carried currents | Rodolfo Parra x Reader
He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.
⇾warnings: light, soft smut. worship. religious imagery in connection to sex. just pure Rudy bliss, y'all. ⇾notes: a very slight continuation of this. it is also just shameless self-indulgence. this man makes me so mushy, so soft. ⇾word count: 2,2K
It's dipped in adoration when his lips brush the inside of your thigh; a whispered gospel against your trembling flesh. Dark eyes—burnt caramel, wet cinnamon—gaze up at you. The dips and peaks in those smouldering depths promise nothing but absolution and reverence.
He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. It's too much sometimes—the pure love concentrate feels like it might one day swallow you whole, and you burn with the notion of being spat out on the opposite side, dazed and confused. Left bereft of his skin under your hands, his rapturous gaze on you.
But he won't.
He made it clear with the black box in his pocket, the one he has yet to present to you. It's been there since Alejandro whisked him away one afternoon, eyes burning fiercer than the scorching sun over the Cerro La Mota, and he came back, body buzzing and effervescent, limbs echoing with the clang of elation through his bones. He swept you in his arms, and you felt something in the canyon of his body. A change.
You'd felt it in your marrow when he slung his jacket over the back of the couch, rolling his sleeves up as he made his way into the kitchen.
Want some mole con Chile Guajillo y Ancho tonight, cariño? Alejandro and I went into town and got some fresh pollo y tomate.
You hummed absently as he moved around the kitchen (no, no, go sit; I'll cook tonight—he says it every night, and you always acquiesce), and reached for his jacket. It fell, weighed down by something in his pocket.
Your hands tangled in the hem, and you felt the outline of it tucked away. A secret for him to keep. You folded it back where it was, head spooling with molasses-thick love, a tangled web of cotton over your thoughts. It leaked down to your pericardium where it sits now, even still, congealed in the canyons of your chest.
That was weeks ago. And now—
It's his birthday, and yet he treats the day as if it was yours. Something special for you.
Alejandro made faces at him over the albondigas at dinner, and you pretended you couldn't infer the meaning in their wordless exchange.
Steady, like everything else in his life. He commits wholly, entirely. He gives his all to something and leaves nothing spared.
You don't rush him—the box is going nowhere, and neither are you. A ring on your finger is more so a symbolic object than it is anything tangible. It's not enough to qualify this.
Rudy sits back, watching you—always, always watching you—and the fine dusting of pink on his cheeks makes your belly tingle with a new type of heat. A warmth that spreads from the capillaries in your heart all the way down to your toes. It's a basking warmth; a glow—like the dull, setting sun.
"I—"
He shushes you softly, shaking his head. "No. This is about you, cariño. All for you."
You huff, the words it's your birthday stagnant on your tongue. It doesn't matter to him, not at all. He gives everything. Everything. And this is no different.
His fingers slide under the curve of your knee, opening you up like an offering to Baal.
The only time his eyes flicker away from yours is to stare, wide-eyed and wanting, at the apex of your thighs where he fits like a puzzle.
"Eres tan Hermosa, cariño—," the words stuttered out of his chest; a whispered worble drenched in the tinge of worship.
(Before him, you'd never known what it was like to be revered.)
You gasp his name out in a broken quiver, and he meets you in the middle, groaning your name in the same tone, the same hushed breath. His lips seal over yours, devouring the moans as if he was starved for them.
Kissing him feels like pressing your lips to still water. Baptismal. You feel the filmed surface against your flesh, hot and heady, and open up for him, eager, wanting. His tongue slides over the seam, chasing the spice that lingers between your teeth.
He tastes of bayberry and smells of incense. The elixir makes your head spin when he floods you with his potent miasma. You drink in the tang of heliotrope and mewl at the way he takes you apart with just his kisses—his tongue, his teeth.
"Need you," he pants into your teeth, lips scraping across the ivory. "Need to be inside you."
Your legs spread, ankles locking over his thighs.
"I'm all yours."
And you are. Wholly. Completely. Always. Siempre.
His cock nudges between your folds, slipping inside of you. Each inch feels like a blessing when it parts your flesh like it was made to fit.
Your fingers curl into his firm biceps, your anchor amid a storm of pleasure, as he murmurs words spoken in broken English—chopped declarations of love, of completion, of finding serenity between your thighs.
I was made for you, he says.
And you huff in response, a fractured gasp of pleasure, elation splintered at the seams because you were thinking the same thing.
I was made for you, too.
Two halves, joined.
Rudy slots his hips to yours, bellies flush together, chest to chest, and his lips find yours once more. Interwoven limbs. Connected at all intervals. No gaps in the seams.
(You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.)
It's a coalescence of pleasure. Silhouetted bliss. You syphon Nirvana from the blunt head that presses into your gummy walls, and suffuse it into his joints until he melts into you. Liquid. Pliant. Giving, always giving.
Another first—you'd never known what making love was until Rudy. Until he split you apart like an old bible, hands running down the scripture of your flesh like it was meant to be followed earnestly and unequivocally. He slips inside genesis and finds Arcady in your pores.
It's a lesson in completion. Devotion.
Each brush of him inside of you feels like whispered matins in a hushed hall. The clang of the organ strummed through the dome of Sainte-Chapelle. It reverberates through you until your bones sing with the aftershock.
You cling to him, echoing his vespers into the plush, warmth of his lips, etching your gospel into his marrow until his eyes darken with empyrean thunderclouds, drenched in his fervour.
He's a slow, methodical lesson in piety. Soft rolls of his hips, cock filling you to the brim, until ichor leaks from the corners of your eyes, and your mouth falls open against his, voice ringing with the shrill song of your unfettered dulia.
He leads you up a staircase into the aether where the cosmos seeps into your flesh, igniting you with stardust and clouds of nebula. It's a steep incline; a meshing of atoms and molecules until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases. Until you're joined together; an elliptical galaxy, a merger.
Rudy sinks into you deeper, his eyes misting cosmic dust that coruscates like fine copper in the radiant ochre haze that leaks in from the open window. He's stunning in bronze, and you're starved for the sun.
Your fingers thread through his damp hair as he ruts into you, pulling him closer into your embrace until he's glued to you. Every atom touches, sparks. He reeks of fougère accord, olibanum, when you breathe him in, gasping in pleasure as he burrows deep inside you, blunt head kissing the seal of your womb.
He speaks hushed words, offerings to Hēdonē, as he splits you apart and makes you whole again with each cosseted roll of his hips.
His name tumbles from the seal of your lips, whispered into the gaps between his teeth. He bites down on it, an answering call that lures you in. Closer. Closer.
His palms are slick when they lift from your hips, catching your wrists in a loose, warm grip. Your fingers spread when his slot between the gaps, hands tugged, and dropped to the pillow above your head.
"Ahhhh, cariño—," his words are a low hiss, a feverish whimper. You swallow it down, and bask in the tang of his surrender. His eyes peel open, gazing at you. Perfect creosote circles, cresting in bliss. "I need you to cum from me—I need you to—"
It brims in your veins, liquid nirvana. He takes you to the edge of the galaxy, and watches as the cosmic wonder flashes across your eyes, hands linked with his as you meet samsara together.
The divot in his brow is drenched in pleasure. Your hands grip his tight as he moves—a gentle current, a cascade—and the valley of bliss carved out in the wrinkles of his forehead makes you ache, make you mould your body, pliant and liquid, into each crevasse carved from porphyry.
He pulls you along, sweeping you through the motions with each steady rock of his body against yours. Full, and soft, and pleasure drunk on a heady elixir of this, of him, you mewl his name, an orison, and find yourself flowing through welkin clouds.
Ecstasy bleeds, molten and liqueur-rich, from each gorge in his canyons, pouring over you, and filling in the gaps that remain. Sealed in euphoria, together in perfect symmetry, he drags you to the very brink until the waves crest, Seabreeze clings to your skin in glimmering droplets.
The clench of you around him, the utterance of his name when it slips through the gap of your teeth, make him groan, make him call out to you in the same tone, the same taste of Elysian Fields on his tongue.
Rudy cums with a bitten-off whimper. A moan, low and satiated, when he spends himself within you. Liquid heat, potent and brassbound in devotion.
It's poetry when he cums, you think, dazed and edging into that precipice of madness and euphoria, hysterical on the slow simmer of fine wine coursing through your veins.
It's scripture, gospel when his eyes drop, mouth pressed tight to the corner of your lips, panting your name in a hymnal chant over and over again as he ruts further and further inside the haven of your body.
You drink him in, catching the fleeting taste of incense on his tongue when he presses his lips to yours, fervid and quivering. Each shudder of his large frame rattles through you like an echo through your hollow valleys, shaking your bones until you're humming with the same tune.
"Cariño," it's a tumultuous quake, an aftershock of potent devotion.
He says nothing else—simply content to enjoy the moment lolling through you.
You huff, tongue sweeping over the sweat beading beneath the curve of his lower lip. Salty-sweet. Lemon zest and cinnamon sugar. You drink him in, eyes heavy set and puddling with the warm ochre glow of his body glued, stuck, to yours.
Your legs lock around his waist. He peppers you in messy, sweaty kisses that make you giggle at the way it tickles your flesh.
It's sunkissed heat. Moments stolen on the veranda in the mid-morning dew. The weight of his hand on your shoulder, the soft ardour in his gaze when it flickers to you. Sipping coffee over a shared plate of huevos rancheros, and watching the sun break through the plume of clouds low over the distant mountains. It's his hand slipping into yours. His arm around your waist when you walk through the streets. His eyes on you, always.
Sneaking kisses just because he can. Touches and brushes of his fingers over your skin until you feel bereft of comfort without his fingerprints on your flesh.
Its—
"Love you," you murmur into the crease of his nose. "So, so much—"
He presses his sweat-slicked forehead to you, eyes burning with the smouldering heat of his love, and says: will you—
You cut him off with a kiss, whispering always into his enamel.
The cut of his grin is drenched in adulation. The sunset over empyreal blue, dusting the Cerro Potosí peaks in bronze. It's superlunary bliss in the palm of your hands, and you echo it with your own.
(You think of cyclicity when he slips the ring on your finger, a perfect fit. His hand in yours, fingers spooled in red thread. You know, then, that soulmates really do exist.)
Alejandro greets you with a tight hug around your middle, head tucked into your neck.
"So, he finally grew some balls, eh?"
He pulls back, slaps Rudy on the shoulder, eyes glowing under the tinted glasses he wears. Rudy meets his gaze, a smile wider than you'd ever seen tugging on his lips. It wobbles. Both of theirs do.
Alejandro sniffs, and turns his head, but it does nothing to stop the mist that gathers along his lash line. Rudy shakes his head, his wrist digging into his eyes. You turn, tucking the private moment into the folds of your heart when you see another wordless conversation play out between them.
After a moment, Alejandro jerks his head around, grinning. "You'll finally be señorita Parra."
Rudy's cheeks dust vermillion. The tension in his shoulders ease as if this, too, was a moment he was savouring.
Your smile is the first touch of sunshine after a monsoon. "I would have waited forever."
"I wouldn't have made you wait that long." His hands are reverent on your waist when he pulls you close, lips glued to your temple. "Aquí estoy, mi alma. Siempre."