#agapito fluff

It’s 11 pm. I’ve been avoiding schoolwork all day and I’m in no rush to fix it. I've been writing fanfiction, of sorts, for the past 3 hours. On the bright side, the first draft is done! My back hurts from sitting so long while my butt hurts because I’ve sat on a wooden stool this long. I need to take a break but what to do? Oh, what to do? My weekly planner is wide open on a bookstand to my right. I could be productive, or I could keep avoiding them... So the planner is closed now. I’ve reorganized pens in a pen cup for the seventh time. Is there a limit to how many times a person can adjust a desk lamp before going insane? There has to be something else to do but what? As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from my Baby. We’ve been official for 6 months so our dates are a lot more casual nowadays.

“Angel, I want attention. Unlock the back door” I’m aware it doesn’t seem like it but this is how he asks to come over. He won’t come over until I respond giving the green light. “Bold of you to assume I’m home and not partying at a random frat house” We both know I’m not doing jack at 11 pm on a Friday. Nonetheless, it’s fun to pretend I have a flourishing social life. “That’s cute. Back door please” Alright, now to get up and- ow, fuck, ouchie, ok, hold on. *POP* There we go!

I should probably pick my room up real quick. I made my bed earlier today so that’s not a problem. The svallerup rug from Ikea collects dirt a lot faster than I expected. Although would he really notice? It’s not bright in here. My dresser by the door looks fine. The futon is in couch mode, so there’s not much left I don’t have to clean up for him. In reality, I’m not cleaning for him, I just like having a clean room. The last thing I do is turn on the fairy lights above my head then light a vanilla candle. I know he’s coming over to cuddle or really do anything involving him getting affection. I might as well make my bedroom reflect that, right?

I half-jog upstairs to unlock our back door. Why the back door? It’s not because I love Jesus. Let me explain. The living room floor creaks way too loud. Also, my parent’s bedroom is right next to that door. The side door alerts our dogs to start pitching a fit. How can they hear it from the opposite side of our house? I may never be able to understand. Moonlight drifts halfway across the backroom. Sparse nightlights cover the remaining needed light. I flick on the backdoor lights followed by opening a few blinds to let more light in. Their orange glow overpowers the moonlight near the backdoor.

For whatever reason, the moon is far brighter tonight. Or my pupils are hella dilated because I’m thinking about my Baby. Either way, moonlight dusts over parts of the backroom and kitchen ahead of me. One last light to turn on. An LED light above our kitchen sink smashes through most surrounding darkness, making it almost impossible to see into the living room. White cabinets outline our kitchen. None of the cabinets match each other in this house. It’s as if this house was built in parts instead of planned out from the start. The counter is occupied with things you’d expect; a bread box, knife set, fruit basket, coffee pot, and an air fryer. Yet, there's evidence real people live here. Crumbs from a snack, mail by the fruit basket, half-empty coffee pot, as well as children’s toys forgotten all about

Everyone else is snuggled up in warm beds, sleeping. I can pick out each person’s snoring pattern when they poke through tonight’s ambiance. There are moments where quiet feels like serenity, others where it feels like emptiness. I can’t decide which one I’m feeling because I realize I’m about to have a visitor. A cup of coffee sounds like the perfect way to waste a few minutes while waiting for my lover.

Coffee cup out of the overhead cabinet. A coffee spoon from beside the coffee pot. Fake sugar off the shelves. Room temperature coffee in the pot from this morning. French vanilla coffee creamer out of the fridge. And just like that, a proper cup of coffee is served. Light reflects off the glossy coating painted over our pale coffee cups. Mom considers it a priority to have everything match or look cohesive. Appearing put together is a source of pride for her. A cup is a cup however matching cups make her happy. My ears perk up at hearing his tires pulling into the driveway. My coffee creamer swirls in the cup as he walks up the driveway. The coffee spoon clings against the inside of my coffee cup simultaneously with the creak of our back gate. All that’s left is to wash off this week’s coffee spoon then put it back. I have only a few more seconds until my Love is with me again. I’m a sappy and hopeful romantic for him, get off my back. He’s learned how to silently open the back door and if I didn’t have good peripheral vision, I would’ve yelped.

Intimate hands snake around my hips as a tender kiss is pressed against my neck. I can feel the tender smile tugging at his lips after the kiss, he had a really good day? His body is pressed against mine as he murmurs “Honey, I’m home~” behind my ear; earning a soft chuckle from me. I turn to face him, wrap my arms around his neck, and greet him with a deep kiss. This time on the lips. “Welcome home, my Love.” He’s so close to me, I can smell the cigarette he had on his way over here. The absence of alcohol or weed stench affirms he didn’t have a bad day at work. I can’t wait until these interactions become a daily occurrence. This man is breathtaking under normal circumstances; but, under the glimmer of moonlight,,, I can’t form a single thought while looking at him. The raw admiration and love this man holds in his eyes? Who could stand a chance against him? Not me. Wrong choice.

His hands linger along the sides of my hips. I hold his arms in an attempt to keep him close to me, just a little longer. “I brought you a few things. I’ll go set them on your desk.” He knows gifts aren’t my thing in spite of that he claims I deserve the entire universe. I breathed out, “Ok, I’ll be down in a minute,” then started moving to get my coffee cup, as well as a few snacks to bring downstairs. He starts heading downstairs content with how flustered I am. WAIT A FLUFFING MINUTE THE FANFICTION IS ABOUT HIM!! I whisper yell ‘Baby’ until his head pops back around the corner. I threaten him to not touch or look at my laptop. It was a pathetic attempt considering what he does for a living. In my defense, I tried. I forgot he’s in essence an overgrown teenager who will do the exact opposite of what he’s told. Wanna know what he does? Grin. I’m so fucked.

Agapito dashes downstairs and leaves me in unadulterated fear. I’m frozen in place, trying to come to terms with my fate as his footsteps fade. It’s not smut or anything, just a simple night and morning routine imagining that we lived together. This is going to be so embarrassing. Please spare me this treacherous fate and undying embarrassment. Deep breaths, just take deep breaths. Get your coffee then snacks then, simply, accept what’s just happened.

With arms full of snacks, I shut my bedroom door as gingerly as I can. Setting the cup on the dresser right by the door to make this a little easier. He’s standing at my computer, reading through the last page. Oh hey, he brought me Rolo’s as well as 3 Musketeers. Nice! Oh wait, he’s done reading. His shoulders aren’t tense; his breathing hasn’t changed; all the same, he’s just standing there. “Why did you write this out instead of doing it?” That’s a good question tbh. My Baby’s voice sounds hurt, despite that, he’s trying to hide it. Ok, he needs a hug. Now to throw the snack on the bed. He needs a rib-crushing hug and you bet your butt I’ll be the one to deliver. I tug at his elbow so he’ll face me then pull him into me. His shoulders are right under my chin when we’re facing each other. I bury my face in his neck while my arms hug him as tight as I can. Except why is he upset about this?

His love for me is nothing to scoff at. He loves me the same way he wanted to be loved when he was younger. We’ve figured out he’s catching up from his pre-teen years and onward. So about 13 years without a stable romantic relationship. When he was trying to court me I had to call him out all the time for manipulation. I know he’s terrified I’ll think he’s not good enough. He has episodes of frantic attempts to meet all of my needs, even if it’s not asked for or needed. What is going through his head? Does he feel like he’s not good enough? That he’s not loving me enough so I have to turn to a fictional version of him? Does he think he’s not good enough for me to do this stuff with him? None of those are true, obviously. I explicitly stated that in the story he just read. It doesn’t mean he won’t get stuck inside his head. I need to tell him the truth. Even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t, he’s a finely-tuned human lie detector. One more deep breath. Squeeze him a little tighter. Look him in his eyes and come clean.

“The reason I didn’t just act these out is because, I didn’t know how to ask for it.” His expression shifts from confused hurt to understanding. I start rambling, “I want to have these experiences with you. I’d give anything to have that life with you but we've only been dating for 6 months and I just, wasn’t sure, how to phrase it.” I’m choking on my own pulse from emotions. I realize I was shifting my weight left to right when he pulls me in for another hug and kisses my forehead. We stand there in each other’s embrace for a few moments before he suggests I come to his house tomorrow night. We both know what he’s suggesting. I can’t help but adamantly agree. Excitement zips through my body thinking about tomorrow night. A smile pulls at my lips as I ask, “Do you mind if I wear this shirt tomorrow night?”

Mornings always start the night before. Fix the coffee pot then add a pinch of salt to the grounds, put the laundry in the dryer, dishes in the dishwasher, getting spanked as Agapito walks by, wiping down the counters, making sure the trash isn’t full, sweeping the floor, and straightening the couch pillows. We switch off who does what. If I cook then he does more cleaning, if he cooks then I do most of the cleaning. Tonight was no different. After our light cleaning session, we’ll gossip about our day. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter with his body pressed against mine. He’s holding me against him by cupping his hands under my ass. Our faces are inches from each other as he mutters through his day. I can still smell the spices from dinner. There’s no way to know if my face is heating up from his breath or the intimacy I feel in this moment. His voice is too soothing. I’m too incapacitated to do anything other than stand there and listen to his sleepy voice. How hushed it is from being so close. How the occasional vocal fry prevents him from articulating certain words. How I’ve forgotten that time is still passing. How I’ve ignored the entire world without minding for a second.

My eyes are hardly open so I’m not paying attention to what I’m looking at. I don’t notice anything other than how I feel; correction, how we feel. I’m brought back to reality when he kisses the bridge of my nose followed by smiling at me. “How was your day, my Angel?” His eyes are so soft. He is so warm. Is this euphoria? Is this the high he’s been so addicted to? Oh wait, I have to answer him. Sentences, brain, English; come on, you got this. “Oh, well, uhh, It-it was ok.” pausing to trace my fingers along his obliques. Our breaths begin to mimic each other as I watch how his muscles move under his skin. He chuckles with light amusement then trails his hands down my thighs. He jolts me into reality by picking me up to place me on the counter. Fuck, he’s too hot. God damn it. “Hey, counters are for eats not for seats,” we both chuckled at my remark. He holds my chin and pulls me closer to reply “I can fix that, if you want,” and just like that, my face is red while he’s reminded of the power he has over me.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say sleep hasn’t seeped into my voice but I fight through it. Gentle rambling on about my day as I trail my fingers along his jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone, down the arms holding me so close to him, then back up and through his hair. I accidentally lost myself in the stubble growing back, the fading hickeys we share, the shirt that he isn’t wearing, how solid his arms have become, then how soft his hair is. God this man is a poison I’ve overindulged in. By the end of my rambles, my arms are draped over his shoulders and the romantic tension is thick enough to choke on.

Sounds of soft kisses, deep kisses, and sleepy kisses give variation to the whirl of the dishwasher a few feet away. The fumes of Clorox wipes clashing against the aroma of dinner are melting away. Agapito’s body wash is pushing through the cling of cigarette smoke. Nodes of forest wood with undertones of sweet shea butter. His hands are dancing over my body. I can feel him smiling against my lips; of course, I smile back. Snaking my hands along his shoulders, mapping out his body in my mind, the familiar lines coupled with soft skin meet my fingertips throughout. Sooner or later, meandering my way up to his hair. Gentle combing with the occasional tug followed by an amused scoff from him.

“Let’s go get ready for bed, ok?,” Agapito whispers the suggestion against my neck while moving his hands in preparation to carry me to the bathroom. That’s not going to end well because he’ll be preoccupied with giving more affection instead of not walking into a doorframe. One last kiss, then I’ll get down. Don’t get me wrong, our hands were entangled on the way to the master bathroom.

A couple’s sink rests atop walnut cabinets filled with various medications, hygiene products, mismatch towels, and extra toilet paper rolls. Each side of the sink has a cup with a toothbrush and toothpaste as well as the typical handsoap. Following our routine, we brush our teeth together. He uses mouthwash while I get our skincare routines ready. “Darling, can you show me how to use these again? There’s so many steps.” Bullshit, there are 5 steps. Facial cleanser, under-eye brightening cream, rejuvenating toner, hydrating serum, plus nighttime moisturizer. His love language is physical touch; moreover, this cocky man will use this fact against me any chance he can get. “I’ll do the cleanser and you can get everything else. Ok?” I don’t want to be awake longer than I have to. Knowing the person I’m living with, I know he’ll mess up on purpose so I’ll correct it for him.

Sometime later we drift into bed and up against each other. I’ve changed into his shirt paired with his boxers while he remained in his PJs pants. And nothing else. I felt his hands drift up our shirt to hold me against him as if I would disappear at a moment’s notice. Agapito squeezed in a smoke sometime between skincare and getting in bed. Somewhere among the cotton blend bedding, sleepy affections, and his clothes draped over us, he put his cold-ass feet on my bare legs. “You absolute--”

Not to be a cliqué hopeless romantic but waking up in his arms? Immaculate. His faint snores between occasional muscle twitches add to the experience. The comforter is the perfect wingman because it keeps the bed pleasant enough to envelop each other but cool enough to not wake up in a sweat. His cheek is squished against the satin pillowcase while his hair is tousled and tangled from sleeping. My baby is so cute when he’s like this, I could lay here all day without getting bored. The smell of coffee drifts into the bedroom. It’s 7 am on the dot. Time to launch mission impossible, getting out of his arms and out of bed without waking Agapito. If I fail, I’ll miss the morning sun. The plan starts at my legs. Step one: draping them over the side of the bed and, slowly ever so slowly, moving to get a foot on the floor. Whew, step one is done. Step two? Twisting or shifting until I can slip down the bed and wiggle out of his iron grip of unconsciousness.

Mission impossible status: successful. 3 sharp beeps ring through the house; coffee’s ready! Now all I have to do is slip into the kitchen to get started on-- “Angel? Come back here, it’s too early” Shit. Fuck! Babyyyyyy, go back to sleep. I climb back on top of him, surrendering myself to his inescapable hold once more. He’s so sleepy that his lips seldom move when we kiss, I doubt his eyes have opened for the first time. He groans then lazily smiles at me when he finally accepts that he’s awake. “Good morning my beautiful, irresistible, amazing-” gets cut off with giggles and me diving my face into his chest. Damn, it’s 7 am. I’m not ready for his flirts. Heaven have mercy. The little cracks laced through his voice. The soft vibrations through his chest. The octave-lower-than-normal pitch.

I nuzzle my nose into his neck as we debate over breakfast. He offers to make it since I made dinner. It’s only fair, he argues. Chocolate chip pancakes, brown sugar bacon, over-easy eggs, accompanied by blueberries. His favorite breakfast to make as well as my second favorite breakfast to eat. It’s 8 am by the time I can convince him to get out of bed.

Agapito straightens up the bed when I’m making our coffees. His is plain black, like a psychopath, while mine has coffee creamer and sugar, like a well-adjusted and contributing member of society. Now we can enjoy my favorite part of our morning routine. Sitting outside, sipping our coffees, we simply notice the world around us. The humidity of the morning dew is still hanging in the air. The birds aren’t as loud this time of day but I can still hear the non-stop songs forming their conversations. The sound of tires heaving people to their jobs or where ever else they’re headed. The public buses huff out their sighs every so often to join in the ambiance. Agapito’s working through his morning cigarette while making sure to turn away from me when he exhales. This morning is like all others where I find comfort in the mundane consistency. Like all other mornings, I’m leaning against his bare shoulder and gazing into my coffee cup. I meditate on the steam that swirls along the rim of the cup then floats to join the world. I meditate on how I can feel the heat of the cup through my sleeves. I meditate on the sunlight that sparkles against the grass, the parts that the surrounding trees didn’t filter out. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Everything is still. And I am at peace with that.

We relax into each other’s presence, not needing clumsy words to infect the morning, not yet at least. Sipping or smoking until there’s nothing left, meaning it’s time to go back inside. No, my stomachs not growling. What are you talking about my Love?

The house was built on an open floor plan with no shortage of windows. The sun drops that leaked through the blinds bounced off the sparse dust particles suspended in the air. They almost looked like they are emitting their own light. The house radiates a calm, slow pace before my everything starts prepping breakfast. In this moment, I feel how tired I still am and that I wouldn’t argue going back to bed. Tender material blanketed over us in a cozy bed and loving embrace.

After setting the table then making both of us another cup of coffee I stand on the other side of the kitchen to simply admire him. He opened the blinds a little more before he started cooking. The sun has lost its golden tint but his skin tone is naturally tan, balancing it out with perfect precision. I’m left mesmerized as he navigates our kitchen. The light is drifting over his body, glowing against his complexion. Peaks and valleys shifting or disappearing as he moves; admirably showcasing the immense work he’s put into his physique. Adoration swells through my chest. Not because of how physically enticing he is; it’s because I’m reminded of how much pure shit he went through to become the person he is today. The person who doesn’t let me hate myself. The person who doesn’t let me stay inside my head. The person who fosters my interests. The person who is too willing to smother me in genuine, unconditional love. The person who will drop everything at a moment’s notice if I ask him to. The person who started smoking outside and turning away from me to blow smoke.

It almost hurts in a way. I hope he knows how much I love him. I hope he knows how grateful I am for him. I hope he’s picked up on all the details I weave into our relationship to show my love. I might as well become more vocal with my feelings if I’m having these thoughts. That requires being vulnerable,,, I’ll play with his hair and call him a butt head instead. That’ll totally communicate everything, right?

“Are you enjoying the show, sleepyhead?” Oh hell, he’s almost done with breakfast. I didn’t realize I was that lost in him. There’s no way he didn’t notice my staring. My suspicions are confirmed as I watch his god complex take over his demeanor. Agapito’s tender hands wrap around mine, the heat from the stove adheres to his palms. My hands find their way to his sides then tenderly pull him closer to me. I end up brushing my lips against his jawline on my way to leave a hickey behind his ear. A mantra of I love you’s among Thank you’s cascade through my mind then into my body. I swear he heard them because when our eyes met again he replied, “I love you too. Are you hungry?” Hushed voice, possessive eyes, gentle hands, dynamic love. He’s too good at this. I’m too debilitated by him. I want more.