, feigning annoyance, “someone so bright, and loving and kind. someone that embodies what Jesus and the Church stands for, and something i’ve never seen in ages. unconditional compassion.”

“your praise is too heavy,” you swat away his hand, only attributing your disposition to your mother’s exemplary way of raising you, “is simple kindness that hard to see?”

“you shadow a lot of priests in conducting masses, baptising people, giving first communions, and you see a lot of personalities — some that are vile for people that regularly go to Church. it’s disheartening to see Christians who are clearly wrapped up in their privilege and pride and think they’re the most important religion to exist. you hear it in history books, through word of mouth.” geto looks just like a boy, frustrated with the world that he lives in that a scowl settles into his features and his hands ball fabric into tight fists.

you manage to relax him a little, running your thumbs over his face and hands; he twines his fingers with yours. “i thought that if i went in, i could at least try to reshape the community. bit by bit, open their minds about abortion, about the queer community, but it is proving hard when the first church you’re transferred to is a small town.” that gets a giggle out of you.

“you’re not wrong, suguru, for trying your hardest. it’s so admirable. i’m trying to unlearn things about the Church that my mom has taught me too, and it’s all interesting reads alongside my second year of uni. if you can change one mind, there’s the potential to change many others.”

geto lets you rest your forehead on his, closing his eyes to just feel you, “thank you.”

he’s not even sure when to tell you that he’s fallen in love, the hardest he’s ever done since in high school with his first love, or in university studying theology, and he’s not even sure it’s love. all he knows is that when he looks at you, a life until silver hair is all he can think about.

“you can do it,” you break the ice softly, placing a peck on his lips, “i believe in you.”

“i don’t think they would wanna believe a sex-crazed priest, darling, not when i wanna give you the life you deserve.”

you sigh, hiding your face, “i don’t think we can achieve that, suguru, not while you’re still married to the Church and i’m supposed to be celibate.”

“that’s out the window—” and he laughs when you slap him on the bicep, finding that you’d want him to laugh more. he does it sometimes when he gives sermons, recounting a specific story about his mother, or while baptising a baby. it’s pure like a young boy’s laughter, something to be protected, the way his eyes crinkle and lips stretch . .

“what if i break priesthood for you?”

what?

“no . .” you brows furrow, “don’t say stuff like that.”

“why not, my love?” you continue to shake your head, standing from your place on his lap and he’s confused — wouldn’t you want this?

“don’t call me that—” your safe space, your room is the only place all you can think in, and you escape to it before he can catch a thread of your clothing. father geto calling you that means he’s officially fallen, chained to the river Styx. the descent was fun, but you didn’t want to be the reason why he’d truly throw away all of his hard work, you didn’t want him to be shamed, nor did you want to be called out for being a temptress. self-serving while serving others — maybe that’s how Christians operated and you were the walking proof of it.

geto thinks he’s messed up big time and unsure of the reason why as he lets you stay in your room to cool down. he only sends out a text simply to check on you, but it takes you an hour before you’re ready; once he hears the click of your door, he’s heading up the stairs and pushing open the door gently.

just like that first night, he’s cautious when he enters your room as if touching your sacred place will have him reciting rosaries as penance, as an apology for staining your heart and your body. you stand.

“i don’t want you to leave everything behind just for me . .” you sound out, sniffling softly and the priest’s heart already shatters at the sound, “all your hard work, the years you did in the seminary and then just dumping it all just for a chance with a woman who you don’t even know whether will be suitable as your lover.”

geto’s expression softens in the dark room, only illuminated by fluorescent light from your bedside table lamp — “i won’t leave anything behind; all those years, all the studies, all of it mattered because somehow it still led me to you. if that isn’t God’s doing, i don’t know what else it was. my definition of Christianity has been entirely reimagined, entirely changed when i look at you, a person filled with nothing but pure lovingness and soft-heartedness and yet i still feel proud when you said you wished harm on your father because i know that Christ didn’t ask men to gouge their eyes out for nothing.”

he grabs your hands, stroking the back of your palms and stepping close to you as much as you will let him. suguru plants feather-like kisses onto skin before continuing, “i will always carry my Christianity with me, the shame, its history and if i fall, so be it. Lucifer had fallen many times after, crouching by Eve’s ear to whisper sin, turning into a serpent to give her the forbidden fruit, sentenced to rule Hell because he himself is Hell.”

“and are you dragging me down with you?”

“i have been dragged to the darkest pits of Hell from the moment i saw you, and if anything, while i worship God, i cannot ignore the olive branch that you hold out to me like a saving grace, like you ascend the same pedestal that the Trinity sits on.”

you swallow, eyes breaking contact and he’s quick to rectify that, both palms on your cheeks and your face is tilted upwards.

“our God will always be there for repentance if you wish so, but allow me to indulge in the blasphemy and filthiness and sacrilege of craving someone so desperately that my body burns from thinking about her and my knees want to strike the Earth whenever she’s around me.”

the sentence takes you aback before he’s leaning forward, but abruptly stops short— it’s rushed, can i kiss you?

“yes. yes, suguru—”

and he kisses you with the force of a thousand suns and the most detrimental winds of the pacific, arms going from your face right to your body as he wraps you in his love. geto deepens the kiss just as he always has, but the feelings that spark in you differ greatly from just mindless kissing during sex. it’s full of passion, full of possibly everything he’s kept bottled up as he walks you to your bed, yelping in surprise when the back of your knees hit the mattress.

“do you still have your pills, my love?”

your fingers bunch up the same sweater he wears on the first day, “i . . ran out . . a while ago.”

“i’m surprised those pills work even after i cum so much in you,” that really draws a hearty laugh from your stomach, “but whatever happens, i’ll be here.”

“the feeling’s just too good—” you giggle, squealing when father geto lifts you off the floor and puts you on the bed.

“if you test positive, and if you want to keep it or abort it, i’m okay,” geto hovers over you, looking at you with so much love you wonder how you miss it the many times you’ve been together, “i’ll support you in everything that you do.”

a peak of silver shines in the moonlight under his sweater and you realise this feels like the first time you lost control over your lust, the first time you touched yourself. like heeding a call, his crucifix falls from the safety of his sweater and almost hits you in the face if not for suguru pulling away in worry.

“was it just like this?” he teases with a small smirk, knees already nudging your legs apart, “you imagined me fucking you with this dangling in your face?” your face heats up at the mention, at the fact he still manages to remember that confession and you nod whilst biting your lip. 

“well, you get to live it now,” geto grins, leaning down to plant a kiss to your lips before having his way with you.

and have his way did he — you aren’t even sure what round you’re on at the moment, simply subjected to getting you face smushed into your pillow as he pounds into you from behind. geto grunts as he eases his cum-filled cock back into your sweet cunt, hands travelling everywhere over your sweaty back.

“are you okay, baby?”

you turn your head with arms still buried in the pillow, a cock drunk smile on your face, “splendid.”

“goin’ in— shiit . .” geto sinks into you easily, your mixed juices proving easy before getting himself right up to the hilt. his mouth hangs open in pleasure, pants leaving both your lips before he starts to thrust and the wetness is just straight-up obscene. with a wordless tug, father geto brings you close to him, wrapping an elbow around your neck while the other settles for your tummy, feeling the muscle that curls around you. he doesn’t trap you so tightly, simply holding your limp body up as his pelvis rams into you.

“your pussy’s just so good, darling,” he mutters into your neck as your head tilts back in ecstasy while your body trembles in geto’s hold.

“s’full, suguru . .” you whine, hands flailing for his toned arms that encircle your body while he thrusts, cum spilling from where you were connected onto your sheets. it was a blessing your parents were out because father geto doesn’t hold back with the way he fucks you, voice carrying throughout the house and permeating the walls that you hoped the neighbours wouldn’t hear.

going for multiple rounds meant the two of you were highly sensitive, jolting when his hand sneakily drew circles along your clit and matched his pace, while his length in you kept twitching and pulsing from the way your gummy walls wrap around him. “s-suguru — i need you, p-please—”

“i’m here, sweetheart,” geto chokes out, hand wrapping around the expense of your neck and turning your face, indulging himself in a sinful kiss that you return immediately. tongue and saliva is everywhere, hands and hips never slowing down when it comes to you and your sweet pussy. “i’m here, always, amie.”

“i’m gonna c— fuck— shit,” you tighten around his cock at the name, moaning into his mouth like a mantra, like a mystery that cannot be solved as he cums with a guttural groan into you and you shiver from the feeling of him filling you that you forget all about your own pleasure, body shaking with mini orgasms instead. “lay forward . .”

it’s softly spoken, and you obey, eyes fluttering close when he pulls out slowly and geto’s fixated on the drip of his cum that falls from your pussy. flipping you over instantly, he smears your juices together and all over your centre, smiling at how your legs close in on each other at the sensitivity. his tip’s filled with your cum, a messy painting of your repeated rounds.

“you’re the most stunning right here,” he breathes out as he rests on his calves, cock still hard. his hand trembles as he strokes himself, moaning softly at the warmth that he misses already and he’s brought to attention again when you whimper softly. you’re fingers play lazily with your folds, finger rubbing circles into your clit and all he can think about is pumping you full of his cum again when you look at him from under your eyelashes, with a subtle pout and the plea of the eye.

“fuck me again, father geto,” you mumble, “fuck me until i’m full of your cum.”

the priest only grunts lowly at that, trailing his angry tip along your pussy and collecting your juices before slipping in. the both of you gasp at the sensation, more of you when his hands close around your knees and push. he’s forcing your legs right up to your chest the same time he enters you, sending you deeper into desperation that you writhe on the bed.

“ohh . . tha’s a perfect pussy right there . .” suguru slurs, body pushed against your bent legs as his cross swings back and forth like an omen, like a crow watching your movements, “will you be mine, my darling?”

your voice comes out in high-pitched whines at his question, so intimate, so loving in such a dirty space. you can only manage nods when he starts to move, this new position allowing him to reach much, much deeper into you that you preen at the overwhelming feelings that bubble in your chest.

“yesyesyes! r-right there, suguru—” your back arches off your childhood bed, where you first prayed, where you first read the Bible, where you did your homework, where you first fingered yourself, all overthrown by the sheer blasphemy that geto suguru wished to indulge in, and you give it to him just like that, “f-fuck! love your cock in me, father!”

“o-oh . . you’re playing a dangerous game, c-calling me that, baby,” his eyes also struggle to stay open, committing your pleasure-filled face to memory as your jaw slacks and your eyes roll back. he can see your tits move with his rough thrusts as well, licking his lips while feeling you fuck him back, “are you close?”

“mhmm—” you’re humming, mumbling incoherent sentences at this point as your mind fogs at the neck-deep euphoria you were in. with the room that’s filled with sex to the nasty, sloppy noises of his balls hitting your ass, and soaking wetness that can be heard from a mile away, the both of you are lost to the claws of Hell. geto knows you’re close with the way your cunt tightens and your breathing escalates, using his thumb to rub at your clit and now you truly feel like you’re going insane.

“c-close . . haah—” your eyes try to stay open to look at the sight above you: messy-haired and body lined with sweat, the beautiful entity of abstinence and temptation all in one person. you fumble with his shoulders, wanting to pull him closer so you can admire him up close while he drives you to your high. the moment of vulnerability only spurs geto on, drawing out the brutal, carnal need he has for you.

“is that it? you wanted this?” he grunts out through gritted teeth, “you wanted me to fuck your pussy until it knows the shape of my cock?” the words muttered sends goosebumps throughout your body. you nod, “you wanted me to defile this pretty pussy so no one else can fuck you, isn’t that right?”

you whimper at the words as he pushes your legs further into your chest, “cum on my cock, darling.”

and you do. generous with it, you’re gushing all over his length as he continues fucking you through your overstimulation, thumb slowing its ministrations on your puffy clit as he chases his own climax. “taking my cock so well, so good like the good slut she is,” the other says through a small grin, hips stuttering when you give him a small yeah in return.

“another load for you, baby,” father geto groans out loudly before he switches to quick, fast thrusts into your warm, welcoming pussy before cumming with a whine, shooting thick ribbons of white deep into your womb. your moans are swallowed by geto as he continues to fill you to the brim, painting your insides and enjoying your slow, needy kisses.

“she’s had her fill,” you mumble softly, feeling sleepy while the other only hums in agreement. slowly, geto lets your legs down which only plop down on the bed, unsheathing himself from you and relishing in the way the cum dribbles out, glob after glob of cum leaving your pussy and onto the sheets, “are you okay, suguru?” he takes your shaky hand, interlocking your fingers with his as he scoots up to you, closer until he’s just over you.

“always better with you here.” you roll your eyes, tugging on the crucifix and pulling him into you where your lips collide, feeling him collapse by your side even as your mouths continue their movements. all you do is smother each other with hands, one through his sweaty locks and his grabbing your waist. you want to live through the feeling of his front against yours for eternity, deepening the kiss with your tongue and moaning softly when his fingers squeeze your ass secretly.

“you just stay here and i’ll clean you up,” with one last peck to your temple, father geto navigates your house like he lives there, getting a rag and wetting it before he cleans you up gently, fabric travelling along your skin like a kiss of hellfire as he massages your legs, your arms. there’s a multitude of things before the two of you succumb to slumber, going to the toilet, grabbing something to eat and then wallowing in some late night conversations (“do you think you find me in other universes?” / “i’ll find you in every one.”) until finally, you two settle in each other’s arms.

it’s like a still painting that would be studied by future literature students, scrutinised by art critics all over the world of a sacrilegious relationship that should not have place for love, that should not have place for purity, but the feeling of geto suguru’s arms from behind wound tightly and protectively around your physique feels like both the good and bad of the secular world. love and lust can coexist.

just as father geto worships, your luggage is quickly packed up a few weeks later alongside a pregnancy test that looks awfully reminiscent of the cross in the church. picture frames emptied, laptop and papers packed, a barren land of what used to be the place of a God-serving, holy girl — and even if knowledge caused her downfall, she was more than willing to own up to it. the room looked larger and drab with everything gone; you aren’t even sure how you fit everything into the luggage.

the fallen angels watch over your encounters with crinkles of the paper of your farewell letter, the squeaky floorboards, and the atmosphere of the night sounding like vacuum from its sheer silence as you snuck out of the house and into the stark night, hands clasped within each other’s while gravel below your feet reminded you of your situation. you weren’t sure if you were walking to salvation or away from it, but at least you knew Eden was by your side, with the lavender scent of your shared shampoo on both your heads and his saccharine words.

after walking for what felt like forever to avoid detection, geto waves excitedly to a car in the distance which seemed to house two men — one blonde that looks awfully like father nanami and the other, a white-haired man.

“i called up some friends,” suguru brings your connected hands to his lips and his tired eyes soften even further, pressing soft pecks along your fingers and face. your priest catches you in a sensual kiss, humming into it and mumbling sweet nothings that sound just like Lucifer in Eve’s ear, but you’re too enamoured with the sparks you leave on one another to notice the commencement of your coronation at Pandæmonium.

“we’ll be okay, amie. ego te amo ut dum stellae luceant.”

“Rise, then, to the thrones of Moloch and Paimon, of Belial and Beelzebub, of the infamous angel who challenged his Creator and clawed his way from the Stygian pool to Pandæmonium made of demon blood and soot-filled fingertips. Rise to Lucifer, and take your rightful place on the throne overflowing with hate and vice and villainy, and rule Hell just as how he would’ve wanted it.”

a/n: another insane piece .. pls dont look / tagging @mysugu @slttygeto @screampied @suguruplsr @na-t0 @peachsayshi

[drewwifee]

An edit of Drew fucking Starkey with a ROMEO SANTOS song?! Give me a thousand of this 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

⭒@strkeywife on Tiktok! (It's not mine)

[pricesugarwife]

price would go crazy if his latina wife called him papi 👀👀👀

Oh, sweet! It’s soooo hot. I thought about this. You should search in tiktok “you too, papi” and imagine that scene.

John remember all too well when you called “papi” for first time. You are so shy and beautiful, even if you have the most hot and nasty sex but you need a lot of confidence and time for called “papi”. It was not the way to imagine, because in that moment you riding his fat cock and John bites yours red lips.

“Said it. Said again, my love. You are mine”

“Oh, papi, si soy tuya, tuya…”

The faster lunge don’t stopped when the words came to him, but something in his eyes changed, the animal hungry for you exploded and… well, he couldn't let you get out of bed until the next morning.

Since that occasion, you call John “papi” every time.

[pricesugarwife]

Háganse un favor y lean este fanfic de mi hermosa. 😭☝🏼♥️

Oh, Cali. Probablemente derrame un montón de comentarios sobre tu fanfic Gunslinger por acá y es que ME TIENE GRITANDO.

Me encanta la simbología religiosa, en especial cuando citas uno de mis libros favoritos: Cantares, y también cuando John le confiesa a Caronte que NO FUERON LOS JODIDOS COYOTES.

😭😭💋💋💋♥️♥️♥️ ERES INCREÍBLE

Jajaja si!!! No coyotes; sólo el verdadero monstruo: John Price 😈😈 No puedo expresarte lo feliz que estoy de saber que te encanta este fic. 🩷🩷🩷

[buttdumplin]

A John Price meet-the-fam special!! This is pure, indulgent fluff.

cw: gn!reader, latine reader word count: 1.2k

When Price first meets your family, it goes over smoother than fucking water over a polished worry stone. It just is. You thought it might go like that, knowing that he’d do practically anything to make himself fit in as seamlessly as possible. But you also knew that bringing home a white guy always comes with a very specific brand of first interactions.

You prep him for the teasing that’s to come, about his accent, about his complexion, about the food he eats. John takes it all in very seriously, nodding along and asking probing questions. It’s all for your benefit, and he’s incredibly mindful of that. You don’t necessarily need to know he’s already got a plan of action, though.

By the time you arrive at the family home, you’re a little stiff, braced for the barrage of probing questions that’s to come. You can tell the family is curious, you see the tías eyeing up and down. But there’s no interrogation this time. Because John beats them to it. He’s polite and answers all the niceties as respectfully as he can. And then he immediately launches into offering up information, as cryptic as it may be. He dons that dimpled smile of his and tells them what he can.

“I’ve been at this job for a while now, but I’m retiring soon. It’s actually my personal life that I'm more invested in improving now.” 

“I’m hoping to buy a home in the very near future. Maybe like this one, a big family place. I’ve been tucking away money for it for a while now.”

“I’ve had to spend a lot of time away, but I’m really looking forward to staying home with this one.”

The tías are swooning when he makes intense eye contact with you across the table as he speaks. He’s not hiding any kind of intentions, from you or them. None of the information is particularly new to you, but hearing him say it out loud? In front of all the people important to you? It’s one thing when it’s quietly discussed in the early hours of the morning. It’s another thing entirely to hear it all said in such a permanent way.

At one point, your godmother, as entrometida as she always is, mentions she’s willing to go shopping with him if he’s ever in need of a ring, says she’s always had a good eye for your style.

“Oh, no. Se lo agradezco, pero ya no va a ser necesario,” he replies with an even bigger smile, and it’s got the women hollering. They’d take a bite out of him if they could. John carries himself with the firm confidence of knowing who he is, and they can see that. They respect it.

The tías, predictably, also do everything they can to keep you two physically apart. You’re put on comal duty, keeping you in the deep corner of the kitchen where he can’t reach you. John himself doesn’t try to reach for you, wanting to spare you the godforsaken “chiflando y aplaudiendo” even at your big age. So he keeps busy by setting the table, asking only where he can find the cups and tableware. They all ooh and aah.

“Ven? Ni se le tuvo que pedir,” they shout at the tíos, pointing at John’s busy hands.

A few questions do pop up once dinner is set. Do you eat this kind of food? Have you had this before? Do you like it? Tíos razz him into adding more and more salsa on his food, and John, knowing full well how it all ends, goes along with it. He’s managed to build up some tolerance that he’s quite proud of, but there is no way that’s saving him. He knows what he’s in for. A single bite and his face turns so red it’s almost purple, his coughing making it hard for him to get water down. The tíos laugh and he’s smiling along with them, the tías rushing to get more water and napkins and a cup of milk because “I heard this helps white people?” You swap his plate out for a new one while they’re all caught up with John, taking a few bites of food to try to match it to the dish he had before. 

A bubble of softness blooms in the room. The tías are cooing over him, consoling him after his “brave attempt.” The tíos take turns patting his back, smiling down proudly at him for having met their challenge. He smiles back at you from across the table, knowing full well what you’ve done to his food, spotting a few more veggies than he’s originally served himself. The tablecloth is long, surely they won’t spot him gently nudging your foot with his own. 

When your godfather invites him out onto the porch for a smoke, John knows it’s his time to shine. He asks you to stay inside with a wink. He brought those Cuban cigars with him for a reason, he’s sure he’ll make it through. You hold him at the door for a second longer, just enough to give him a tender kiss before sending him along. Neither of you missed the way your godfather so clearly recognizes the way John moves, his own military past helping read further into the man you’ve brought home. You know there’s a good chance of this not going perfectly. 

Ignoring the calls from your tías, you crawl to sit below the window that lets out right behind them. They both let out soft grunts as they settle into their chairs, a long hum of appreciation from your godfather clearly signaling John has opened the cigar box for him. It’s silent for a while. The only sounds come from the lighter and their soft exhalations. Then a soft rustling begins. It’s not the trees, it’s too muted for that. It’s not gravel, they aren’t going anywhere and they certainly didn’t make their getting-up grunts. No, it’s their clothes. Because they’ve come up with hand signs on the spot, across languages, so you can’t listen in. 

There’s some chuckling, surely that’s a good sign! But the low sigh coming shortly after isn’t very encouraging. You try to make sense of it somehow, but there’s no distinct rhythm to it. And suddenly you’re twelve again and trying to sneak a peek. You may not need a stool to help you, you’re tall enough to see through the window on your tiptoes. Maybe if you do it slowly, they won’t notice. So slowly it goes, your knees creaking as you inch up. Their rustling continues; good, they haven’t noticed. Yet as stealthy as you try to be, they’re both looking directly at you as you finally get eyes on them. Their smiles all too knowing. You godfather winks at you, clicking his tongue fondly. He holds a hand up before you can say anything, groaning a little as he rises. He takes a beat to look down at John. You’re all frozen for a moment. And then your godfather’s hand comes down firmly on John’s shoulder, giving him a sturdy shake. 

“Me meto antes de que la vieja huela todo este humo,” he says. It’s done. No disaster, just acceptance.

When you turn back to John, he’s already got a mad grin on his face, “See? This old white boy’s still got some moves.”

AN: I am buckled the fuck in for all this latine reader content, so yall will be seeing a whole lot more of it. Thank you again to @mikichko!!! For your support and encouragement, and your incredibly generous feedback. I'm doing this to feed us both.

Let me know if yall wanna see anything with latine reader in particular!!

[gravedigginbbydoll]

Me thinking about Eddie’s very white Midwest raised ass loving a Latine person and being sooooo confused at some of the cultural norms like

“Babe, why do we wash the dishes in the sink before we put them in the dishwasher? It works fine-“

“Honey? Can you tell me why you’re touching HOT FOOD with your BARE HANDS?!”

“Uh… why did we reuse this container for sauce??”

“Babe I love you and I know you’re just trying to help, but putting Vicks on my feet and socks over it sounds like a textural nightmare…”

“…remind me again why the cookie tin needs to have sewing supplies in it?”

“Are you sure we need all these grocery bags? And why do we put them in another grocery bag, that seems a little… okay okay! I won’t question it.”

“Babe, are you sure we shouldn’t leave now? I thought the party was at 8? It’s like 10 pm!”

And more

lol

[si1verghosts]

Hi!

3. A kiss on the forehead😌

helloooo dear anon!! i am sorry this took so long i could not for the life of me figure out to write but then ! i wrote this on the 4th and i realized it could work... maybe... sorta. this may not be what you were expecting/wanting but there's forehead kisses in there.... somewhere 🫡 also, if u are not american i apologize for giving you a july 4th fic 😭 but the holiday is relatively inconsequential here like theres no patriotism it's just a backdrop if u know what i mean.... anyway, i hope u enjoy <33

you taste like the 4th of july

di leon s. kennedy x fem reader (no use of y/n)

wc: 3.5k

18+ | cw: mentions of drinking | tw: thoughts about death and dying

tags: established relationship; fluff (i guess??); slight changes to canon to suit author's headcanons

read on ao3

a/n: for the past few months i've been working on this very insane multi-chap post di leon fic 😵‍💫 this was written with that in mind But does not have a place in that story... probably.... idk!!! either way, i think it can be read as a standalone just fine

additionally, there is a scene in here where leon picks the reader up. i would just like to say like... he gets thrown into concrete walls on a biweekly basis and gets up and walks it off without issue so i think he can lift anyone no matter their size or shape!!

not beta read or proofread - sorry if any of it is gibberish i've had a wicked migraine the past few days... will maybe attempt to proofread once i can see correctly again 🚬🧍‍♀️regardless, all mistakes are my own

i do not own leon or any other resi character mentioned, etc etc, please don't sue me <3

please do not use my work to train any sort of AI chatbot and/or writing generator.

-----

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" Leon asks, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stand over the patio table, cleaning up the abandoned plates and platters.

You hum. It was; a beautiful, cloudless July 4th, spent with Leon's friends in the backyard of your home. The only ones missing were Ashley and Ingrid; the former having a standing family commitment and the latter planning to spend her holiday on the beach, away from the country and your fiancé.

Typically, Chris hosted the Independence Day cookout, but Leon offered up your new home as this year's venue, citing your in-ground pool and the plenty of extra space you have for guests to stay. In reality, he just wanted the chance to out-grill Chris - he'd been preparing since Memorial Day; testing different spice and sauce combinations as well as stocking your freezer full of large cuts of meat.

He'd started before you were even awake, chopping and seasoning in the kitchen, slowly loading up the smoker. You'd joined him on the patio a few hours later, watching from your pool floaty as he poked and prodded at various things.

You don't even eat meat, didn't know the whole thing was so involved, but you did enjoy the view; worn blue jeans hugging his frame as he crouched to check a thermometer.

You had taken a short break from the water, tying up lights and setting a few little decorations around before your guests arrived. Rebecca was the first, tucking her jugs of pre-made cocktail and platter of deviled eggs into your fridge before joining you on the patio.

Chris wasn't far behind, unloading two coolers filled with beer and containers of homemade potato and pasta salads. He'd handed one off to you, grinning, "Claire made one just for you this year."

You'd thanked him, making another attempt to get him to share his family's recipes with you. It was futile, you probably couldn't even waterboard it out of either of them.

Claire had arrived on her motorcycle shortly after, pulling a bundle of fireworks out of her saddlebags. "Sorry I'm late," she said - even though she wasn't - dumping the pile on the ground, thankfully far away from the grill. "Had to stop for these."

Leon had crouched down to inspect them, listening intently as Claire told him about all the different varieties she'd purchased while you relaxed back into the pool.

Sherry arrived next, Jake trailing behind her. She'd left both him and her bags of chips at the table, giving Leon and Claire quick hugs before immediately joining you in the water.

She'd slipped in right beside your floaty, grabbing your hand to get a look at your engagement ring - she'd yet to see it, having been so busy with work. Her eyes widened at the ring as she pushed her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, "Leon picked this out? Our Leon? Leon Kennedy? Are you sure?"

You'd giggled at her astonishment, "Ashley helped him out; took him to one of her favorite jewelers."

"I should've guessed," She nods. "For my 20th Birthday, he bought me this crazy cute pink tennis bracelet and I was like, 'no way you picked this out alone.' He fessed up that he got a little help from a friend named Ashley.

"At the time, I thought it was just some girlfriend - or hoped, I guess. Back then, I spent a lot of time hoping that Claire and Leon weren't just… working; I liked to think they were taking time for themselves, that they were happy," she had trailed off then, looking off to the tree line behind your house for a minute. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she shrugged, continuing on, "Anyways, I'm thankful to Ash for that bracelet, it was there with me though… a lot. And I'm thankful to you for making him happy, like I always wanted him to be."

With that, you slid off the float to give her a hug, holding her tight as you whispered your thanks. You had worked to bite back your tears - if she didn't cry, neither would you.

Luckily, Jill had walked in a few seconds later, providing a distraction in the form of the most ridiculously large watermelon. "Hey, Kennedy," she shouted, pulling Leon out of his conversation with Claire as she gestured to the melon tucked under her arm. "Can't burn this, can I?"

Leon had thrown his head back with a laugh - in previous years, Jill had always brought boxed brownies with extra crispy edges and Leon invariably had to make a comment about them. "I don't know," he had shrugged, "When it comes to you, Valentine, I'll never say never."

Jill had reared the watermelon back, acting as if she was going to throw it at him. Leon had thrown his arms up, shielding his face, causing everyone to crumble into laughter at the scene.

"It was nice," you agree, reaching to pick up the barong machete he had given Jill when she asked for a knife to cut the melon. "We do have kitchen knives, you know," you scold mockingly, gently waving the blade around.

"I know," he says, releasing you to reach around and pluck the machete out of your hand. "It's good to exercise these every once in a while, though."

You roll your eyes at him, "It's a machete, Leon, not a horse."

He waves you off, slipping through the patio door to wash the blade in the kitchen sink. You take the opportunity to speed clean, knowing it'll be a much harder task once he returns and wraps his arms back around you.

Thankfully everyone had taken care of their own plates and cups - they'd tried to stay and do more but you had ushered them out of the backyard, wanting Chris, Sherry and Jake to depart before the traffic picked up with the crowds leaving the city following the fireworks shows. Jill, Claire and Rebecca had taken up on your offer to stay, at least, piling into your guest rooms. You were glad to have them, secretly plotting to drag them to brunch once you all woke.

You finish piling the platters as Leon makes his way back outside. Before he can get his hands on you and derail your progress, you point to the stack, "Take those inside."

He frowns, "Can't it just wait until tomorrow?"

"We'll get ants; come on, five minutes and it'll be done."

He sighs, but doesn't protest further, carrying the heavy plates inside as you follow him with the utensils. You stack everything by the sink before turning to him, "Is there any of Becca's cocktail left?"

He cocks his brow, tilting his head, "You really want to try that again?"

It's a valid question - you had given it a go earlier and despite everyone's warnings to take it easy, you had thrown back a large mouthful right off the bat. You ended up wincing in pain, "Fuck, that burns. What'd you put in there, Becca?"

She'd shrugged, "Oh, you know, a splash of this, a splash of that. And," she teased, drawing out the vowel, "A bit of my own creation."

"Your own creation…" You had muttered, trailing off before it hit you, "Test tube alcohol?"

She had giggled, grinning, "Takes some getting used to."

You had tried another, much tinier sip. You were able to enjoy the sweetness of the juice for a moment before the burn kicked in again, causing you to curse once more, louder.

Leon had shifted his attention from Chris to you at your exclamation. Seeing the jug of Rebecca's cocktail in front of you on the table, he quickly pieced together what was happening, calling over to Rebecca from his place by the grill, "You trying to kill my fiancé, Becks?"

"Absolutely not; that'd be a stupid thing for me to do," she'd shot back. "She's the only one who can keep you in line, and we kind of like you like that."

"Well," you start, rolling the word around your mouth, "No. But yes - there's gotta be some sort of trick to it, right? Everyone else drank it just fine."

"The trick is," he starts, voice low, reaching out to grab ahold of your hips, "To not drink it. Let me make you some tea instead."

"Fine," you pout, relaxing into his grip, not bothering to argue - tea won't make you hate yourself in the morning.

He moves his hands from your hips, sliding his fingertips along your spine. "Go wait outside," he says, releasing you with a featherlight kiss to your forehead, "I'll bring it out."

With a brush of your lips against his cheek in thanks, you slip away from him, heading back out to the backyard and pulling off your shorts, settling onto the ledge of the shallow end of the pool. The air has cooled with the setting of the sun, becoming a comforting warmth instead of an overbearing heat. You dip your legs into the water, thankful you insisted on having a pool when you and Leon were house hunting.

Someone is still setting off fireworks; they're a few miles away, though - you can hear them more than you can see them. Resting back on your palms, you close your eyes, imagining what bursts of color may be accompanying each sound.

Leon joins you a few minutes later - just after the fireworks had died down - sporting his swim shorts and carrying your tea. He bends, setting the mug next to you with a kiss to your temple, nosing at your hair. "Earl Grey," he reports before drawling, "How terribly unpatriotic of you."

"You going to arrest me for treason, Agent Kennedy?" You laugh, reaching up to squeeze his thigh below the hem of his shorts. "You're the one who made it; they'd nail you as an accomplice."

He falls into a crouch, leg muscles bunching under the pads of your fingertips as he shifts closer to touch his lips on your cheek. "They can hang us together, then," he remarks, voice a bit too serious for it to be just a joke. "Side by side, off the same branch."

You sit back just enough to get your eyes focused on him, reaching your other hand out to thumb at his bottom lip. "Dulce et decorum est pro cor mori," you whisper, tacking on a hum in question.

He cocks his head at the unfamiliar words, nipping at your nail playfully, "English please, baby."

You consider him for a moment, the translation of the true phrase running through your mind; how sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country. The old lie, it's come to be known as - fittingly.

It's a similar sentiment to one that's grown to become your fear; that he'll die for the sake of the country, under orders from the government, believing it was his duty.

But you think your spin on it may be true; would be willing to find out.

You don't want to weigh him down with the thought, though, choosing to reel him in for a kiss instead. "I love you," is the answer you settle on, laying the words down right on his tongue.

He seems content with your translation - the method of delivery likely having something to do with it - humming into your mouth. He kisses you back lazily for a long, languid moment before he pulls away, "As much as I'm enjoying this, I've been wanting to get in there all day," he says, nodding his head towards the water.

"Go," you chuckle, giving him a gentle push away from you with the hand still resting along his face.

He lays another quick peck against your lips before standing, padding around the edge to the steps. He pauses for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, skin honeyed under the soft glow of the lights you'd hung around the patio.

A second later, he slips under the surface without hesitation; kicking off the steps, moving quickly to the deep end. He almost shimmers as he glides along the floor of the pool, the rippling of the gentle waves he'd created making him seem like some sort of mirage as he passes by you.

He comes up for air once he hits the far wall, tossing his hair back, smoothing the water from his eyes. He doesn't rest long, though, beginning to swim short laps across the width of the deep end.

You observe him, sipping your tea slowly, appreciating the way his back and arms work with each stroke. He continues long enough for you to nearly drain your cup, stopping short when another trio of fireworks set off in the distance.

Setting your mug down, you eye him, preparing to slip into the pool to soothe him if you have to, but he relaxes once he connects the sound to the flashes in the sky. The tension that had flooded the line of his shoulders drains into the water as he shifts to wade backward, moving closer to where you sit.

You finish off your drink as he starfishes out across the surface of the water, floating just a few feet in front of you. You wonder if you could use him as a floaty, pinning up a note in your brain to try it out sometime.

"I'm glad you insisted on a pool, sweetheart," he sighs, breaking your companionable silence.

You hum, pleased, kicking your legs out gently and causing the water to lap against his skin. More fireworks sound out; he doesn't tense this time, but he does get his feet back under himself, moving to where you sit along the ledge.

Sliding his hands up your legs, he pillows his head in your lap, wet hair fanning out across your thighs. You shift your weight back onto your right hand, laying the other along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as you brush your thumb along his cheekbone and the scar that runs beneath it.

He picks at the tie of your bathing suit absentmindedly, tugging at the strings when you slide your hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp. "Sherry said something to me earlier."

He makes a noise urging you to elaborate, not bothering to open his eyes.

"She told me that when she was younger, she hoped that you and Claire were living your lives; that you were doing more than just working, you know? She said she wanted you guys to be happy," you explain, working to keep your voice even.

He cracks his eyes open, picking his head up to watch you as you continue. "She thanked me," you swallow thickly, "for making you happy, like she always wanted you to be."

He smiles at your words, and it's a beautiful thing. You still get all twisted up inside with how gorgeous he is; neurons overclocking themselves with the thrill of being the subject of his attention.

"I owe you a thank you, too, baby," he starts, pausing to nose at your wrist.

"You don't owe me anything, Leon," you tug at his damp strands still between your fingers, highlights catching the yellow glow from the lights around the patio.

"I do," he says, the words sending a jolt through you. You never intended on getting married, yet here you are now, eager to hear the phrase on the altar.

He kisses the thin skin of your wrist, lips lingering as if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat; knows that the pace has picked up under his affection. "All this," he pulls back, taking a hand off you to gesture to the pool; the backyard; the house; to you. "It's something I never thought I'd get.

"Sherry's right - you're behind basically every bit of happiness I have now, sweetheart; I owe it all to you." He reaches up, untangling your grip from his hair, thumbing gently at the ring he put there, "Thank you."

You can't respond verbally, will burst into tears if you do. In lieu of speech, you lean forward, pressing your lips against his insistently.

He seems to get the message; understands that the pleasure is all yours, that you'd give him anything and everything you can - knowing he'd do the same for you.

He gets his arms back around you, continuing your kiss as he lifts you from the edge of the pool and into the water with him. You wrap your legs around his waist, safe and secure in his hold.

His teeth catch along your bottom lip and the neighbors down the street set off fireworks, the bright bursts of color painting your backyard in reds and blues and greens and oranges. The sparks reflect off the surface of the water as he slides his nose against yours and not for the first time, you think this may all be a dream. Maybe you died four years ago and this whole thing has been some sort of afterlife; you aren't sure you'd done anything worth this treatment, though.

Maybe it's more supernatural in origin; an intricate hallucination weaved by a Djinn that's got you chained up in some dark, damp basement as it feeds off your blood. Or maybe you just went crazy and the pool is actually a padded room, Leon's mouth against yours a product of your mind working to distract itself from your reality.

Whatever the case may be, it certainly feels real when he shifts his hold on you, hoists you up higher to get at your neck, laying kisses up and down the column of your throat, nipping at your jaw.

But before he can venture much further, the neighbor's fireworks show grows into an extravaganza, the relentless popping and bursting becoming a nuisance, shattering the illusion of your teeny-boppy movie moment.

"Jeez," Leon mutters, breath hot against the saliva cooling on your skin, causing you to shudder. "Did they buy out a whole tent?"

"Did you check that Claire actually went to bed?" You ask, shaking yourself free of his hold. "She could've joined them; brought everything I wouldn't let her set off here."

He hums, letting you down into the water, considering your words - even though you said it as a joke, it certainly is a possibility. You seem to come to this realization at the same time, eyes narrowing at each other as the spray of fireworks continues overhead. "We should…" He starts, nodding towards the stairs.

"Yeah," you agree, already beginning to move.

You pause to grab your towels, wrapping your own around yourself, throwing the other over Leon's shoulders when you catch up to him at the patio door. Stepping inside, you hear someone knocking around your kitchen.

Luckily, it's Claire. She steps back from the cabinet she'd been rifling through to face you and Leon with a frown. "Isn't this shit ridiculous?" She remarks, pointing to the ceiling in reference to the fireworks.

"You're one to talk, Claire," Leon shoots back. "Didn't you just set off about five hundred dollars worth of them in my backyard a few hours ago?"

"Yes, a few hours ago," she reiterates. "Nothing should be set off after the show at the Capitol is finished - after that, you're done; you missed your shot; better luck next year."

"Exactly," you nod in agreement at her reasoning, "They should put you in charge."

She grins at your words, moving to continue on, but Leon cuts in before she can start; "What is it that you were clawing through my cabinets for?"

She sighs, displeased with his interruption, setting her hands on her hips. "Where do you keep the ibuprofen?"

Leon shoos her out of the way, padding across the kitchen to get the medicine himself. Claire relents without argument, attention immediately shifting back to you as she leans over the counter. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows, "It seems like that pool was a good investment, huh?"

You bite at your lip, ears burning with embarrassment that she'd seen you and Leon necking in the water like teenagers - even though you shouldn't be flustered; it is your house, after all.

Leon sets the bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water down in front of Claire, annoyance evident with the way he uses a bit more force than really necessary, causing the items to clack against the marble.

"What?" Claire questions, glaring at him. "It was cute."

Leon huffs in response, unable to hide the flush that crawls up his neck at her words. You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you, enjoying the way they bicker like siblings.

Claire leaves Leon to stew, tossing you a grin as she collects the bottle and glass, bidding you goodnight once more before she leaves the kitchen.

You move around the counter to Leon, steps careful in an effort not to slip on the water that has dripped off him and onto the tile. The neighbors must've ran out of fireworks while you were distracted by Claire as it's silent when you wrap your arms around him, tucking your face into his neck. "Still a good day?" You ask, voice muffled against his skin.

He slings an arm around you, fingers fanning out along the small of your back, "Still a good day."

[dollsghost]

something about simon calling reader 'mama' in fics (usually when they have a baby together) makes my eyes cross and my brain short-circuit. one of the first cod drabbles i ever read was simon going 'that's it, mama' while in missionary and it permanently altered my brain chemistry i will never be the same again???