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yeyinde · 1 year

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carried currents | Rodolfo Parra x Reader

⇾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."

#it's about damn time #rodolfo parra #rodolfo parra x reader #rudy parra #rudy parra x reader #rudy parra x you #rodolfo parra x you #rudy cod #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty rudy #cod smut #kinda

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mincedpeaches · 6 months

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I have never seen anything but incredible cute cywhirlgate art but knowing how absolutely filled with melodrama cygate was toward the end of the idw run I think cywhirlgate getting together would be so messy at first. Like Whirl joins them on their travels and him and Cyclonus start having a ton of close and intimate moments right. Cylonus is just as dense about as he was when he was first falling in love with Tailgate like "wow I love traveling with my boyfriend who i love very much and also now my best friend who I care for so very very much and have had a charged history with and charged moments with constantly now that surely mean. nothing more" meanwhile whirl is sitting there while Cyclonus tenderly holds his claws as a friend or whatever with a constant internal subliminal monologue like "I am not in love with Cyclonus I am NOT in love with him i dont even like this guy i dont like anyone and I dont want to get in between anything I am not in love with him. FUCK."

MEANWHILE Tailgate is like oh my god am I losing my boyfriend to WHIRL of all people. What is happening here. Like to him Whirl was that one friend that you dont necessarily dislike but youre just cordial with because of your significant other you know. Very third wheel type situations happening for Whirl. But suddenly its not that anymore. And as time goes on Tailgate is letting it get to how he acts with whirl, like being more stand off-ish. And whirl being whirl he cant help but do the same in response. And cyclonus does not notice this. But THEN right as this is boiling over Tailgate and Whirl end up in some Locked Room situation. Where theyre away from Cyclonus on their own for a little while, like days. And things get so heated and angry that they. make out a little about it. have hate sex even. Then after that since theyre STILL stuck with each other in the locked room, they air it out and bond over their shared love of cyclonus and inclinations towards violence and chaos. And break out of their locked room situation with said violence and chaos. Then they get back to an incredibly worried Cyclonus and Tailgate is holding hands with Whirl and happily goes "me and Whirl had sex, is that great?" thinking this would solve all their problems. only for Cyclonus get all worbly eyed and be like "you cheated on me?* 🥺 You wanna break up with me? 🥺🥺" And Tailgate is ready to flip some tables as he has to lay out how Cyclonus and Whirl have been acting recently. And how all evidence points to Cyclonus being in love with him. Whirl is wisely silent for once, which is basically taken as affirmation by all those who speak whirl-ese. Then Cyclonus is like "so you want me to break up with you... to be with whirl? " because Cyclonus is too stuffy and old fashioned to know what polyamory is or think about being in a threesome*. so only THEN, once whirl and tailgate awkwardly and patiently explain all their feelings and make their case for being polyamorous do they all get together. and theres is a least like three other overdramatic hullabaloos about it when theyre in the introductory phase because they (cylonus again) kind of sucks at polyamory at first.

*this is assuming conjunx is default assumed monogamous. Which. Amica arent. hello mr roberts would you care to comment on polyamory among transformers and how it relates to mpreg pspsps

#draft clearing #draft date of origin: september 19th 2023 #this post is actually both correct and funny BUT i know it gives off huge 'i aint reading all that' energy #like. the formatting alone.#cywhirlgate #mtmte #tf blogging #maccadam #transformers #mincedthoughts

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feastfic · 1 month

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yoshka :worble:

!!! Oh I'd be far more than happy to do this funny little fella . Many hearts sent out to Yoshka :)

(This might be shorter than my normal posts but only because I'm not sure what exactly to write about him atm oopsie !!!)

• His Host-ing skills are as good as Kratcy's, it's just that he's never actually done any hosting so he doesn't exactly know what to Do. He has anxiety about performing well given that he's the assistant to the actual host and it's that anxiety that causes him to fumble. Were he not holding himself up to a standard he would do MUCH better than he already was.

• Speaking of Kratcy actually, he's (already obviously, but still) INSANELYYYY different from him. Yoshka takes the words of the contestants to heart, much to their and his own benefit, but occasionally to his detriment as well. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and it's easy to dig your nails into it with a few poorly placed words. Do take care to keep your harsher criticisms out of earshot of him.

• He'd develop genuine friendships with the contestants were he not in a higher position than them. Trust me, he'd love to be friends with (most of) them, it's just that he has a job to do!!! And he's incredibly sorry that he can't be as close as either of them wants, but it's just how the cookie crumbles, unfortunately.

• He's crepuscular. Which definitely has its effect on how he hosts; it's very easy to tell when he's pushing himself into daylight hours to host because it's what Kratcy does (who's nocturnal but chooses to host when the sun's out anyway, on account of him just. Deciding that he doesn't need to sleep. But I digress.) and Yoshka honestly kind of strongly dislikes hosting that way. Give him a nice dusk or dawn and he'll fare much better. (Huh. Kind of set up for failure now that I think about it. He's pitied on by folks like Putty and Cuppy, but they don't say anything about that.)

• Everything and anything you say to him he WILL take literally. I.e.; when he asked everyone what they wanted to eat and Kurasan said a knife. He was a little confused and a LOT worried, but who is he to deny someone what they wanted? Even if he does everything he's asked of/told to, he still thinks about it sometimes. Y'know, wondering if he could have done something a little different, more "satisfactory" in a way.

• He doesn't technically need the wand that he uses for recovery/revival, he just finds it a nicer alternative to...using his power directly. Think of it as him redirecting that power instead into a vessel, so that it appears that he wields nothing like what Kratcy can do, and instead relies on something else. It's for his peace of mind and, per his assumption, it also helps the contestants feel less intimidated by him. Can't exactly go around recovering folks from his palms and doing other Strange Things without rousing some suspicion, y'know!

#cfmot #contest for millions of thousands #cfmot yoshka #инмт #инмт ёшка #игра на миллинов трысяч #hoping that is spelled right i am very rusty on my Russian ^^''

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