#im v rusty posting fic on tumblr ig 😅

[xappetites]

sleep together in the stars

Rodolfo Parra x Reader | just fluffy riding this man on the couch and a bunch of praise because it's sundress season | word count: 1,696

“What?” 

It’s a sweet question, asked in the sweetest tone, with Rodolfo’s darling eyes on you.

It half takes you by surprise, mostly because you’ve been standing there in the middle of the kitchen, stuck in your head. Staring at him as he dries his hands and finally sinks into the loveseat. The last plate snug in its cupboard and table cleared. 

And you don’t really know how to answer, being honest. Not sure how to put into words the feeling that’s been eating at you for most of the dinner, turned sobremesa, turned merienda. From the moment Alejandro turned to your boyfriend, big smile and shining eyes, clapping his shoulder so hard, Rodolfo almost spilled his coffee.

“So, you got yourself a spitfire.”

It’s a compliment, you can tell even if this is your first time meeting Colonel Alejandro Vargas, shining star of the Mexican Special Forces and the most important person in your boyfriend’s life, after his mom. It should feel like an honor, how readily and completely you’re ‘approved’ of, but something in your stomach fucking flips in the most unpleasant way.

It's the story of your life. A long line of:��spitfire, bossy, strong willed, bitch. Sure, you’re friendly; people like to be around you, just not for a romantic relationship. Not when you’re as vocal about what you like and don’t like as you are. No man wants to feel like they’re in the middle of a test and bombing it , you’d been told once. You can’t even take a joke.

But it was easy to dismiss, coming from men who had let you down in one way or another; who made it clear that they weren’t looking for a partner, not really. You could have a good cry about it, work through the frustration and move on.

With Rudy, it’s a terrifying thing. You like Rudy, like him for real; feel your chest swell almost painfully when he so much as looks at you, especially like this, when he makes it seem like you’re the only person in the world for him.

You don’t want him to tell you you’re impossible, don’t want him to even ever think it. Honestly, if you could, you'd love nothing more than to curl up in his arms and do whatever he wants, because you trust him with the outcome. You could leave your heart in his hands and bet money on him being careful with it. You just don’t want it to end up being a burden.

So you keep this ache to yourself; choosing instead to kick your shoes off and find your way to him, to stand between his legs, bracketed in and fucking safe.

Even this feels too much, though, the rushed way you bend in half to kiss him. And you try to soften your desperation, sweeten the way you gasp into his mouth, that turns to humming when his hand grabs a firm hold of your thigh. His solid, calloused fingers indenting the flesh over the summer dress you usually wear to impress him.

“Amor—”

“Please,” you interrupt, clinging to his neck like you’re begging, because you are. And he must see it clear on your face, since he drops it in favor of tugging you down to straddle his lap.

“Come here.”

He guides you, waits patiently as you settle. Steadies you with nothing more than a light touch over your waist and his eyes tracking the path of your skirt. Riding high, inch by inch, just enough to show him how your skin slowly meets the rough fabric of his jeans. And the roll of his hips that follows might start as an instinctive reaction, but he makes it this slow, dragging thing against you.

You’ve come to know this as something Rodolfo does from time to time, a teasing so loving and full of promise that it makes your teeth ache. He’s not riling you up just to pull away, he’s simply taking his time. A constant buildup of careful kisses, like he’s trying to coax the thought you won’t share with him out of your mouth.

He shifts again, close as he can get; forcing your stance wider, lower, until you feel his half hard cock bumping insistently against your clit. And his hand lands, encouraging, over the curve of your ass. So, you start rocking your hips, short of breath at the way he lets you taste his moan straight from the source.

“Así, amor. Steady.”

He means don’t rush, you know this too, let me feel you. It’s in his eyes, pleading, until you give him the rhythm he’s looking for. You’re rewarded with open, unashamed praise falling honeyed on your tongue.

It has you panting, straight up sobbing, mumbling his name into the silence of the living room with every word he speaks into you. To the point that the forced, controlled pace makes your thighs shake and then Rodolfo’s hands are guiding you to your feet again.

“No, Rodolfo—“

Your voice sounds almost panicked even as he moves with you, hooking both thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and nuzzling the space between your breasts as he peels the lace off you.

“I’m here,” he says, almost mouthing it against your body. Sighing a warm breath that raises goosebumps wherever it reaches.

You can feel him smiling at how easy it is to fit a finger inside you, to add another one in the second stroke.

“God, you’re so wet for me.”

“Yeah, for you. Just you, Rudy,” it’s a babble, your answer. Caught in your throat with the effort of twisting your body to kiss him, because you know it’s the only way to distract him enough to work his cock out of his pants.

He moans, loud. And your mind goes lopsided with need until you’re sinking down around him, like a fucking puzzle piece, like it was always meant to be.

You tighten inside, a spasm of muscles, and he’s sure you don’t know what you do to him; how hard it gets him to see the tension fall off the line of your shoulders at just the weight of him inside you. How your sigh has him clawing his way back from the edge. It’s a contented sound, a ‘finally back home’ sigh, and it has his heart on his throat, his pulse beating in double time at the base of his cock.

It’s why he suggested this dinner, most Vaqueros have a similar system with one another, someone who understands the implicit request in a meeting like this. The ‘in case something happens to me…’

A measure Rudy never thought he’d resort to, until you were the first thing on his mind while he crouched behind a half dilapidated car, shots ringing all around him, and he realized there’s no coming back from you. He could spend every night watching you melt against him, feeling your pretty little cunt holding him tight, and still beg for more. He’ll live his life hiding from his mom that your birria is ten times better than hers, he’ll take the crabby, pre-coffee, good morning grunt and he’ll kiss it off your lips to make you smile to start every day.

He doesn’t know if you know, but he wants you to, so he tells you. Mouths an ‘I love you’ into your collarbone in time with the rolling of your hips. Rough and sweet and useless to resist, like the tide coming into shore.

Pleasure rises from his gut, tensing his spine and driving his hands up, up, until he’s cupping your cheeks, keeping you in place so he can watch your eyebrows pinch with effort.

“I love you so fucking much,” the confession comes out out of you stumbling, mostly involuntary, pulled out of you by the fingertips that skim over the back of your neck. And you don’t notice the tears ‘till Rodolfo swipes them away with his thumbs.

“Why are you crying then, amor?”

It’s overwhelming, both the affection he graces you with and the way he thrusts up, gentle but insistent. He feels so deep, such an intrinsic part of you, that you will never be the same after this. Nothing past the panic in your gut and the humming in your clit, shoving you towards an orgasm that feels like it might undo you.

“I don’t wanna lose you, I don’t want you to get sick of me,” in the aftermath, hours later, you’ll be surprised that he made sense of the whimpers that have your shoulders heaving, but he does.

He rocks you in his arms, one hand sliding to grab your hair, not painfully, just pressure that grounds you. An unwavering hold so you can let go, coming so hard that you’d be screaming if you could.

“I’ll never get sick of you, I can’t get enough of you.”

You barely hear his words, attuned instead to the groan that warps them, putting emphasis in weird places as he fills you. But you believe him, with his heart pounding against yours. You surrender to the warmth of him all over you, taking over your world.

“You know he meant it in a good way, right?”

Rodolfo’s voice is soft, probably much softer than he needs to be once your breathing’s evened out and you’re simply slumped there against his chest.

“What?”

“When Alejandro called you a spitfire —you flinched.”

You do it again right then, a quick full-body-contraction that earns you a kiss on the crown of your head.

“It’s just, no one’s ever meant it ‘in a good way’ before.”

“He does. I do. I won’t ever say it again if you don’t like it, but I promise I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

“Ok,” nodding is uncomfortable in the position you’re in, hoping he understands how much you trust him.

Rodolfo promises a lot more, he thinks. Though, he knows it’s too much right now, so he keeps it quiet in his heart: he’ll show you he’s telling the truth, he’ll keep coming back to you from the worst of it. And he’ll never let you go.