he is laying naked on top of me and clearly my most important mission in life is to kiss and kiss him until my lips bruise, and he doesn’t mind one bit.
It’s morning, and his
pillow personal heater cuddle buddy ”significant other” is not next to him. She is above him, having woken him up with a kiss to the cheek, she smiles down at his grumpy face and starts talking—probably something about breakfast, he’s not sure, all this time together and his Spanish hasn’t gotten any better.
She urges him out of bed, sending him off to bathe and then dress in his nicest clothes as if they were attending mass this morning, which he knew they weren’t because it wasn’t Sunday. He complains the whole way to the washing room, and all the way back to
her their bed. He continues complaining when she helps comb his hair and takes out the darn tangles, but he lets her do it because she is gentle , and he is very afraid of her. He notes that she too looks very nice, and when he comments on it, she merely smiles and says thank you.
Now she’s tugging him out the door and oh what, they are headed towards the church, and suddenly there is a priest and he is reciting things, and looking towards him as if he expects him to say something, and Arthur’s not entirely sure what’s going on, but he thinks he might be getting married.
butterknife. don’t ask
They are walking from the church (she made him attend again) when his wife is suddenly stopped by another woman—a “bruja” he remembers her telling him. She looks like a complete loony to him, but they begin talking and this wide smile breaks on her face, as if she just won all the money in the world. Arthur shrugs, thinking it’s something about food and busies himself with hiding behind Xóchitl as Spanish guards passed by, which proved to be difficult seeing as his wife was very, very small.
He forgets about the conversation, even though she tried to explain to him in her broken English; he simply nods along as if he understood and appeared as happy as he could to match her excitement, hoping to maybe hurry her up so he could eat dinner and maybe get some cuddles before having to leave in the morning.
It wasn’t until later—about three months later, when he returned from his voyage—that he realised what Xóchitl was trying to tell him.
She greets him happily, with a basket of food in one hand, whilst the other was rested on her round, very pregnant, tummy. Arthur looses feeling in his legs and falls to the ground.
USMEXI; using an oc’s name for Mexico. hetero.
The world meeting is over, and her flight isn’t until nine o’clock tomorrow.
Alfred decides to show her around New York, despite her protests of the cold weather; she was donning numerous layers of warm clothes, and looked a little chubby, and he laughed and found it adorable and she pinched his arm as well as she could through her gloves and his own winter coat. She had never seen snow in such abundance before, much less walked in it or was attacked by it via a snowball Alfred threw at her when she wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t her fault, really, she had only seen Newark Airport, her usual hotel, and the UN Building on her visits to his grand city, and downtown Manhattan was so strange and yet familiar, she couldn’t help but look like a tourist and stare blatantly at the skylines.
She hadn’t said much throughout the tour, but Alfred kept the atmosphere lively by pointing out historical sites, good places to eat on a Saturday night, and street performers. He would usually be worried about someone’s lack of talking, but this was Xóchitl, and she was just probably in one of her weird moods.
It wasn’t until they were in Central Park (he was talking about dog sweaters), that she seemed to burst out of her trance. She reached out towards his face, cupping his cheeks in her hands, and pulled him in to kiss him. Quickly. Chastely. As if she had been working up the courage to do it and her bravery burst out suddenly like champagne from a bottle.
She pulls away, eyes just as surprised as his, "I wish to spend the rest of my life with you." and she kissed him again, this time with less haste. He returns the kiss on the second try, shock being washed away with overwhelming happiness.
germano, using a friend’s alternate name for lovino.
Vincenzo wheezed, violently attacking the jar of dill pickles by banging the top against the sink—from behind him, Ludwig meekly offered to open them, but was met with something like hissing from the tiny Italian.
Okay he wasn’t tiny, he was just tiny compared to the beefcake that was Ludwig, I mean really—
Ludwig coughed into his fist, and went back to chopping some zucchini as his husband angrily cursed the jar—something about sending it’s mother to hell, but Ludwig’s Italian was rusty, so he wasn’t entirely sure. He had tried to offer the other advice on how to open it (tap it gently against the counter, tap the top with a spoon, run it under hot water—), but Vincenzo was a stubborn lil’ bitch and refused any help from the other.
It wasn’t until he held the jar over his own head, prepared to break the thing on the ground, that Ludwig snatched it away and easily opened the thing for him.
Ludwig slept on the couch that night.
The first time he says he loves her, he is drunk.
He had realized it over a week ago, when he was half asleep, laying in his bed, covered up under the sheets and watching her get dressed for work (it was strange to see just how comfortable she was around him now, especially since at the beginning of their relationship, she’d never go further than kissing him without flushing with embarrassment and meekly pushing him away), and suddenly it hit him. He loves her. The feeling hadn’t slowly risen up in him over the time he had known her, but instead had decided to be a coy bastard and spring up on him while he was vulnerable and sleepy.
He made something that sounded like a cough and a small yelp and she turns to him in alarm for a second before relaxing and giggling a little at how silly he looked wrapped up in the sheets like a little kid trying to hide away from his mother in an attempt to avoid school. She kissed him chastely on the forehead, muttered a goodbye, and left for work.
Now, a week later, he is sitting down at the small, round table in his kitchen, staring down a bottle of whiskey while he waits for her to get home. Eventually, he decided to down a shot to try and sum up the courage to tell her—it had been building up in him over the course of the week, and quite frankly, he hated it. But one drink turns into two, then three, and by the time she gets home, there is no bottle and he is so tongue tied and loose that all he can manage to do is mumble something about how he’s tired and hungry and cold.
She’s not angry (that’s something he likes about her, most other women would be mad at the sight of their…boyfriend of sorts being drunk off their rocker), but instead amused, and maybe a little disappointed; she picks up him carefully and sets him down in his bed like his mother used to do to him when he fell asleep in the car, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. She takes off his shoes, tucks him in the sheets, and leaves a glass of water on the bedside table before leaving to change into pajamas. When she gets back, she believes he is asleep and carefully, so as to not disturb him, lays in bed beside him. When she settles down and is right about to fall asleep, he tells her; words slurring together almost nervously—very suddenly, and her breath is caught and she turns over to look at him but he pretends to be asleep, maybe he could pass it off as mere sleep talking, yes, that is his grand plan, but it all backfires as she smiles and kisses his nose, "I love you too."
He admitted that there were a few things he didn’t like about her: the way she tended to hog the covers, therefore forcing him to sleep closer to her on nights when the heater didn’t work in order to get any warmth, the way she always managed to get her way through her cooking or her kisses, or sometimes a combination of both, the way she got easily jealous and insecure whenever a female co-worker of his got a little too affectionate for her liking—but probably the worst thing about her was that she made him feel…things…He wasn’t a feelings person by any means until they got together, and suddenly he found himself thinking about her in the middle of the day whilst at work, or taking better care of himself because he knows that she worries too much about him and everyone in her life.
Though he didn’t like these things, he had to admit that there were worse things about him to deal with, and he began wondering what things bothered her the most about him, and why she chose to stick with him anyways.
The first time they were intimate together, he had had a headache and she was only helping to nurse him back to health when a kiss got out of hand. Perhaps ‘out of hand’ is a bit of a mean or wrong way to put it since he quite enjoyed it and only assumed she did too from the way she coaxed him into it again the next day.
The best part was that his headache left him, but he didn’t say that because she was sure to take it the wrong way and leave him to sleep on the couch in his living room in his own damn flat whilst she took up the bed. When had they moved in together? She still had her own apartment (he liked staying there because her fridge was always stocked with food), but more often than not, she ended up staying with him. She claims it’s because it’s closer to work, but he remains unconvinced because she lives in the flat right below his, and if anything, it’s a longer walk to her car, but he doesn’t complain because now his bedsheets smell like her.
He had learned several things throughout their time together. One: she was too modest to do anything beyond kissing (which was okay, because he wasn’t very touchy-feely either), two: she will, in fact, force him to cuddle with her (which was also okay because she always smelled nice and was something like an extra pillow mixed with a heating pad), and three: she had very very soft skin (possibly his favourite thing about her, it’s tied with how clean and nice she always smells).
She’s not ticklish either so whenever one of them rolled over in their sleep, there would be no giggling to wake him up, and when he did wake up in the morning, it would always be to the smell of coffee that she had made for herself before leaving for work because she always made too much. It was almost like having the perfect roommate. Always quiet, always clean, always leaving him coffee in the mornings,
and always there to kiss him goodnight.