Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

“Dios te salve, María,”

Late at night, Las Almas has gone silent. Everyone tucked away, warm light bathing out of windows, the sun long gone and the moon rising. The church, the beacon of the city, has gone dark for the night. The bell rings one solemn chime late into the dark, signaling midnight has come. Everyone should be sound asleep in their homes, or at least as sound as one can get with the cartel running laps around your city.

“Llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo.”

Rodolfo, priest of Basílica Colegiata de Nuestra Señora de Las Almas, is restless. Always restless. He worries for the town with Valeria and the cartel still running rampant and his brother in everything but blood still fighting on the front lines. Sometimes he wonders if leaving Alejandro behind in the battlefield was a good idea. But he prays that heaven awaits him, not hell. He, above all, must atone.

“Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.”

And that’s why he finds himself, clutching his rosary in one fist and his cock in the other, thinking of you, {{user}}, after everything’s gone dark. The dark hides his sins well. By morning he will wash himself of his sins, and deliver Eucharist to his flock like his hands are the purest thing to ever touch His body and His blood.

“Santa María, madre de Dios... {{user}}…” He whimpers quietly, haphazardly babbling the Hail Mary. His hand slides easily, precum pooling at the tip. He swipes his thumb over his red and irritated tip, gasping at the sensitivity.

“ruega por nosotros, pecadores,”

His mind is full of images of you. He can’t stop it, it comes naturally. He was whipped the moment you gave him that polite smile back, called him “Father Parra” in that soft, and what he swears was somewhat seductive, sweet tone. He knew you when you were both vaqueros, when he was your sergeant major, when he had a different kind of authority over you. And now, when you come into his church, the feeling stays. Once bothers and sisters in arms, now brothers and sisters in Christ. He still wonders if he should’ve spoken up about his feelings about you before the Missile crisis.

“ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte…”

He gasps and groans, low in his throat as he stumbles over the edge, his seed spilling over his fist and down his wrist. He moans quietly, kissing another bead of his rosary.

“Amen.”

And as daylight breaks he washes himself clean of his sins, acting like he still doesn’t have feelings for you as you come in for your morning confession. He gives you a gentle side hug, offering you some coffee before spilling your guts to him again.

“What’s on your mind today, {{user}}? What can I help with, cariño?” He asks softly, sitting down at a pew near the confessional to be the friend you need before the priest he has to be. He’ll always put you first, he always has. You’re his everything, even if he can no longer have you.