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father-garupe · 3 years

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It was not often that Francisco Garupe woke so pleasantly. His bed was empty, but warm nonetheless, and the smell of brewing coffee was swirling about his head. He took a second to stare up at the ceiling and breath it all in:

The smell of soap.

Clean linen.

You.

And oh, how lovely it was.

Downstairs he could hear you shuffling about in the kitchen and just that—the simple sound of your feet on the creaky old floor boards at his tiny counter with its circle window overlooking the garden—was enough to make the corners of his eyes prickle and spill one or two salty streaks down his chin.

Dear God, if he could wake to that every morning then wouldn’t it all have been worth it?

All the years spent in isolation. Looking for signs that never came and grasping at hands that always fell short of pulling him from the flames of his own design. Years of aimlessly wandering a path he followed only because he’d been told to. Told to and never bothered to question the way.

Francisco closed his eyes against the gentle rays of early morning sunlight streaming through his curtains and thought of when he was younger. All skin and bone and righteous anger at his lot in life. Back then he’d had a passion for things, and questions—always full to the brim with them. He wondered at what point he’d started to let them die on his tongue. At what point had he begun to swallow the noise instead of making it. Accept the half-baked answers and discontent just to escape back into the silence of a room where no one spoke and no one wondered or challenged or doubted.

Regardless of when this plague of biting his tongue began, he knew now where it ended.

Here, with you in his arms—in his bed—finally setting him free of his self-imposed prison. This was enlightenment if he’d ever seen it. And with that thought, the memories surged forward—the warm wet slip of your bodies, the comforting weight of you on his chest, the way you curled into him. Like you could burrow into his ribs and stay forever grasping at his heart.

Francisco shifted, rolling out from under the covers and slipping his feet onto the floor. He wanted to see you, touch you again and never let go. Maybe that was selfish, but as he rifled through his drawers and tugged on clean underwear and loose knit cardigan, he supposed that he’d earned a bit of selfishness in his life. Bare chested and still warm despite the chill, Francisco slowly descended the steps.

You stood at the sink, a soft sunrise glow glistening off you like light from the heavens.

Lord above he loved you.

And he was overcome with the sudden need to let you know.

You sipped from the mug in your hand, steam rising from it like ribbons. When Francisco stepped closer, pressing your back to his chest, you didn’t jump. Just hummed and leaned against him so his hands could grip your waits and his chin could rest on your shoulder.

“‘Morning,” you yawned and tilted your head so you could kiss him.

As though you did this every morning, like it was just as routine as pouring your coffee or brushing your teeth.

There was some poetry in that, he thought. Certainly all the great writers who sat on his shelves had spent their whole lives trying to capture the power of moments like this. To put on paper and make immortal the utter blessing of such simple intimacies. Francisco wasn’t sure any of them had ever really got it right.

“Good morning,” he whispered back and chased your lips until you giggled into his mouth and sighed happily on his tongue.

When you parted, he gripped you tighter and nuzzled into your cheek, taking in the view from his kitchen window. In its circle frame like a spyglass, he could see the expanse of garden and trees behind the rectory, now covered in a layer of leaf litter and frost. And right in the center, sat the bench. Simple and wrought iron, it sat on the edge of his garden path and stood out against the background of dying leaves.

Your hand found his, lacing your fingers together and he felt you smile beside him.

The sun rose slowly over the treetops and Francisco watched as the bench’s shadow grew and reached towards the little window, marking a path of its own. One that led him here, to you and your understanding and your honey words that made his lips tingle and his face blush.

And so he held you and you held him back as you sipped your coffee and watched the sun rise and loved each other.

Simply.

Perfectly.

And in peace.

In the Tongues of Men and Angels

A continuation of this with @millenialcatlady

It was cold outside, so it was cold in the church as well.

The building was older than the town it sat in—old walls and old floors that couldn’t keep out the chill. Not even in his office were Francisco sat, staring down at the scattered pages of notes on his desk. He barely felt the nip in the air, not with his face on fire and his hands shaky and the words that just wouldn’t arrange themselves in the right way, wouldn’t sit properly in their sentences. Instead they drifted off the lines and couldn’t even begin to capture the soul of what he meant to say.

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#in the tongues of men and angels #millenialcatlady #the end.

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father-garupe · 3 years

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Francisco bit his lip and tried to look away but couldn’t manage to tear his gaze from your hands, tugging at the fabric and baring his skin to the cool air. Gooseflesh erupted across his legs as your fingers brushed against them. His length bobbed, long and throbbing, resting heavy against his thigh. No one had ever seen him like this.

Stripped and laid bare like the Savior himself.

There was a painstaking moment of silence as you sat back on your heels, looking down and scanning the expanse of flesh. Francisco’s thoughts raced. Did his ribs stick out too far? Was there not enough for you to grab and hold and would your bodies fit together like they were supposed to—like puzzle pieces. Like how those awful grocery store romances always said it would be. Was he not soft enough where he was meant to be soft? Not hard enough, not big enough?

Would he please you?

You let out a shuddering breath, “Francis, you’re gorgeous.”

The words dripped onto his chest like lavender honey, perfuming the room with your praise. Had you called him that before? He liked the way it rolled off your tongue, it felt like a gift. His hands itched where they lay on the mattress, his mouth was dry and aching to taste.

“You think so?” he asked quietly, feeling as though he should whisper so as not to disturb the stillness.

Nodding, you leaned down and nudged his nose with yours, fitting your mouths together. It calmed him greatly, though from the deep blush decorating his chest, you wouldn’t have known it. Your tongues danced, as he licked at the seal of your lips and slipped inside, groaning as your breasts pressed into his chest.

He pulled away, hovering just inches from your mouth and searching your eyes.

“How do I…” Francisco trailed off, gnawing at his lip.

“What?”

And oh, you sounded so sweet, your voice lilting and kind, wanting to help, wanting to guide him—

“I want to make you feel good.”

You let out a breath.

“You don’t have to-” you started to say, sitting back up, but he followed, hands pulled to you like you were the promised land he’d always been searching for.

“Yes,” he mumbled into your lips, guiding you down to take his place laying back on the bed and settled over you, ghosting at your hips. “I do.”

You looked up at him, lips parted and eyes wide as you nodded. Because you understood.

You always understood.

He needed to pay tribute to the sacred thing laying before him, needed to be worthy of you. And more than that, he needed to thank you. Needed to know your body and return all the wonders you’d gifted him ten fold.

Your skin was so hot under his palms as you guided his hands to the edges of the thin fabric hiding you from his view.

Every thought evaded him, except for one:

All holiness was meant to burn.

He pulled softly at the lace and watched it slip down your thighs like blessed water through his fingers. When your panties had been discarded on the old wood floors, Francisco dared to look at you in full.

And Christ Almighty, you would surely be the death of him. But what a heavenly parting it would be to find such sweet release in the joining of your thighs. His mouth watered when you let your knees fall open, pussy spread and glistening in the dim light. He watched, entranced, while you slid two fingers down and coated them in your slick before rubbing slow circles at your clit.

It was truly one of the most gorgeous things he’d ever seen.

“Like this,” you sighed, tipping your head back on the pillows.

His hands skimmed your inner thighs, thumbs kneading into the delicate skin before drifting lower. Fransisco settled on his stomach between your legs so he could watch his fingers take the place of yours, gasping at how silky soft you felt there. So hot and wet and he understood now. Understood the urge to be buried inside you and his cock ached with it. His hips rutted against the bed of their own accord as he resumed the slow circling of your clit.

You moaned, so soft and sweet above him, “Just like that, Francis.”

The words made him shiver. He could smell your arousal—tangy and sharp and so close. He let his face drift closer, pressed his cheek to your thigh and sucked kisses into the skin. When you felt his breath on your cunt you gasped, hand threading into his hair.

“Can I?” he whispered, desperate to taste you.

“God, yes,” you answered him in this dark, barely there voice that had him leaking pre-cum all over his sheets.

Though that was nothing compared to the jolt that sizzled in his veins when he finally licked a long stripe up the whole of your pussy. It was everything he thought it would be and more than that, and he would always need more than that—oh God. His pressed open mouth kisses to your clit, unsure of what you’d like but gaging the pressure and speed of his tongue by the little mewls and whimpers and “Good boy, Francis,”’s that spilled from your lips.

He’d drink from you here just as he would from your lovely mouth and nothing could be sweeter.

Without thinking he dropped one hand to his cock, pulsing between his legs and lazily fucked his fist while the other, still slick with your juices, dipped into you shallowly. You were even warmer inside, and tight, barely taking two of his fingers as he thrust slowly into you. He curled and reached until you cried out when he stroked a small smooth spot inside you.

“There, that, keep doing that, love,” you mumbled, fingers in his hair tugging hard at the roots, only sending more waves of pleasure straight to his dick.

He nodded and sucked your clit between his teeth, curling his fingers in your pussy and doing just as you said. Every new utterance of praise had the heat in his gut building, but he couldn’t finish like this. He wanted to be inside you, wanted to be as close to you as possible. So, when your hand in his hair pulled taught—your breathing cut out, gasping his name, and walls clamping on his fingers with thighs squeezing tight at his ears—he halted the movement of hips and sat up to look at you.

Your hair was slick with sweat and stuck to your forehead, eyes closed and chin tilted towards the ceiling. He wanted to see you like this, blissed and relaxed, every day of his life. Francisco’s chest swelled with the thought that he’d done this for you, that he’d been enough to do this for you.

He crawled up the bed and you reached for his neck immediately, pulling him down and licking into his mouth.

“Was that good?” he asked when you released him.

“You were so good for me,” you mused, combing through his hair and leaning up to nip at his ear.

He whimpered, arms going soft and head falling to your chest. Francisco could feel your heart beating under him as one of his hands drifted up to cup your left breast. He nipped at the skin, laving his tongue over your nipple slowly just to hear the way you groaned at the contact.

Your hand found his hair again and tugged, “Lay down for me?”

He looked up at you with glistening eyes and nodded. The bed was firm under his back as he rolled off you, lamenting the loss of your heat until you moved to straddle his hips again. You caressed his cheek, leaning down to press and another sweet, soft kiss to his lips. They trembled when you pulled away.

“Are you ready?” you asked him

If he wasn’t now, he truly would never be.

“Yes,” Francisco breathed into the space between your bodies and let his hands rest on your hips, unsure of where else to put them.

He watched as you wrapped your hand around his cock, tensing as you pumped him in your fist. The feeling of another hand on him was so foreign and delicious all the same.

“Is it, ah, I am...adequate?” his face burned as you stared up at him, brow furrowed.

“Adequate?” you asked, incredulous, “I’m not actually sure you’ll fit, Francis.”

He gaped, “Oh, I didn’t-”

You shushed him, leaning to press small kisses across his chest, connecting his freckles like a star map and flicking your tongue over her straining nipples. All insecurity was forgotten in favor of the sweet slip of your hand on his cock. Lifting up, you guided the head to your entrance and stared straight into his eyes as you sunk down on his length by increments. Your mouth dropped open as you took him deeper until he was fully sheathed in your warm, wet cunt.

“Fuck,” Francisco nearly sobbed.

Well, he did sob, really. It was quite nearly the first curse he’d ever uttered and it was outright and choked, tears burning his eyes as he took in the overwhelming feeling of your walls clenching around him. It was good, too good, it was grace and love and everything he’d been missing and you moaned low in your chest like you felt it too. The image of you, full of his cock and seat on him like a queen on her throne was burned forever into his mind. He sat up against the headboard and wrapped his arms around you, head pressed into the crook of your neck.

“You okay?” your voice was an angel’s choir to his ears.

He sniffed and hummed into your shoulder, fingers digging into the skin of your back. Your hips ground against his and he nearly screamed. Everything in him was focused on not spilling himself into you just yet. He needed more, wanted you to cum again and stay stuffed inside you forever.

“You’re doing so well,” you cooed and he glowed with your praise.

Slowly, you rose off his length till just the tip was left and rolled back down, ass slapping against his thighs.

“Fuck,” he swore again and pulled his head away. “Claire, please-”

“Feel good?” you grinned at him with his red, tear stained face and mouth gaping.

“Mhmm,” it was all he could manage.

You repeated the movement, making him choke as you picked up a steady rhythm and bounced in his lap, taking the whole of his cock and sighing as you rode him. Francisco was helpless, unable to stop his hips from bucking up into you, driving off the mattress and angling to hit that spot he’d found before.

“Good boy,” you muttered, forehead pressed to his. “So good for me.”

He gasped for breath, feeling the rising wave of his climax. Fumbling, he managed to untangle a hand and reach between your joining bodies to rub those tight little circles on your clit once more. It had the desired effect, your head thrown back and breath coming in pants. The small, barren room was filled with the wet slap of your pussy taking all of him and that alone nearly drove him over the edge.

“Claire, please,” he begged again, kissing down your neck and jaw, “I want you to…”

God, he couldn’t say it, he really couldn’t, but then you gripped his hair again and tugged him up to look you in the eye.

“Use your words, Francis,” you grunted, thighs tensed against his hips.

It seemed his face would never stop burning, “I want you to cum on my cock.”

His cheeks and ears were ablaze, though he nearly forgot the embarrassment with the way you moaned at the words and surged forward to seal your lips together. Then he felt it, the squeezing of your thighs and the way your pussy tightened around him. You gushed on his length and the thought of it sent him spiraling over the edge, shooting hot ropes of cum into you that dripped out and coated you both in a sticky combination of your spend.

It was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

Heaven or something far better.

Head empty, heart full and more sated than he could ever remember being, Francisco laid slowly back against the pillows. He kept you tucked securely to his chest, hand in your hair and half hard cock still tucked safely inside you.

You both caught your breath in the darkness.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting shadows on the pale yellow walls and Francisco sighed. He maneuvered the quilts, draping it loosely over your bodies and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

Later he would detangle your limbs and bathe you, but he was not prepared to wash away the remnants of your love making just yet. So, for now, he laid with you and loved with you in the sweet, honey-scented silence.

In the Tongues of Men and Angels

A continuation of this with @millenialcatlady

It was cold outside, so it was cold in the church as well.

Keep reading

#in the tongues of men and angels #the moment you've all been waiting for #no more virgin francy #I am ~soft~#millenialcatlady

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father-garupe · 3 years

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He’d often stopped to stare at the bench in the garden. The squash blossoms had all wilted and fallen to the ground with the onslaught of winter approaching, but evergreens still lined the property. Their long, thin needles scattered the little path, interspersed with dried wildflowers, the white blooms seemed almost like snowflakes when carried up by the soft breeze that rustled in the pines.

Yes, Francisco had often stopped, often stared from his kitchen window, and often thought. Thought of its cool metal through his robes and the warm, fullness of your palm on his. Remembered how lovely that day had been, when you’d met. How he’d first acknowledged the empty space in his soul. How you had listened and understood.

As you always did.

So when he saw you there again, waiting for him—perhaps you had always been waiting for him, perhaps you had both been waiting—any words he may have had died on his tongue.

It was one of those indescribable moments, with such weight and such depth, that he wanted it framed. Wanted it sitting on his mantle amongst the clutter so he could look at it, remember, and relive the immaculate surge he felt when you turned to see him rushing towards you.

Francisco wasn’t entirely certain when his stroll from the church had picked up to a brisk walk as he passed the rectory and eventually to now, as he ran—truly ran the way children do when called to dinner—gravel crunching under his soles as he drew close.

You only had the chance to take one step before he had you, arms tight and your head tucked under his chin.

“Did you mean all that?” you whispered into his chest, fingers wound tightly in the fabric of his shirt.

He’d changed as quickly as possible once the crowd had dispersed. His collar was gone too, a few errant buttons left undone, showing the milky skin beneath.

“I have never been more certain of anything in the whole of my life,” he pressed the words into the crown of your head.

You pulled back, hand moving to cup his jaw. The cold had bit a blush across your cheeks and nose. He hoped maybe you’d think the flush of his face to the tips of his ears was just from the cold as well. Not from the feeling of your body against his, not from the realization he could have this now however much he wanted it.

Had you given him the time, he might have cried at the way your cheeks split open in the widest grin possible, all teeth and wonder and joy. But the lump in his throat was drowned completely when you jumped, feet leaving the ground to press your lips to his.

It was different from the other precious times he’d tasted you.

There was no persistent seedling of guilt, nothing to distract from the way your lips molded to his, glided more beautifully than the pages of scripture turning under his fingertips. And when you pulled away, the moment did not pass.

He could stare at your face, wind kissed and smiling wide, for eternity if you’d let him. There was nothing he could do to help the laugh that bubbled in chest. It was half relief, half disbelief and mostly unadulterated rejoicing in the glory of this.

When he did walk you back to his home, you followed him into the kitchen. The yellow walls seemed brighter somehow, with you standing by them. Everything seemed brighter in fact, sharper, just as it had when he’d spoken to the congregation. His hand had not left your waist, stroking slow circles along the bone of your hip as you leaned beside him on the counter. And the look of expectation on your face ignited something else in him. Francisco wasn’t certain exactly where to go from here. It was clear that neither of you wanted to simply drink tea and chat, but was he still expected to make drinks or was it more of a—

You seemed to take pity on him.

“You know,” you said, tugging him to you, “I’ve never seen your room.”

A pause.

“No, I suppose you haven’t.”

He swallowed hard, lip caught between his teeth.

“Care to show me?”

And he did. Of course he did. How could he ever refuse when your eyes were already devouring him as he led you up the stairs.

Your coats and shoes littered the floor only seconds after the door had shut behind you. His back hit the mattress, creaking under the weight of one more body than it was used to bearing. Your hands tore at the buttons of his shirt, and he sat up, letting it pool over his shoulders while you threw your sweater to the floor as well. You settled yourself firmly in his lap, thighs hugging his hips and your arms thrown around his neck.

Slowly, he let his head fall, resting it on the swell of your breasts and breathed in. So familiar, so much like home.

“This is, ah, the end of my expertise,” he mumbled into your chest, pressing lazy kisses along the exposed skin. “I’m afraid you’ll have to show me what to do next.”

In the Tongues of Men and Angels

A continuation of this with @millenialcatlady

It was cold outside, so it was cold in the church as well.

Keep reading

#in the tongues of men and angels #welcome to the spice #its cherry popping time y'all #millenialcatlady

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father-garupe · 3 years

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As Francisco approached the pulpit, everything in his head went quiet.

All the fears.

All the doubts.

All the shame.

The build up of a lifetime spent under the ice—barely there, just existing nothing more—shattered the instant his gaze found you.

Third bench to the right.

Just like every other Sunday.

But it was different now, everything. The stained glass windows that threw shattered rainbow streaks across the floor were brighter, crisper like autumn air. Across them the figures—Eve, apple in hand, her face blissful as she bit into the fruit—stared down at him from above the massive front doors. There was something cleaner in the air, something fresh underneath the musty smell of old church carpet and aged candles.

He opened the lectionary, tracing the red ribbon marker between his fingers, and prepared himself.

“You may be seated,” he spoke, and his voice rang out through the chapel.

There was a shuffling as everyone settled on the pews, shifting coats and quieting children. It was time. Thumbing through the pages, Francisco’s hand was steady at his side.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he began, listening to the chorus of greetings that followed. “I’ll do my best not to keep you long, but my sermon today is going to be a bit more, ah, personal, I think than I have been since taking over here. So humor me, if you will.”

His eyes traced the mortar joining of the stone floor until they reached you, trailing from your feet till they finally reached your face.

“I’ve been doing a bit of...self-discovery over the past few weeks, and I’ve realized that there are certain fundamental truths that I have, as of yet, been unaware of. And because of what I do, I’m ashamed to admit this, but until now I’ve been ignorant of the deeper meanings often hidden in the scripture I’m meant to teach.”

You still hadn’t looked up at him, but he could see it in your face:

The question.

The fear of receiving an answer.

“I’d like to share with you today a passage that I never quite understood before, but which has come alive to me recently. Letters from Paul to the Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse one.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”

Francisco glanced up from the pages, and for one horrible moment, he thought you may not look at him. That you might have come only because he’d asked, because you pitied him, because he was pathetic and empty and jumped at the first chance of closeness he could get his hands on.

But then your eyes flicked up from the altar, just a second, just a fraction of a breath and met him head on with that spark that he loved and Francisco knew then that he had you.

Probably always did.

“Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast. It does not insist on its own way; it is not resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.”

Like a fish on a line you were caught on his gaze. But, then again, he couldn’t ever be sure which of you was standing on the shore and reeling the other in. Whatever you two had, it was far more equal than that, mutual and kind.

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

He wondered, idly—as the scripture dripped off his tongue like the sweetest of lavender honey—if anyone watching could see the way his eyes never left the third pew. Because he knew these lines by heart now, there was no need to look away. Perhaps he was distracted by the crack on the stone or the ruined finish of the bench.

They may never know that they were watching a lonely priest bare his soul and pray for acceptance.

“Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away.”

Empty boys homes and tiny yellow kitchens would cease. They were knocked down or left abandoned by failed clergymen.

Faith could be shaken and misguided.

Hope was too often smothered under the weight, the struggle of existence.

But this was a new kind of devotion.

“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

Francisco took a breath, and closed the book on its resting place. He stepped down from the pulpit and strode to stand before the altar, hands clasps in front of him.

Praying.

“With that in mind, I’d like to amend some of my prior sermons. Namely this: every good and perfect gift is, at its roots, simply love. Whether that be from the heavenly Father, or in a warm meal when you need it most. There is nothing greater or more precious than this. Cherish it as it comes to you, as it has come to me.”

He could have sworn that Eve was smiling down on him, lips pulled back against the soft, red apple flesh.

Francisco smiled back.

“Go in peace, my friends.”

In the Tongues of Men and Angels

A continuation of this with @millenialcatlady

It was cold outside, so it was cold in the church as well.

Keep reading

#in the tongues of men and angels #millenialcatlady #love is stored in the papi

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father-garupe · 3 years

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In the Tongues of Men and Angels

A continuation of this with @millenialcatlady

It was cold outside, so it was cold in the church as well.

Days it took him, days and days to come up with—not even something perfect—but something halfway passable.

Something that felt worthy.

Something all encompassing, with puzzle piece intricacies that could still contain all the simplicity of this thing forming between the two of you.

Because that was the word or it.

Simple.

It just was.

Just true.

And there needn't be anything more than that.

All he had to do was acknowledge it.

Name it, and bring it into existence like the Almighty Father had cast the breath of life into clay and made Adam. All Francisco had to do was give a name to the cord that latched its hooks to his ribcage and tethered him to you.

But he didn’t know how.

It wasn’t that he was scared, it really wasn’t.

In fact, he was beginning to think that up until now, he’d spend the entirety of his life being scared. He lost Sebastian because he was too much of a coward to leave the safety net of the church, and spent the rest of his life alone for it. He’d been offered a lifetime of warmth and more than just pictures on a mantle piece but he’d thrown it away and for what?

To follow his calling?

Look where that had gotten him. Too wracked with misplaced guilt and shame to accept your touch, even when he wanted it so badly.

So badly.

It was a physical sort of pain, being without you, and, and…

Goddammit, he deserved better.

Everything up until now was just a string of self sabotaging avoidance, using faith as an excuse to pull away from everyone and everything and what an empty existence it was. And that had been his reality for so long, it wasn’t until you burst through the doors to his home with all your warm stew, hot tea lips and traveling hands that settled on his back and wormed their way around his heart like they were always meant to sit there—hold it and squeeze with every beat. No, it was not until you came and filled him and left—because he let you, because made you, asked for it even though it turned his tongue to sawdust—did he ever feel the hollow, aching absence.

In a perfect world, he would know how to say all that.

Wrap it up neatly and place it in your hands for safe keeping.

Francisco used to envy all the names that marked each chapter in the Holy Book. Had read and wished he could have written the scripture as well. But staring down the clock and his half finished sermon, he couldn’t imagine ever producing something that could contain such multitudes.

Though maybe he simply hadn’t understood the words until now.

His hand drifted mindlessly to the worn Bible that always sat on his desk, book ending old coffee mugs with its cracked spine.

Maybe, for once he thought, the answer might be hidden inside.

#in the tongues of men and angels #millenialcatlady #buckle up folks it only gets more feely from here

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father-garupe · 3 years

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"Wait!”

You paused, halfway down the front steps. He needed to know, needed to console himself with the knowledge that he had only another few days of this ache--this absence.

Francisco swallowed thickly as you gazed up at him, hand on the iron railing and moonlight glinting in your eyes, “Are you coming to service on Sunday, by chance?”

The next few days were filled with countless small moments that pulled my mind back to Francisco. The smell in the bookstore as I browsed through for classics, and washed his clothing with my own. Tuesday evening I found myself knocking on his door again clutching the stack of folded clothes to my chest, trying to settle the churning in my stomach.

Francisco’s hand on the doorknob was already clammy, slicked with a layer of liquid nerves. There was only one person who would come to see him at home so late...

“Good evening, Claire.”

#millenialcatlady #the beginning of the end

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father-garupe · 3 years

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“Oh that’s very thoughtful, thank you,” he reached out a hand and gently took the folded clothes. They smelled like you--like your detergent and perfume. It was breaking his resolve. If you stayed too long, he’d surely tell you all the wonderful warm thoughts that had been running circles in his head. And that couldn’t happen. You deserved something spectacular, not a confession on his doorstep.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Francisco explained quickly as you drifted closer. “I’d invite you inside but the place is a mess.”

Francisco’s hand on the doorknob was already clammy, slicked with a layer of liquid nerves. There was only one person who would come to see him at home so late...

“Good evening, Claire.”

#millenialcatlady #the beginning of the end

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father-garupe · 3 years

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Francisco’s hand on the doorknob was already clammy, slicked with a layer of liquid nerves. There was only one person who would come to see him at home so late...

“Good evening, Claire.”

#millenialcatlady #the beginning of the end

10 notes · View notes

father-garupe · 3 years

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“You’re welcome.”

Francisco forced himself to smile as he watched you go, listened to your feet crunching in the leaves, growing distant and fading out all together. His cheek burned where your lips touched him and some part of his traitorous mind thought it must be because you were such a sacred thing.

And sacred things were not meant to touch wicked flesh.

How could he ever hope to hold any part of you with shame so heavy in his soul? And why was he plagued by this faith, this God that had remained so silent, even when he fell to his knees and begged for guidance?

With a deep, shuddering sigh, he let the door drift shut and wandered aimlessly into the living room.

Aimless.

Yes, that was a good word for the raw ache that had settled in his stomach since you’d gone.

Little pieces of you lay scattered about in the form of second hand novels he’d lent that you’d left in a stack on the coffee table. He ran a soft hand over the worn covers, searching for some errant warmth left over from your hands on the pages and coming up with nothing but paper cuts for his trouble.

Sucking at the slice on his finger, Francisco wondered if all this effort would always end in bloodshed.

Always end with him sliced open and left alone.

The small white slip of paper, now tinged a dark red in the corner, caught his eye. It poked out from between the pages of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. A bookmark maybe, though he didn’t know why you’d return the book half finished.

But when he looked closer, something had been scrawled on the surface.

Handwriting—your handwriting—dark blue ink against the paper.

Blue and calm like the feel of your hand on his back, face, chest—

The words shook him to the core, like the fault lines of his soul were shifting letting earthquake cracks of holy clarity shine through as he frantically traced the lines written:

“You deserve to be happy Francisco, to love and be loved.

And whatever happiness means to you, I want you to find it.”

Oh.

Oh God.

Really, what had he ever done to deserve such an angelic thing?

Francisco read and reread and every time he grew weaker, legs and hands shaking, his throat felt tight and his eyes stung and something was rising in his chest and…

The sob burst from him like the most cleansing of biblical floods. It rattled in his bones and bounced off the walls in his tiny, empty home. Sinking to the floor he sat with his head in his hands and wept for you and for himself and for every word he’d thought but never had the courage to say.

Whatever happiness means…

What did it mean to him?

And when had he last felt it?

When had he last felt joy so tangible it made his cheeks ache and his eyes wrinkle?

The answer was both shocking and simple.

He’d found it already.

Because it had been there this whole time. Hiding under the turmoil and guilt and confusion. It was there in the way you kissed him goodbye and placed little touches to his back when you cooked or mouthed at the shell of his ear to make him fall apart in your hands. How you smiled easily and accepted his doubts and gave up your days to walk through a dying garden with a lonely priest.

It was always you.

His shoulders shook with knowing now and wishing he’d known before, so he could have stopped you, or kissed you back when you sat so pretty and willing in his lap.

As the saltwater tides flowed from his eyes, Francisco knew he had to tell you. The wet tracks down his cheeks took with them all the lingering uncertainty. If he was put on this earth to serve the divine surely that had to be you, and he couldn’t let you go any longer. Couldn’t bare his hands not on your flesh, not pressing worship and tenderness into the dips of your thighs, the small of your back.

And he knew exactly how he had to do it.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Never in all the time I’d spent on my own did I feel lonelier than the days following that evening we spent in Francisco’s kitchen. The embrace was a line I never should have crossed, and I felt so guilty for subjecting him to my desires. I knew I couldn’t wonder why he’d held me for so long, and why he’d pulled away so quickly that he nearly fell into the sink. I didn’t need to ask why he wanted me to return, even after I’d undoubtedly made things more difficult for him. I knew the answers, but maybe I just wasn’t ready to face them. So I trudged through the days that followed.

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #we're ending on a break through y'all #someone get this man a tissue

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

I’ve been told I should start socializing a bit more since moving in, so it sounds like a wonderful time! Who knows, it might be nice to have some company that isn’t just at the Sunday services.

I wanted to throw an idea out there to some of you ladies and gentlemen. I think that Pale has had some similar thoughts, and is planning somethin’ pretty swanky, so I’m not tryin’ to take credit from him.

I was thinkin’ of tryin’ something of a gentleman’s club of sorts. We could alternate who hosts it once a week or so. Between us we have access to precincts, night clubs, bars, theater companies, star destroyers, gaming rooms, and who knows what else. If not everyone makes it every time, well, we all understand how it is dealing with work and crazy women...

We could all get together, tell stories, have some drinks, have some fun. You ladies are invited too. As long as you behave.

Thoughts, Gentlemen?

@iamakiller @leather-and-embers @vsop1987 @killersmileclyde @wolfmanclyde @bigbadwolffz @williammctavish @ghostdaddyparnassus @briantakesitslow @hungryheartsjude @yourpaterson @yourdarkdetective @mr-minnihan @ronniepeterson @tobyquixotedelamancha @ofadarkessence @ofthetheater @fathergarupe @doctor-rockhard @agentsevier @supremeleaderandprincekyloren @adamsackleractor @professingmagic @solokillers @solotriplets

Thoughts, Ladies?

@babbushka @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @sydneyssmut @mariesackler @ohdamnadam @finn-ray-nal-beads @contesa-lui-alucard @millenialcatlady @couldntfuckingtellya @ellelaconi @emeraldsiren19 @lucyjadesilverson @mrs-kylo-ren @desiraypark @zimmermansbrat @hexedeslichts @sacklersdoll @historyandfandoms50 @hopeamarsu @sacklerscumrag both sugar lips 💋

#father speaks #ooohhh boy I love that #y'all are fucking crazy and I love it

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

“Sin, he reflected, is not what it is usually thought to be; it is not to steal and tell lies. Sin is for one man to walk brutally over the life of another and to be quite oblivious of the wounds he has left behind.” ― Shūsaku Endō, Silence

#I have been thinking of this recently #seems very timely #silence #quotes

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

His legs felt weak, shaking a bit in the knees as he descended the stairs. The whole house was filled with the smell of browned butter and cinnamon. Francisco paused at the bottom of the steps and listened to the crackling of a pan and the drip of brewing coffee.

He rejected you, left you to sleep on his chair and now you were making him breakfast.

Both hands raked through his hair, tugging at the ends as he pulled himself together enough to walk into the kitchen.

No amount of mental preparation would have prepared him for the heart stopping sight of you—still in his clothes—standing at the stove and flipping fluffy slices of french toast onto a plate. His stomach was in knots, some tangles of guilt for the way he’d led you on and left you dry, and others pretty bows of wonder at how perfect you looked. The pale yellow walls no longer seemed so empty with your silhouette against them.

He must look a mess, having just quickly washed off the...evidence from last night, tugging on a loose t-shirt and cardigan with his only pair of jeans. Normally he wouldn’t dress in such a casual manner but the thought of putting on his blacks and the little white slip of starched fabric was too overwhelming.

You didn’t seem to care.

“Good morning,” you smiled over your shoulder.

His mouth went dry the second your eyes locked, “Good morning.”

If you were at all bothered by the events that had transpired the night before, you made no indication of it. Just, flicked off the gas burner and set down two plates and mugs on the tiny kitchen table. Three of his candles had been lit, filling the room with hints of vanilla and honeycrisp apples.

“Sorry,” you said, taking a seat and motioning him forward, “I sort of commandeered your kitchen, but I thought you’d appreciate something to eat.”

“You didn’t need—”

Your hand was on his in a second, barely fitting around all his fingers, but squeezing despite the way they spilled out of your grasp.

“I wanted to.”

Oh what a world to live in, he thought, where wanting was enough justification.

“Well, in that case, thank you. It looks delicious,” he said and sat, pouring himself some coffee from the delicate glass pitcher.

He wondered how you knew that he liked it strong.

“It’s not much, but consider it thanks for saving me from the rain,” you cut a bite of toast for yourself and he couldn’t help but admire the way you held your knife.

“Now you certainly don’t need to be thanking me for that,” Francisco took his own bite and almost melted like the finish on his old wood floors, “I wasn’t exactly a stellar host anyway.”

“I don’t know,” you sipped your drink and stared at him over the rim, some dark look that made him guess you weren't just talking about borrowed clothes or a warm place to sleep, “I had a lovely stay.”

He blinked once, licking his lips, “I’m glad.”

God you were going to be the death of him.

It was getting harder not to imagine that the fork disappearing past your teeth was his tongue, delving in to taste the maple syrup that beaded on your lips.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you started, pulling him from his less than appropriate thoughts, “but I was looking at the pictures on your mantle earlier. Who’s the family in the middle?”

“Oh,” he turned to look at the sparse spread of old photos and misplaced paperbacks. Three frames sat proudly above the fireplace—old memories, other times, bitter and lovely like the baking chocolate he used to steal from the nuns kitchen. “That was my old roommate back when I still lived in the boys home.”

“Ah, he looks very happy,” you said, though he wasn’t entirely listening anymore, too caught up in the rush of nostalgia. “Did you know each other long?”

Francisco nodded and turned back to you, “My entire childhood for the most part. His name is Sebastian. He and I were uh...very close I suppose you could say.”

He watched your eyes travel to the flush of his cheeks, brows raised, “Were you together?”

“I don’t really know what to call it,” he’d never had the words to describe that time in his life before and they continued to evade him now. “But yes, we were involved somewhat, though in a very childish way.”

Childish in that they secretly held hands under his desk when the nuns weren’t looking, kissed in the prayer garden, and talked about how they’d get married someday as if they knew everything in that way children often think they do. It occurred to him then that you were the only person he had ever spoken of this too, and yet he felt the words spill easily from him.

“I’m assuming he didn’t join the seminary?” you placed another slice of toast on his plate as if it was something you did every day.

He wished it was.

“Oh no, Sebastian left the second he could,” Francisco said and chuckled. “The church never interested him, too much of a free spirit I suspect and much braver than I was. He packed his things when he turned 18 and I didn’t see him again for years after that.”

“He still sends you cards though?” you asked and gestured to the picture and the holiday card standing next to it.

Sebastian, with his wild head of honey brown waves beamed a white, toothy grin across the room. It didn’t hurt anymore to look at him, he didn’t wonder or mourn, just smiled at the way he smiled so brightly into the camera.

“We reconnected after I’d been given my first assignment and now he sends me Christmas cards most years with pictures like that.”

You were smiling at him again, chin resting on your hands, “That’s very sweet.”

He smiled back, because it was sweet and he wanted to, and that was enough.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady #I love my sweet bi priest man

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

“Wait—”

It was too much.

You were everywhere and it was too much.

The light touch on the shell of his ear sent a wave of blistering liquid heat rushing straight to his core and dear God, it was—

Suffocating, overwhelming, world-shattering, and...terrifying.

Francisco felt as though a great war was being fought inside his head. An angel and a devil sat on his shoulders and whispered and tugged and marred this wonderful moment with a rush of sour guilt. This is what he was always warned about, this feeling—so intoxicating and irresistible the way it made him so painfully hard under you—was so ingrained in him as wrong. And it felt awful, that thought in any way related to you and this and your hands on him, but his certainty was draining away and oh—

Oh no.

He’d well and truly ruined this, hadn’t he?

“Francisco?” you pulled his head back and looked down at him as he sat on the verge of tears below you.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he stammered and drilled his gaze into yours, praying that you’d understand it had nothing to do with you.

Nothing to do with the wonder of you wanting him and everything to do with his cowardice.

His damage.

What kind of a man is handed glory like this on a silver platter and refuses it?

A broken one.

“What is it?” your voice was so quiet now.

It pained him. He wanted to go back to just seconds ago when you were moaning into his neck, but that was then and this was now and it hurt unbearably.

“I can’t-” his voice cracked as he let his hands fall limply to his sides.

The way your face fell at his words should have been criminal. Murder of the first degree with the way his heart sank. But this was you, so it only lasted for a minute. Because you understood things.

Understood him.

He wondered if somehow, that was worse.

“Oh, right,” you said, extracting yourself from his lap and standing on shaking knees. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you—”

“No,” he snapped, a bit harsher than he meant to, but the sight of you scrambling to cover yourself again only made the guilt gnaw even more at him. “It’s nothing to do with you, really, I just…”

“Can’t?” you supplied, half a smile on your face despite the growing discomfort in the room.

Francisco nodded, eyes downcast and unsure what to do with himself now. He felt a stranger in his own home. It seemed you were continually having mercy on him, as you reached out a tentative hand and squeezed his.

“It’s alright,” you reassured him, “I’ll sleep down here, yeah?”

“Are you sure? You’re more than welcome to my bed.”

You shook your head and let your grip on him slip away, “Goodnight, Francisco.”

Right.

Of course.

He didn’t know why he had expected this to end any other way.

“Goodnight, Claire.”

****

His little room was cold. The rectory was ancient really and not properly insulated so the driving wind left his bedsheets cool to the touch, but that did nothing to assuage the fire under his skin. It was as if every place you’d touched burned with the lack of you and nothing was worse than the pulsing between his legs.

He’d tried desperately to will it away but that was proving impossible.

The throbbing ache of his cock only grew more persistent as the minutes ticked by. Francisco couldn’t recall the last time he’d touched himself the way he was contemplating now.

Well.

Less contemplating, more running his palm lightly over the tent in his sweats and nearly putting a hole through his lip with the effort to keep quiet. You were just a few floorboards away, and he had already made a fool of himself once tonight. He didn’t think he could handle the shame of you listening as he stroked himself to the thought of you.

Because that was certainly the focus of his mind in that moment.

Francisco let his hand dip below the waistband of his pants, pulling them down just enough to free his length. It bobbed against his stomach, reaching quite nearly his bellybutton. The tip leaked pearly beads of precum that slicked his palm when he took himself in his fist and pumped.

Oh God.

He brought a hand up to his mouth and bit down on the knuckle. There was no stopping now and he really couldn’t have you hearing any of the throat ripping moans that threatened to escape him with every pass of his fingers over the sensitive head.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he stroked his dick in earnest now, falling into a comfortable rhythm he only barely remembered. Recalled from the few times he had dared to work himself into climax before he’d taken the vows. Now he wasn’t sure how he’d ever resisted this long.

Christ, it just felt so good.

Good in a way he didn’t have the proper words for, and so he just bit his crooked teeth down harder and alternated between fast and hard tugging of his cock that made his hips buck up off the bed, and slow, languid thrusts that coaxed more precum out to ease the slide of his fist.

Laying flat on his back with his feet planted on the mattress, Francisco fucked his hand and tried to call to mind the image of your breasts. Tried to remember the lovely way they fit in his palms and the little whimper that left you when he rolled them in his hands. Lord, he didn’t know why but he wanted to taste them. He wanted to press kisses to the unbelievable soft flesh and suck your nipple into his mouth, flick his tongue over them until they hardened and he could nip at them when you pressed his face farther into your chest.

And that made his cock swell.

With every stroke the coil in his gut tightened and he was so close, so close, so close.

To relief.

To release.

Something was building up in him, ready to snap. The arm jerking his dick was sore and tired but he increased his pace. The room was filled with the wet slap of his fist meeting the small patch of dark curls as he stroked over and over from root to tip and threw his head back into the pillows.

And then his breath was coming in short gasps, his stomach tensing and toes curling into the sheets as white exploded behind his eyes and poured out of his cock.

Francisco came harder than he imagined was possible. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his hand and pooled on his belly, he didn’t stop until the last pulses of his climax petered out and his breathing evened.

Still half-hard, his dick laying limp against his thigh, he stared up at the ceiling and tried to form a coherent thought.

But none came.

There was only a comfortable heaviness forming in his limbs and pit growing in his stomach.

“Dear God.”

In the deafening silence of the room, his voice echoed as though it was ringing against the stone walls of the empty church.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady #this is just 1.1k words of pure papi jerkin it #I could right ADCU men stroking their dicks forever #this poor man #couldn't have a story without a little angst and smut

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

Francisco’s breathing shuttered to a halt as you pulled his sweater over your head, revealing inch by lovely inch of gorgeous naked flesh. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he fought to keep his eyes trained squarely on your face while it was swallowed by the cable knit. Finally, when the thump of clothing hitting the floor rang out and you lowered your arms back to his neck, he met your eyes and begged.

For permission.

For guidance.

Not collared now, but still a starving dog, hungering for any scraps you might toss his way.

Mercifully, you took pity on him.

“Go on,” your eyes were a light and he was blinded by the shine of them in the fire glow. “You can look.”

And look he did.

Oh sweet Lord above.

The nuns used to warn him about false idols, but he couldn't conceive of a reality in which worshiping the sight before him could be sacrilege.

Francisco’s eyes were drawn immediately to your breasts, bare and foreign and so incredibly inviting. At any other time, he would have been disgusted with himself for the urges that arose when he took in the subtle curves and dips of you. It seemed to him that Michelangelo himself had carefully carved you from stone.

Artistry, that’s what it was.

Holy.

You sat in his lap as though it was your throne, and let your fingers run tantalizingly down his arm till his hand was firmly in your grasp.

“Do you want to touch?” you asked, voice so soft and gentle and God he thought it might kill him.

Yes, yes, yes, yes—

He nodded desperately, wanting to say it all out loud but unable to find any words suitable enough. But it didn’t matter. You understood, just as you had from the beginning. Always knew what words stayed locked behind his teeth.

It was revenant, the way you lifted his palm and pressed it to you. He felt as though he was accepting the body of his savior. Truly, the way your breast filled his hand and yielded against his touch was more enlightening than any written teaching. You curled your fingers against his, kneading into your chest and he lifted his other hand, eager not to neglect any part of you.

And the sound you made when he thumbed over the stiff peak of your nipple made him melt into you.

“Mm, just like that,” you hummed, head thrown back.

His mouth watered at the sight. Without thinking, he lowered his lips to the column of your throat and placed a wet kiss to the skin there. That was something he’d done before, though the memory of it was hazy. He remembered he liked that, liked it when the crook of his neck was licked and kissed at. So he listened to your sounds, tried to remember the best places to nip at and kissed across your chest as his hands stayed moving there.

Distantly, he registered the pressure building low in his stomach--a warmth that spread with every short rocking of your hips. But he was too caught up in the whirlwind of you that he barely noticed. Not until your hand in his hair was tugging at the roots, pulling him back and sending a delicious wave of something down his spine.

“I want to see you too,” you said, his head still firmly in your grasp.

That made him pause, made reality creep in where it wasn’t welcome, because how could he compare to you? But he pushed that down, swallowed it like a stone. Because you wanted to see and he had not the strength to deny you.

“Yes,” he managed to breathe out, lifting his arms for you to pull the sweater over his head and toss it to the floor.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady #Its gettin nsfw in here #god what a sweet boy #just wants to please #the praise kink is strong with this one

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

His nosed brushed against your cheek and you were so close, so close, so close.

“Selfish?” he breathed against your neck, “There’s nothing selfish about this.”

The scant distance between your lips was closing ever faster and Francisco tried desperately to remember the last time he’d done this. Because he was, in fact, going to do this. In truth, that choice had been made the second you appeared at his door. He’d far past the point of no return.

God, how long ago was it?

So many years had passed since the time he’d clumsily kissed his roommate in the nun’s home for boys. Those days were so shrouded and foggy in his head. Francisco remembered the sweet slip of their mouths, the knocking of teeth, the way he cupped the other boys face in his palms.

He hadn’t thought of that in ages.

Hadn’t wanted it in ages.

Hadn’t let himself want.

Oh, but he did now.

It seemed as though neither one of you moved. Rather, the celestial masses of your bodies could no longer resist the pull of gravity. Simply easing into each other as though this joining had been prophesied. Inevitable, ineffable, inescapable.

You whispered his name in the minuscule seconds before the gap between your faces closed. Such a small question, your lips grazing his as it left you.

“Francisco?”

He knew what you meant. Knew what you were asking of him, and found himself more than willing to fulfill it. And when your lips miraculously pressed against his, still closed and unsure, the world melted away. There was no more church, no incense and candles and Books with rules that forbade this kind of ecstasy. Now there was just this tiny house with its circle windows and big arm chairs where he could hold and taste you.

Glorious.

The sound that left him was shameful, but you drank him down like the finest of communion wines. He followed, mimicked the way your lips glided against his--warm and wet and everything he knew they would be. His nose pressed into you as he shifted, pulled you closer with a hand curling up your throat and holding your cheek.

It began slowly, just a lazy sort of melding together and breaking apart. You caught his eye only once and any thoughts of regret shattered. How could he ever be ashamed of such perfection?

And when you leaned in, ran your tongue along the seal of his lips, he could not yield to you fast enough. The feeling of you in his mouth, licking to the backs of his teeth was the truest form of prayer he’d ever experienced.

He wanted more.

Needed more of you on him.

Pulling back just a fraction of an inch, he nudged against you until your eyes met. The silent request floated in the air around you.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady #it's smoochin time

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

The mugs were empty now, sitting abandoned on the coffee table, but Francisco’s mind was not.

His tongue felt thick and heavy behind his teeth. The weight of you against his side was maddening. So soft. There was no ache in his neck or arms, just warmth at all the points your bodies touch. He didn’t even have to think when you sat beside him, his limbs moved of their own accord, arranging themselves so your head rested neatly under his cheek.

The worn neckline of his sweater bowed and dipped, exposing more of your bare chest that seemed to glow in the dying light from the fireplace. The glitter of it caught his eye with each breath you took. Slowly, he turned his face so his nose was pressed to the side of your head, breathing in the fresh scent of rainwater and shampoo.

Heavenly.

Why had he been deprived of it, of this, for so long?

What a cruel trick.

What an injustice.

Under him, you shifted and Francisco pulled away so you could lift your head and meet his gaze. Silently, he mourned the loss of your weight on his shoulder. You simply stared at each other for a precious few seconds, silhouetted by the embers burning themselves rapidly to dust. Another crack of thunder made him tense, made tip closer over whatever ledge he was walking on.

“Why didn’t you come to see me?” he whispered, hushed lest the Lord overhear what he was about to say.

You furrowed your brow and he watched your eyes drift lower down his face, “I did, on Sunday--”

“No,” he cut you off and leaned in closer, forcing you to look up. “Why didn’t you come back here?”

You were so close, he could feel your breath ghosting over his face. It smelled like warmth and cinnamon tea and everything good. It occurred to him suddenly that he would very much like to taste it.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady #mouth numb #tongue on fire #papi is gettin spicy #well spicy for him

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father-garupe · 3 years

Text

After you disappeared up the steps, Francisco busied himself making a pot of tea, trying not to soak the counter further with how badly his hands were shaking. The little home’s usual cozy atmosphere was sparking. The air was charged with potential and he couldn’t ignore the growing feeling in his gut that something was about to happen.

He had just finished pouring steaming water into two mugs when you walked back down the stairs.

For the second time that night, Francisco’s heart stopped.

His sweater hung from your shoulders, displaying delicious swathes of skin and the sleeves swallowed your hands. Just like when he held them. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. You looked...

Well, you liked you were his.

Swimming in his clothes and surrounded by the scent of his detergent and soap and suddenly his face felt very hot--everything felt very hot--and his stomach churned and he shouldn’t be thinking about how good you’d feel pressed against his chest again--

“I’m so sorry you got caught out in that storm,” he padded over to you with the tea, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “I doubt anyone will be coming out to tow during this weather, but you’re more than welcome to stay here for the night.”

“Are you sure? Really, I don’t want to--” you started, but he shook his head. Francisco would never refuse someone in need. Especially not you, never you. It simply wasn’t in his nature.

He kept babbling on about rotten luck and the rain until your fingers brushed across his as you took the cup from him. Francisco looked at you then and part of him wished he hadn’t. The other never wanted to look away.

Head tilted back, you met his eyes and there it was. That moment, just like the last time you’d been here, when you’d held him, when he might have kissed you.

“You’re still cold,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question, the little blue tinge of your lips and fingers gave it away, but you answered regardless.

“A bit, yeah,” you nodded and he longed to tuck the loose hair away from your face.

“Would you like to sit with me and warm up?” Francisco wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but it felt like the right thing to say. You seemed to think so too.

“Yes,” the single word left you in a whisper, hesitant, wary, but hopeful.

The way you spoke made it sound like he’d asked something far more scandalous. Maybe he had. But it was too late for that now, when he was already leading you around to the cushioned arm chair and setting down his tea on the coffee table.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

(A continuation of Claire and @father-garupe)

Keep reading

#every good and perfect gift rp #millenialcatlady

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