#i spent most of the day chasing sunbeams so that he could lay in my lap and be warm because my body temp wasnt enough to warm him up

[first-pass]

I know he was sedated, but to me he died right then. Because that's not what he looks like when he's asleep.

[shadow-assassin-blix]

Bees and Sunbeams

Santiago ‘Pope” Garcia x Estranged Wife!reader

So this might be a two parter. Not sure just yet. But this is a bit angsty. Alludes to something traumatic but I don’t specify what it is. Title is from a Henry David Thoreau quote. Santi being an idiot. Frankie being adorable with his baby.

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia was a complicated man. He spent 3 years in Colombia chasing down a drug cartel. Some would say that that was honorable. If they knew the truth however…

He went to Colombia for another reason. He was running from his marriage. He loved his wife, he truly did, but she was never quite the same after…

Even now, he couldn’t even think of the word. Didn’t want to admit that he essentially abandoned her when she needed him most.

After everything that happened with his team, he couldn’t even gather the courage to go home to her. He’s been crashing on Frankie’s couch. Santi was sure, absolutely sure, that all that was waiting for him at home was divorce papers.

He thought over thing that he said to her, when he last saw her, wincing at how harsh he was.

*Flashback*

It was the day before he left for Colombia. He was packing his bag up, and she stood leaning in the doorway watching him.

“I just… I don’t understand why you are going alone? I could meet up with you in a couple of weeks? We could… find a little home there? It’s not a problem for me to work remotely,” She bargained with him, biting her lip.

“I’ve told you no. You are staying here. I don’t need your help, I just need to be away for a while,” He responded, frustration lacing his tone.

“’You need to be away.’ Feels like you’ve been away for some time already honey. I mean… I’m not the one who has been sleeping on the couch or cringing at my touch. I’m not the one who barely talks anymore nor am I the one whose been spending most of my free time at the bar,” She threw out at him, her voice breaking.

“What do you want from me? Huh? What? What do you want me to say?” Santi asked throwing the shirt in his hand down onto his bag, his hands resting on his hips.

“Are you cheating on me? Is that… is that why you want to go to Colombia on your own? To go back to your old routine of finding beautiful informants?” She questioned looking away from him.

“Yes. I’m going to Colombia to be with beautiful women, who don’t nag at me or drive me crazy,” He responded sarcastically.

She didn’t quite pick up on the sarcasm, flinching away from him. She simply nodded her head and walked away.

He wanted to call her back and tell her he didn’t mean it. But he was too blinded by rage and pain to fully think at that point. He just gathered his bags, and left, wanting to stay the night at a hotel, rather than risk another argument.

*End*

He had been at Frankie’s for about a week at this point, and he knew Frankie wanted him to man up and go home. He was just so afraid of what he was going to find if he went back.

Frankie sighed as he woke up to go tend to his daughter who was loudly informing him, that she was awake, and needed to be changed.

“Hello my princesa. Good morning mi vida. I know. I’m working on it,” Frankie cooed to her as he picked her up, to set her on the changing table.

He quickly got her a fresh diaper, and as he stared at her, he said, “Tio Santi is a bit of an idiot. Should we pry?” She giggled in response “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He picked up his phone and hit the facetime button next to Y/N. The phone rang a few times, before it picked up and her face appeared.

“Hi my sweet girl. Good morning. What’s up Frankie?” She asked after greeting his daughter.

“Can you come over real quick, me and Sophia want to go to store sans baby? Not that I don’t love her, but it’s easier than having to drag the stroller out,” Frankie requested, thinking quickly.

“Sure. I’ll be over in 20 mins,” She answered with a smile.

“Great. See ya in a bit,” Frankie hung up.

“Frankie. What are you doing?” Came Sophia’s making him jump slightly.

“Nothing. Let’s get dressed yeah?” Frankie said changing the subject making his way to their bedroom to dress.

A few minutes later, they were all dressed, and he was bouncing Isobel up and down, smiling at the happy giggles that came from her.

A knock on the door alerted him that his company had arrived and that a warpath had been created.

Sophia opened the door, and led her in. As soon as she stepped into the living room she stopped in her tracks as she looked at Santi.

Her face… was blank. She simply looked at Frankie with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, look at the time, Sophia. We should go to the store or something. Ya know. You two should stay here and talk things out, and I will deal with the pain in the ass that’s the stroller, shall we my girls?” Frankie suggested loudly, grabbing Sophia and walking out with the both of them.

Santi stared at his wife with wide eyes. He definitely wasn’t expecting to see her. His eyes gave her a once over and admired her curves. He didn’t think it was possible for her to look more beautiful.

“Hey Bee,” He said quietly, referring to her nickname.

Her nose twitched in response and she crossed her arms, looking down.

“That’s… that’s a nice dress. Is it new?” He awkwardly began, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah. It is. Bought it couple of months ago, along with some other stuff that were meant for my husband’s eyes only, but. It appears that he must have died out in the middle of a jungle, since I haven’t heard from in 3 years. Shame. He was so pretty,” She scoffed, glaring at him.

He winced, “Okay. I deserved that.”

They both shifted awkwardly.

She made her way into the kitchen, grabbing a beer, and popping the lid off.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” Santi asked concerned as he followed her.

“Shouldn’t you be out with one of your informants?” She threw back taking a large gulp.

“Baby. Can you please… just hear me out? Just… let me talk for 5 minutes. Then you can leave, or hit me or whatever,” Santi pleaded placing his hands on the island, staring at her softly.

“Go,” She said, gesturing for him to hurry up.

“I didn’t… I didn’t cheat on you. Either before I left or after. Yes, I had female informants, but I never… I never did anything with them, despite popular belief,” He started with a sigh.

“After… after everything happened… you were so. Different. So, hurt and in pain. Anytime I tried to help you, you pushed me away. So, I stayed away. When I got the offer to go to Colombia… I figured it would only be a couple of months. Enough time for the both of us to heal. Then we had that stupid argument where, I ruined everything,” He continued struggling to get the words out.

“I just… I figured you were better off without me… so I stayed. I ran from you. And I regret it so much honey,” Santi finished softly, not making eye contact. “Plus… I didn’t want you to see the monster I had become while I was over there.”

The silence was deafening after that. It was several minutes before she finally responded.

“I could never see you as a monster. I love you. Yeah, it took me some time to heal, but when I finally was getting better, all I wanted was my husband and all you seemed to want was a get out of jail free card,” She replied with a sniffle.

“I’m sorry. That was never my intention,” He apologized his hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the one that she was leaning on.

She allowed it and wanted to cry as he held it softly.

“How long have you been home?” She quietly asked.

“About a week. I was… I was afraid that if I came home, that I would be served with divorce papers. Afraid that I would return home to an empty house,” He admitted with a sigh.

“I’ll admit… I thought about it. Even had them drawn up after a year. Hell, I even tried to move on. Thought about going on a couple of dates, but…. Wound up not going through with them,” She confessed, fiddling with the beer bottle now.

“That’s… that’s fair. What… what made you not go through with them?” He asked curious.

She looked up at him, her eyes catching his, “They weren’t you, baby.”

He looked up at the ceiling, biting his lip, trying to control himself.

“Did you... uh... did you just quote Indiana Jones at me?” He questioned trying to not laugh.

“A little. Was it that bad?” She inquired with an awkward smile.

He shook his head, as he slowly came around to her side of the island. She followed him with her eyes, turning around as he came up to her. His hand reached up to brush an errant hair out of the way.

“Do you still want that divorce?” He questioned, clearing his throat.

“No. I just want my husband home, safe and in my arms,” She answered with a small smile.

“I think I can do that. I know I have… I know I have a great deal to make up to you. A full 3 years’ worth. If you need space at any time or want to set up rules or whatever, then let me know. I’ll do whatever I need to, to earn your trust again,” Santi promised her as he rested his forehead against hers.

She whispered an okay as she reached out to place her hands on his chest. He braced himself, preparing for her to push him away. He was pleasantly surprised when she instead wrapped them around his back, pulling him into her embrace.

He took a heavy sigh of relief as he returned her hug, pressing kisses to her head.

“First on the agenda, can we go take a nap? I had an all-nighter and I’m really tired,” She mumbled into his chest, as a yawn slipped out.

He nodded his head and led her over to the couch. He laid down on the couch first, and she gestured for him to shift on his side. He does so, and she lays in front of him. His arms curl around her, spooning her to him. Her hands held the one resting on top of her close to her chest.

They soon fell asleep at they got comfortable.

An hour later, the Morales trio walked up to their home hesitantly.

“Don’t hear screaming, nor do I see cops, so unless she murdered him quietly, I don’t know what we are about to walk into,” Frankie warned as he opened the door.

As they stepped in, Frankie sighed happily as the sight of his best friend and his wife, asleep on the couch. Sophia swooned softly, and Isobel just saw her two other favorite people and yelled happily.

At her shout, they both jerked awake, blinking rapidly.

Bee quickly got up, stumbling slightly, and made her way over to them. “Hi! I know, I didn’t get a chance to hold you earlier. Lemme make it up to you.”

She gently took Isobel from Sophia, and Isobel instantly began babbling away to her. Bee nodded her head and would respond back to her.

“Let’s go get your Tio, yeah? Would you like that? I bet you would, you love your Tio,” She said in a silly voice.

Santiago shook his head but took her from Bee as Isobel made grabby hands to him. He began to speak to her in Spanish, telling her how she’s the best goddaughter in the world.

Sophia then asked if Bee would help her unload the groceries, as Frankie made his way over to Santi.

Once they were out of earshot, Frankie guessed, “So. You two made up finally?”

“Yeah. We’re uhh. Going to go slowly, or at whatever pace she sets. But good news is, I’ll be off your couch by end of day. I’ve….. I missed her. More than I care to admit, because its… embarrassing to be honest,” He explained as Isobel tried standing on his legs, holding onto nothing but his hands.

“Good. I’m glad. Does she… does she know about what happened with Tom and everything?” Frankie quietly asked.

“Not yet. I’ll explain that when we get home. That’s going to be fun explaining,” He replied as he made Isobel sit down, after she almost fell off his lap.

Isobel made a displeased noise at him and turned to pout at her daddy.

“Oh? Tio Santi didn’t let you fall like a dummy, so now you want my attention?” He playfully asked as he took her from allowing Santi to stand up.

Santiago then quickly packed up his things. He didn’t have much in the house, most of his stuff was in the truck. He felt like he was invading their space enough as it is without all of his stuff piled up in a corner.

As he finished grabbing everything, Sophia and Bee walked in with the last of the groceries and were setting them down in the kitchen.

As soon as they had put away the groceries, Santi brought his things out to the truck, setting them in the back seat.

“Got room for one more, handsome?” Came Bee’s voice as she joined him by his truck.

He looked around and noticed her car wasn’t there, so she had walked over.

“Yeah. Think I do. I wish you wouldn’t walk everywhere though baby,” Santi voiced as he walked over to open the passenger door for her.

“I like the feel of the sun, and buzzing of the bees,” She replied as she made to step in.

She stopped, her foot on the frame, poised for her to hop in. She turned to him really quick and pressed a kiss to his lips. She ended it just as quickly as she began it, jumping into the truck. He looked at her stunned, a smile growing on his face. He shut the door and made his way to the driver’s side.

She glanced at the middle seat as he started up the truck, biting her lip. She then slid over to it, not looking at him as he glanced at her. She simply buckled herself in, and then as he put the truck in motion, she reached over and laced her hand with the one resting on his lap.

He lifted their joined hands and press a small kiss to the back of hers. He stopped to get them food at one of their favorite places, and as he pulled up to the house, he turned the truck off. He looked over at her, gazing at her lovingly.

She smiled at him, and he leaned down to capture her lips into a kiss. He gently cupped her cheek as they kissed. They pulled away after a moment, trying to catch their breaths.

“C’mon. Let’s get inside. You have some making up to do as I recall? And I’m hungry,” She flirted as she pulled away, snatching the food and rushing out.

He grabbed the drinks before catching up to her. They stepped inside and as she moved to set the food on the table he took in the site before him. The one place he thought he would never see again:

Home.

[soulsdontbreaktheybeeend]

You live to empty my lungs. Part 6 (Final Part) | Joker x You

Summary: A reunion which doesn’t let you decide between pain, desire, fear and lust.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Words: 3,212 | Smut

A/N: It felt like forever to write this, phew! Since this is the last part of my litte story, I wanted to thank everyone of you guys, who liked/commented so lovely on the previous parts. You really have no idea how much that means to me! It’s such an amazing feeling to see you enjoy reading it! Love you all so much♥ Also,  enough with the cliffhangers! Unless...?

Had the Clown Prince of Crime just admitted to be scared to death? By the thought of losing you?

He had.

 Your mind tried to process the words that had flowed out of his mouth. The intension to do so was doomed by failure. The encounter in the park got you so rattled and in turmoil that until now, you were not aware of the weight of the fact that he is truly back. The ground in the park seemed to swallow you up and held you in shock, whereas the present realization pulled the ground from under your feet. How many hours and days did you spend wishing for nothing more than that? That he would come back. Hours and days that felt like eternity itself when you realized that even after countless pleas to the universe, he wasn't.

Now he was, and he was standing just a few feet away from you. With the realization that you had become aware of, a greed and lust flared up in you that had built up over this eternity of pleas that had seemed so hopeless for so long and now came to the point of a tremendous inflammation.

Joker stood sideways slightly turned away from you as you approached him determinedly. Your hands rose and grabbed the collar of his jacket tightly to pull him eagerly towards you. Your lips pressed hungrily against his. That you hadn't heard the end of his confession yet, you didn't even realize. There was no stopping you now and you let your heart take control of your head. It felt like you had to make up for all the time you had missed during his absence. Your senses shut off as your tongues intertwined in a oh so sensual dance you were sure stopped the time. The silence in the living room was filled with deep groans which rocked each other high.

Joker was reticent at first, disbelieving and taken by surprise by your drive, but as soon as he put his arms around you and felt your naked back under his palms, he too, fell into lust. Into lust, that had also accumulated in him through all this time.

He pressed you close to him, his hands repeatedly stroked your naked back from bottom to top. First his fingers clawed into your shoulder blades up to your neck before he let you feel his fingertips scratching down your back. The red streaks you earned from the fridge earlier, now replaced by those hands that had a power over you that no one else could ever bestow you. Noticing that you were not wearing any underwear when his hands passed through the opening of the dress down to your bottom, he grabbed there firmly and pressed you to his growing erection, earning a whimper from you as you felt his member press against you.

The sensation of his hands all over you made you bury your fingers in his greasy hair and claw wildly up to his scalp. Your firm grip there drew his head back a bit, making you chase his lips even hungrier. Both your heads tilted from side to side while your open-mouthed kisses were marked by panting.

You always found sweetness in the taste of his grease paint in line with his cigarette breath. Your attempted distractions with other men to satisfy your cravings and to ease your anger did not come anywhere near the incomparable experience and perfection that Joker's touch triggered inside you. His scent and the warmth of his tongue on yours, as well as his hands on your body, revealed a belonging in you that you did not expect to feel again. With this statement, you were fully embracing him.

Your desire for more, for a reunion of integrity, carried the two of you towards your bedroom. The small vase on your dresser bit the dust when you knocked over some decorations in your carelessness about everything else in this world, when only Joker and you existed in this moment. The moment you walked him to the edge of the bed, even this world stopped for a moment. He pulled away to catch his breath. You were grateful for it, you needed it too, but the dark look in his eyes took it right away again.

Joker tilted his head, a look full of affection adorned his face as he stroked a strand of your hair behind you ear. His hand remained on your cheek and you put yours on top of it, sinking into his touch. The gap between you closed again when your movement caused his knees to give way and he fell backwards onto your bed. You crawled into bed with him, onto him. His legs found room between yours as you kneeled over him. You arched your curves as you lowered your upper body to reunite your lips after glances of desire. Joker felt your breasts pressed against his chest, as he moaned into the sensual deep kisses and his hands immediately found the soft skin of your back underneath them.

His touch causing you to lose control, your whole body snuggled up against him. Your lower belly rubbed against his length in the movement, causing both of you to moan in appetite for more.

You supported yourself on your elbows while one of your hands found its natural way back into his hair. Your other hand lay against his cheek as you pulled away slightly. The light from the living room created a dimmed atmosphere in combination with the one from the street lamps that cast their rays through the window into your bedroom. You stared from his dark shimmering eyes down to his lips, his make-up already smeared. Your thumb caressed his exposed scar before it slid down to his lower lip. With a little pressure you stroked over it to pull his lip down. You could feel his hardened length twitch while in arousal his mouth fell agape as he watched your eyes fix his lips.

You couldn't keep your lips off his for long. Too much had you missed the feeling and the taste of them. They felt so good against yours after all this time. The warmth of the inside of his mouth, feeling his hands on your curves and hearing his longing moans which you loved so dearly, warmed your body from the inside like those treasured first sunbeams did after a long icy winter.

Joker placed his strong arm firmly around your lower back and carefully swung you around. Hair that fell into your face, he stroked lovingly from your face. His hard length pressed against your thigh when he leaned against you. You moaned softly at the contact, while you lost yourself in his eyes.

   It has never left you cold to see what you were obviously able to do to him. Before Joker, you had never felt such a sense of belonging to someone, mentally and physically. Knowing that he, the Joker, always felt the same for you always made you feel special. Not in the aspects where it might have seemed special on the outside. To enjoy the power, the attention, and the reverence of others. No, it was much more what all the others never got to see. His true self. The man who only dared show you his vulnerable side. You had stripped him down, and he had let you do so.

But it had also been the other way around.

Before Joker, when you spent most of your time alone or at least unrelated, you had unintentionally built walls of independence around you that seemed to grow over your head from time to time. When you have been responsible for yourself for such a long time and start to get along well, it grew difficult to let anyone get close to you emotionally. To reveal the depths of your innermost self, down to the last corners, where even you hardly dared to enter, became unimaginable for you. Until Joker came into your life. And oh, did you have these cloud-high walls the both of you had built, teared down to the ground and deeper at a rapid pace.

  Somewhere in the depths of his eyes you dived down until you were abruptly trapped. Darkness encircled you, pushed closer and threatened to drown you.

When you became aware of the reality of Joker's wordless disappearance, these very walls were quickly rebuilt and thicker than ever before. And yet not thick enough, because the moment your eyes met in the park, they immediately tumbled down again. That was what made you so angry at yourself most of the time. That he could still make you so vulnerable after all this time. You swore you'd never let those walls fall to the ground again. And yet it happened. And they did it with a lightness that terrified you to your core.

Your lungs constricted at the thought and just before he leaned in to caress your lips with his own, you put up your arm to the small space between the two of you, pushing him away.

“I can’t.” You breathed. You sounded so small and helpless, you hated it.

You turned around to sit up at the edge of the foot of the bed, one hand running through your hair while the other covered the anxious features of your face. “I can’t. You should leave.”

 Joker leaned on his elbow, just as you had left him. A worried and hurt look graced his face as he remained rigidly in his position. Everything was so beautiful just now, as beautiful as he had only been able to dream of for the last months. A frenzy which he never wanted to abate again. Every inch you moved away from him made him suffocate more.

The mattress gave in when he set off to crawl to you. Part of you had hoped he would just get up and go, while the other wished he would take you in his arms and never let go.

You certainly felt him coming closer. His inner thighs pressed against your outer ones as he positioned himself behind you. The edges of his blazer tickled your bare back before the soft fabric of his yellow vest pressed against it. You couldn’t help but savour the feeling of it. An arm circled slowly around your upper body to the hand that still hid your face. When it touched you, you grabbed it and led it away from you.

“Please leave.”

But if Joker had learned one thing about himself and therefore about you, it was that he shouldn't be doing exactly that at this point. Not after he had seen the walls fall behind your eyes, again. Not after you kissed him like your life depended on it minutes ago. Instead, he carefully grabbed your hand and led it up to your shoulder to receive it there with his warm lips. You automatically lilted your head slightly to the side and your eyes closed under the comfort of the sensuality of his touch.

You tried your best to keep your tears down when you said, "How can I be sure you won't be gone when I wake up tomorrow? Or the day after? Or the day after that? How can I sleep at night with the fear that you-"

Joker didn't let you finish expressing your biggest fear. His other arm reached around you, putting his index finger on your lips to shush you. Your lips spread, by him interrupting you as you spoke, your hot breath against his finger while you could still feel his against your knuckles. Your eyes closed and memories shot into your head that made you feel so secure. He flattened his palm against your soft cheek. His thumb caressed your bottom lip, as he finally answered your questions.

“The man who threatened to hurt you,” he started, while he still avoided to speak ‘kill’ out loud, “will no longer be a threat. I spent my last year covertly hatching a plan with my men to take him down. The night before we met at the park, we succeeded. We've done it so secretly that not even the police know about it yet.” You shivered at his softly spoken words against your neck.

The hand on your shoulder pulled away from yours. Joker reached into the pocket of his red blazer before he put both of his hands in your lap, holding the polaroid between his worn fingers. In all the turmoil you had completely forgotten that you had left it on the sofa. Your breath faltered when you saw it in his hands in front of you. He looked over your shoulder from behind. His eyes followed your hands, which you carefully placed over his. Your thumbs gently brushed across his rough skin.

“One phone call from me to my men and they will reveal who has done it and most importantly why. No one will ever again allow themselves to even think about searching for your identity.”

“Maybe that's the wrong way to think.” You told him, as you carefully took the polaroid out of his hands and reached for the dresser next to you to lay it down. Joker put his arms tight around your stomach, he couldn't quite understand your thinking. His words still lingered in your head before they finally settled down. Realizing you trusted his words, but did you really want to go on living like this? The fear would still not let you go completely and lurk somewhere in a corner of your mind until one evening he would be on the move longer than planned.

“My point is, that perhaps it would be better if we took the offensive instead.” You elaborated, fully aware of all consequences.

“Which would also mean that the whole city would know that you belong to me, y/n. Including your workplace, and so on.” Joker replied in disbelief with a hint of proudness to your words.

If you were honest with yourself, you couldn't have imagined anything more appealing. Your life had been so boring and tiring the last few months, it’s been coming out of your ears. The thought of finally experiencing something exciting again, having no limits and above all not having to leave Joker's side, no more playing hide and seek, was what spurred you on most. May the whole town, the whole world know that you belong to him.

You smiled to yourself and thought back to the moment you sat down at the bench at your favorite spot in the park, as you thought the next few days wouldn’t be easy on you. Although you couldn't have known then that your unemployment would end so surprisingly quick and that you might get into the sleazy business with the Joker instead.

“Well, you’re lucky. I got fired anyway.” You said dryly.

Joker formed the beginning of a counter-question on his tongue as you turned to the side and put your finger on his lips.

"Enough talking. I need to feel you.” Your words sent shivers down his spine and so did his next touch on you as well.

His fingertips slid ever so slowly over your shoulders and pulled the straps of your silky dress down your arms, causing the dress to find its way down to your hips, exposing your torso. Slowly he let the back of his hands slide along both of your ribs to the curve of your hip. He leaned back slightly to track his hands on you and watch your movements responding to his touches on you. He pressed himself tightly against you again, before he reached and massaged your breasts delicately. His touches indulged your senses. He made room at the crook of his neck as he felt your head to fall back in delight. The slit of your dress that presented most of your right leg jumped into his eyes. He grabbed the backs of both of your knees, lifted them and pulled them outwards over his knees, taking control of spreading your legs with his own. His hand landed on your knee before it moved up dangerously slow along the inside of your thigh, while he suckled on your earlobe and kissed the sensitive skin beneath it.

With every inch he touched you more, heat rose inside you, which found its way out as dampness between your legs. He remembered every erogenous zone and knew exactly where to touch you to turn you into a moaning mess.

His hand reached the sweet spot between your legs before you raised your arm and reached back into his green locks. Your firm grip pressed him closer to you, making his moist kisses on your neck and shoulders greedier. His erection pressed keenly against his slacks and your lower back, as he spread his legs wider, doing the same to yours. The movement in combination with your dress resulted in a slightly cool wind against your slick folds that made you flinch. Your free hand crawled into the blanket beside you, as his fingers started to explore your wetness.

“Oh god, I’ve missed you so much.” You barely managed to mumble. You could hear him purr against your soft skin in respond to the feeling.

As much as you relished his touch, you were overcome by the feeling of having to touch him too. You grabbed his hand and swung your legs over his to get up. You turned back to Joker and he looked at you with hungry eyes as your dress slipped off your hips and kissed the floor. He took off his blazer and vest, unbuttoned his shirt and slid further onto the bed, leaned back and supported himself on his elbows. Then you crawled back to bed and between his legs. Your hands brushed across his bare chest, removing the sides of his unbuttoned shirt. You stared deeply into his captivating green eyes to find the same desire staring back at yours. While he put his thumb on your lower lip, playing with it, you couldn’t restrain yourself. Slowly you began to lick his finger from bottom to tip, looking him directly in the eyes. He groaned deep in his throat as his gaze filled with lust, fixed on your swirling tongue. Straddling him, you sucked his thumb fully into your wet hot mouth, causing him to hold in his breath. Your seductive eyes watched his facial expressions closely, as you felt his cock twitch against your lower belly. You sucked a little harder on his thumb before releasing it with a sensual kiss on the tip while you never took your eyes off his. He exhaled long, releasing the breath he had held in.

“You know, you live to empty my lungs?” His voice filled with lust and devotion.

“And I live to guess your sorrow."

You grabbed firmly for his painfully hard cock through the fabric of his red slacks, lowering your body onto his as he wrapped his arms around you while drawing you into an invigorating kiss which  had you longing for an unforgettable night and a beginning of a new life the morning after.

 ♥ @sweet-nothings04 @pcrushinnerd @obsessedandthirsty @illusionsinmyhead @hhandley80 @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile @ithinkimawriter @jokers-doll @lynnesm @fleckcmscott @duhliriouss @call-me-harley-quinn @life-or-something-like-lt

[littledarlinwrites]

Dream a Little Dream Of Me

1940s!Bucky Barnes x Reader

This is for @teamcap4bucky Summer Sun and Fun Game! Thank you so much for hosting and for being so patient with me when I screwed up the due date. This was specifically written for @majesticavenger, I'm so sorry for the wait, but I hope it was worth it! Anywho, this is the first time I've wrote 40s!Bucky and I'm hella needy at the moment 'cause life, so leave me some love y'all! (Also, as soon as I can jump on my laptop I'll add a keep reading link, I'm not savvy enough to do it on mobile).

You trudged up to your Brooklyn apartment, your cat howling on the fire escape outside your bedroom window to be let in. A tired smile graves your face after a long day of work. A job you were grateful for, but bittersweet under the circumstances, patients sick or dying, and men going off to war only to never return either physically or mentally. You couldn't wait to hide away in your apartment for the rest of the night, draw a hot bath, listen to a radio program before nodding off to sleep. And, if you were lucky, maybe your apartment pen pal had sent you another note attached to your cats threaded collar. The thought of it made you pick up your pace as you climbed your apartment buildings staircase.

You practically ran into your apartment and to your bedroom window, flipping the latch and looking for the paper that was typically wrapped around your cats collar and tied with a baby blue string.

You found the paper, tying the baby blue string to an embroidery hoop with the others you collected. Today the note was short, just a song suggestion, something he would do on a rough day. You drew your bath water while turning up the radio station to catch the song. It wasn't until you were crawling into bed that the song played. Moonlight Serenade. You just hoped Lucky, the nickname he had told you to call him, was somewhere listening to it too.

The following morning you rushed around to get ready for the day and out the door in time. You scribbled your note to Lucky and wrapped it around the cat's collar before shooing it out the window.

----

Bucky laid on his bed, window open, waiting for the furry creature to make its way to him like it always did. Nox, she had said was the cat's name. Usually Bucky appreciated cats from a distance considering they would make him sneezy and itchy, but he couldn't help but enjoy the conversations with his pen pal. Luna, she had said to call her. A nickname her mother gave her due to her infatuation with the giant orb in the sky. He won every single match after he started talking with her, and he didn't consider that a coincidence. 

Bucky heard the mewling from the black cat before he felt it curl up on his chest. He scratched the cat behind its ears causing the cat to purr contentedly before he began unfurling the note attached to its knitted collar. 

“Silently if, out of not knowable

night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess

(only which is this world) more of my life does

not leap than with the mystery your smile

sings or if (spiraling as luminous

they climb oblivion) voices who are dreams,

less into heaven certainly earth swims

than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

losing through you what seemed myself, I find

selves unimaginably mine; beyond

sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:

yours is the darkness of my soul’s return

–you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars”

-E. E. Cummings

Bucky read the poem three times before reaching for a piece of paper and jotting down some words. He wrapped the piece of paper around the cats collar, tying it with a frayed blue string from his work shirt and turned over to get a couple hours of sleep, if only his heart would stop fluttering like a hummingbird in his chest.

----

Walking through your door was a complete relief, even more so after stripping your nurses outfit and stockings. The hot shower relaxing your stiff and sore muscles. You donned your nightgown before opening your window for your cat to come home while running a brush through your wet strands. Eventually you heard the telltale meowing of your hungry cat before you heard its soft padding jumps to your floor from your window. You manage to scoop the black cat into your arms before you have to chase him through your apartment. You pull the thread holding the note onto his collar and unfurl the note to read it.

My lucky star

You shine so brightly

My lucky star 

You guide me through the night

My lucky star

You give me hope

My lucky star

You guide me home

My lucky star

You help me more than you know

My lucky star

Oh how you glow

My lucky star

Please never let me go

The words set fire to your face as your stomach erupted with a swarm of butterflies. You pulled out your journal, pressing the note between the next set of empty pages. You turn your radio on humming along to the song as you lay in your bed fighting sleep just to think about Lucky just a moment more.

When you wake in the morning you grab a paper and something to write with as you write down a couple lines to a song, one of your favorites, before you got ready for the day, humming the tune on your way to work and all through your day. Except, you forgot to leave the window open for your cat to get out to pass on the waiting note.

----

Bucky was fighting sleep waiting for the cat to prance his way through the window before making a home on his bed. Sleep clawed at his mind, his eye lids weighed heavy and sore with a need for rest. And just like that, Bucky fell asleep for the first time without the sound of a cat purring on his bed.

He woke up and walked to the shipyard, loading and unloading pallets until the sun hung low in the sky. He felt off kilter all day. Like he was just a hair off with his footing and could never get it quite right. He was a bit more clumsy than usual. All signs that he should cancel his match tonight and back out while he still could, but he trudged on, assuring himself that he could use the money so maybe he could take his lucky star out on a proper date. He made his way to the Y for his match pumping himself up, he just couldn't help this nagging feeling though that he was missing something.

----

When you got home from work your humming abruptly stopped when you saw your cat staring at you in the middle of the room, tail twitching every so often. Your shoulder slumped when you realized you never let your cat out with your note. You moved slowly to refill the food bowl before making yourself a small dinner. Your gut sinking by the minute that something was wrong. You went to bed that night hoping the feeling would pass by morning.

When you woke you realized you were running late. You dressed quickly before running out the door and to the hospital before checking your patient list, a relatively short one, but you had patients to attend to nonetheless. You made your way through your rounds before stopping at the last bed. A mess of bruises, a boxers fracture, sprained wrist, 2 broken ribs and the rest bruised, a black eye and a concussion. However, one look into the man's eye that wasn't swollen shut took your breath away. You decided then that blue was your all time favorite color. You checked his pulse, administered his medication which involved rousing him from his slumber, and making sure his bandages were fresh and in place. You turned to leave but stopped short at the site of a baby blue work shirt with frayed edges. You thumbed over the loose threads and noticed it was missing a few as if they had been pulled and cut for a purpose. The faintest whisper escaped you.

"Lucky?" A few beats passed before you heard the man you were just attending to clear his throat.

"Luna?" He asked confused. Your hand flew to your mouth as you gasped. You couldn't believe the man that made you blush on more than one occasion, that had worked his way into your dreams even though you had never seen his face, was now your patient.

"You okay there, doll?" He asked. When you barely nodded telling him yes he began to move as if to get out of bed sending you into a flurry of motion. 

"Lucky, you're hurt-"

"Bucky. I mean, my real name is James Buchanan Barnes, but most people call me Bucky." He grits out as pain shoots through his ribcage.

"Well, Bucky, you're hurt, you shouldn't move much quite yet." He nods as he waits for the wave of pain to pass.

"What happened to you?" You can't help but ask.

"I, uh, work at the shipyard during the afternoon, but at night I box. Damn good at it too. Guess luck just wasn't on my side last night, doll."

"Uh, Y/N. My name that is. My name is Y/N." A smile made its way onto Bucky's face.

"Why didn't you write back, doll? Didn't think my on the spot poem was that terrible." The giggle that managed to escape you at his humor about his poetry was like music to his ears, and he decided that he wanted to hear that sound forever.

"Sorry, that was my fault. I wrote you a note, I really did, but I forgot to open the window for my cat to deliver it. I loved your poem actually." A blush crawled upon Bucky's face at your words. 

"What was the note?" He asked curiously. 

"Oh, just some lines from a song, nothing special."

"It's always special coming from you, doll. What was the song?" This time it was your turn to blush.

"Dream a Little Dream of Me." You replied bashfully.

"What lines?"

"Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me."

"That's one of my favorites, doll."

The rest of your shift you spent at Bucky's bedside talking music, poetry, family, pets, friends, where your apartment was and everything else under the sun. You told Bucky you would come by tomorrow to spend the day with him since it was your day off. You couldn't wait to come back, although it was bittersweet realizing there would be no note to come home to. 

When you woke the next morning you heard a tapping at your door. You opened it to reveal Bucky standing there with a bouquet of flowers with a note.

I dreamt a little dream of you.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Sparks Fly (9/?)

A/N: Smut. Angst. Fluff. Insecure Thor. And a Coronation that looked really cool in my head.

After your husband has successfully put you off to sleep, he lays awake for a while, playing with your hair and letting the dark auburn strands slide through his fingers. Your head is cushioned on his shoulder, and your soft breathing tickles his neck. He’s cuddled women before. But none of it felt so right, not like this. He usually minded when his arm fell asleep, and the feeling of someone breathing in his neck was uncomfortable. But for you, sleepy and satiated as you nestled against him, he didn’t mind. He knew that in the morning, you would ache. He hadn’t been gentle, but you hadn’t seemed to care as you lost yourself in him. You kept asking for him to do it all again and so he had, showing you how to ride him and how it felt to surrender to him. It had been enchanting watching you enjoying yourself. It had been intoxicating. Thor had never had such problems keeping his powers in check, and he’s never had someone in his bed so eager to surrender to them. You had offered no resistance to him. That made him smile to himself. You trusted him. He was worthy of your trust, and that was a prize all its own. 

When Thor did finally sleep, he dreamed. He dreamed that he was chasing you, a much younger, smaller you around the columns in the Palace. You were giggling. Bare feet silent on the marble, blue and white dress in either hand so you didn’t trip. You ducked behind a column quickly, hand over your mouth to stifle your giggles, not realizing your shadow gave you away. Thor watched as four boys, your brothers, Callum, Jamie, Oak, and Rowan snuck up close to you, shushing each other. The oldest, Callum scooped you up like a sack of flour and laughing, tossed you to another brother. Thor was terrified that they might drop you, but each boy caught you, and each giggling protest was met with cuddles and tickles until you were laughing so hard tears ran down your face. Finally, Callum the oldest simply threw you over his shoulder and together with you still giggling and protesting, they all strode off down the hall.

Thor had been terrified, and he still wanted to set little you properly upright, but it warmed him some to see that they loved you so much. Half-grown men who always had the time to indulge you in a minute of play... or even if they didn’t really have the time, judging by their conversation, they indulged you anyway. He followed them until they deposited you at your mother’s feet with promises to take you to the river to look for a dragonfly to keep and left, waving goodbye to their mother. The queen looked like you. Almost exactly as you look now. In fact, no one could mistake you for anything other than her child. She holds out her arms, laughing and you climb into her lap, “There you are, sunbeam,” she said fondly, “I thought you’d gotten lost.” She kissed your forehead, and you smile, “No mother, I was writing a story for Matari... She doesn’t feel well.” Queen Talona smooths unruly curls from your face and nods, “I see,” she said, “Well, tell me about this story. Is it a happy story?” Thor watches as your mother cuddles you close and listens to you tell her your tale. You’re just a little girl. A baby really compared to the loved ones around you. Thor can’t focus on the words for the pain in his chest and the tears threatening to spill. 

He only comes back when the sounds of screams and battle outside burst into being. It comes out of nowhere. There is no time to prepare. No time to think. Your mother, a staff in hand, clutches you to her other side. She’s going to fight, Thor knows what he’s watching now. He watches Madoc drag your father, battered and pleading into the room and Throw him at your mother’s feet. He forces himself to watch as Talona hurls you over Declan’s back and commands him to run. To save your life. Thor is rooted on the spot. He sees you looking back over your shoulder, crying out to your mother, your father, to anyone who might be able to protect you, terrified sobs wrack your little body as fleet-footed Declan evades soldiers given orders to “Kill the brat.” And in one terrible moment, Thor understands your emotions as he watches blood flow over the broken pieces of Queen Talona’s staff. He understands the pain when you saw the red stain on the marble. You had watched them die. 

The god wakes with tears of his own on his face. He panics when he finds you gone until he sees the note on your pillow explaining that you had gone to prepare for the day. Thor lays in bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while after that. He grieves for the child you had been. And the person you might have grown into with your mother’s guidance. But he also thanks to the Norns for giving you the strength to survive it all. You are made of silk with a vibranium core, and he prays he never has to set his will against yours because he will lose. You are a Queen for the age of heroes, he reflects. You move Mjolnir as if it were a paperweight and you survived unspeakable horrors by learning to sing on the inside when they tried to choke your voice. And gods did he love you. 

Thor dressed with care for your coronation. It was getting dark outside, dusk was falling, and Samhain bonfires were being lit. The whole of the Forest of Sighs, all the fey gentry, all of new Asgard and most of the Avengers had been crammed into the Palace. He could hear the sounds of celebration. Songs being sung. About you, mostly. The Sidhe mostly seemed to regard your title as Queen of Asgard as secondary. Thor wanted to be offended by that, but given the circumstances, he supposed they were just happy to have you back with or without a king. The songs praised your beauty, your wisdom, the gold of your eyes, your freckles, the dark auburn of your hair, your light footsteps... it was a bit much even for Thor who’d spent part of last night trying to count your freckles as he went soft inside you and you were panting astride his lap. He’d given up when your lips were too inviting, and he’d gotten distracted. He smirked at the memory. He might be a lovesick fool, but you were no ordinary lady. You had soothed his every insecurity so smoothly that he barely had time to be insecure before you charged in with tender kisses and praise. His belly, his chest, his soft thighs... Even looking at himself now in his ceremonial armor, he couldn’t be bothered by his gut. The memory of you lavishing kisses on it to find places where he was ticklish or the soft press of your hands as you steadied yourself on his cock made him want to see you and drag you back to bed for just a little while. 

Once he is dressed, Thor seeks you out. Dusk had turned into star-speckled night, and it was time for you to be crowned a true queen of fairy. You’re kneeling at the base of a large tree. A golden oak tree with leaves, still emerald green, Lips moving in prayer or pleading, Thor can’t tell. “Sweetheart?” he asked softly, approaching slowly. You turn, eyes shuddering open and rise to your feet easily. Your dress is Gold, gauzy golden fabric that looks almost like armor. Split up both sides almost to your hips to allow you the freedom to move easily while still being so tightly fitted Thor knows you have no underthings on. Your hair is elaborately pinned up, and your jewelry is gold and emerald. You look like a Faery from a story his mother might have told him. You look up at your husband and smile as you wrap your arms around him. “Happy Birthday, my love,” he rumbles, stroking your bare back. “Thank you,” you say softly. Thor kisses you, a tender kiss. The one he was denied this morning, before taking your arm and heading inside. He promised you he wouldn’t make you do this alone and now he was going to walk you as far as he could. 

__________________________________________________________

Thor walked you to the throne room and kissed you soundly before going to take his place. No one is waiting to receive you at the door. There is no mantle for your shoulders. In the throne room, everyone attending is crammed in like sardines. A woman with golden eyes and white hair stands at the steps, a book on her outstretched arms. The not fey are gawking, heads turning this way and that.  They can feel the magic of the place, and it makes them restless. 

And then. There are drums. Slowly at first, softly. Almost too low to hear. And then steadily louder. Faster. Until they’re a thunderous roar and the Throne room doors swing open with a crash. You stand alone under the arches. Back straight. You’re calm, composed, and slightly smiling. Confidence in your posture Thor knows you don’t really feel. You walk forward slowly, every soul in the room kneeling before you kneel at the steps before the woman with the book. Thor can’t focus on the words, he’s too busy focusing on you, praying that you can feel him sending you silent support. 

A page trips forward, a long awkward box in his hands. He maintains his grip, only barely and his pallor at his mistake turns into a blush when you smile at him. Thor smirks, you smiled at that poor boy, and now you’ve ruined women for him forever. The White haired woman rolls her eyes but takes the box and opens it. Inside is the Staff Thor had seen in his dream. The wood bound with gold to mend it, the emerald gem surrounded by intricately carved woodwork. You look from the staff to the white-haired woman. You had seen it shatter. She reaches out a hand and brushes an unruly curl out of your eyes, a gesture of silent sympathy.

Of love. Thor realizes this woman is Titania, an aunt, The Queen of Summer. He absently wonders if Mab is in attendance or if she’s plotting with Madoc. “With this staff, do you swear to guide and protect the people of this kingdom? Do you swear to answer the call to bring Art and Joy to the world? And do you so swear to honor this duty until the end of your days?”  You meet her eyes and take a deep breath, “I do,” you say solemnly. Titania smiles, “Then take this staff and rise, Queen Y/N, Queen of the Forests of Sighs, Bright Born Queen of Story and Song. Rise and to your duty go.” You take the staff and stand, walking down the steps to the exact center of the room. Power rushed through you, and when you step to the middle of the floor, the sigils set in the marble glow molten gold. Once, twice, three times you bang the end of the staff on the floor, hitting your knees, staff still in hand on the third strike.

Thor realizes then what that staff is. Much like his weapons, it is not the source of your powers. But unlike his weapons, it is not truly a weapon. It is a receptacle for the acquired knowledge of those who have come before you. As you kneel, golden incorporeal figments take shape. Hundreds of them filling the space beside you, around you and in front of you. On either side, the forms of your parents take shape, either one resting a hand on your shoulder. They look down at you, and your father’s figment brushes a kiss against your hair before you rise and the figures fade. There is a silence and then a jubilant cheer. The crowd parts for Thor, and he pulls you in for a long kiss drawing another cheer as he lets you lead him to the celebrations. 

_________________________________________________________

It is a party to go down in history. Everywhere there is music and light and song. Embers of fires spiral towards the night sky and every stolen kiss burns your lips like strong drink. Thor does not leave your side. He coaxes you into eating bits of the dark bitter chocolate you love so much and keeps your wine glass full. He enjoys this almost as much as he enjoys you. It’s early morning and pink begins to streak the sky when Thor finally carries you to bed. You’re tipsy and sleepy as he undresses you for bed and he chuckles. “Well, my queen,” he murmured, “I had planned to make love to you, but I think that can wait until later today.” You pout prettily at him, and he nips your throat. “Your majesty really does need her rest,” he said, carefully unpinning your hair for you. He really does enjoy waiting on you this way. There’s an intimacy to it that he hasn’t felt before. He’s undressed women for a tumble in bed. He’s fussed over Jane Foster when she loved him. But this is different somehow. He likes anticipating your needs. He likes letting you be pampered and spoiled under his hands. As he pulls you into his arms and you cuddle up to his big soft belly, resting your head on it gently, you sigh, playing at pouting still. Thor only chuckles, “Later today is plenty soon enough for me to start a baby in you,” he teased. He feels your cheeks color rather than sees it, he simply knows it’s happening. “I love you,” you murmur sleepily, stretching and yawning. Thor smiles, his heart fluttering. With a political alliance, he thought he’d never hear those words. Only dutiful assurances of affection. Or at least fidelity. “I love you too, y/n,” he rumbles, rubbing your neck lightly, hoping to soothe you into sleep a little faster.

Truthfully, though he really does want children with you, until he’s in the moment, unleashing the full weight of his powers on you as he coaxes you into losing yourself to passion, he’s not in too big of a hurry to see you rounded out with his child. The thought makes his mouth water but... at three days into your marriage, you have time. As you drift off to sleep wine drunk and worn out from your day; Thor lets his own eyes close, satisfied for now that you are safe because he can feel you against him.

He wakes shortly after you and finds you luxuriating in a bath. Your eyes are half closed, and you’re leaning in the side of the tub with a book in your hands. Bubbles obscure most of your body, but Thor can already see the soft skin. He folds his arms and watches you for a moment, love all over his face. You turn the page and finally notice him, smiling slowly. “Come to keep me company?” you ask. “Have you been lonely, sweetheart?” he teases. “Very,” you reply, setting your book aside. “Well,” the king said, kissing your smiling lips, “ that simply won’t do.” He comes to you then, stepping into the warm water that seems to be flowing around him slowly, and settles back with a soft groan of contentment as you straddle his hips to be able to kiss him. Thor lets you fuss over him, enables you to rub soaps and oils over his skin. He stays still, murmuring encouragement. Gratified that he could coax you out of your shyness. He mutters to you quietly about how he lives to be touched and where promising to be putty in your hands if you use your tongue in specific ways. He puts your small hand around his shaft and murmurs in your ear all the ways he’d willingly let you torment him and all the ways you can use your mouth and your hands on him if you ever desire it. 

Thor makes it clear that his enjoyment of your body is not contingent on you doing these things but that he’d enjoy them if you did them. He murmurs his lessons in your ear as he strokes your folds lightly with his fingertip. He praises you making soft noises for him, you’re the quietest lover he has ever had and just once he’d like to hear you screaming your pleasure. You can feel Thor, hard and heavy in your hands and you bite your lip in want. He chuckles, “So soon this day?” he teases. He knows full well what he’s doing to you. The things he’s made you imagine. He can feel how hot you’re burning for him and somehow knowing that he can just feel it makes you both shy and more eager to have him inside you. He kisses you and kneads your hips and ass with his fingers before leaning back slightly and smirking at you, ‘As my queen commands,” he said, pretending to heave a beleaguered sigh, “Work, work, work.” his grouse turns into a groan when you slide down on to him, and he swats your plump backside. The rest of it is a blur. He doesn’t hesitate to unleash his desires on you, driving you to orgasm while spurring you on to ride him and let him spill his seed for you. He does spend inside you and clutches you to his chest tenderly as he coddles you through the aftershocks. Thor sighs, contentedly and kisses your shoulder. He knows that as the weight of bringing to kingdoms together bears down on the two of you, sleepy mornings or afternoons making love will be rare, even so, he’s grateful for this afternoon.

 This brief honeymoon where he can take care of you properly and not just thrust up your skirts and wrap your legs around him in an alcove when no one is watching though... That wasn’t the worst thought he had ever had. You feel him thinking, feel him harden again inside you slightly and look up at him in askance, smirking, “Again, my king?” you tease. Thor laughs, “And then one more for good measure, I think.” He pinches your hip and thrusts up into you, making you gasp breathlessly. “We have a kingdom in want of an heir, don’t we, my queen,” he rumbles, sucking a mark into your collar bone. “Yes, your majesty,” you reply, obediently. Thor’s hands turn to velvet on your skin, and the rest of it is a haze of passion and heat that brings surprise thunderstorms all over your kingdom, baffling the fey that are watching the Asgardians celebrate.

__________________________________________________

It isn’t until Thor is in the woods with you a few weeks later that he really longs to have that hazy golden afternoon back. You’ve been so busy trying to work out a way to unite the two kingdoms. Thor is little help, he’s a warrior. Not a diplomat. Not a mage. He knows strategy. He knows how to protect. The best he can do is follow you. Or, well. Try to. 

You move through the trees like a ghost, running and bouncing from tree branch to tree trunk. You pause making a note here and there, but then you’re gone again, 50 yards away in any direction leaving Thor panting and grumpy on the ground. It’s like chasing a squirrel. He knows that even at his peak, he couldn’t keep up with you, you’re a blur of red hair and brown leather, staff in hand. Even knowing that he feels awkward and clumsy. You aren’t even sweating, and Thor feels like he’s been in battle. He watches you ruefully for a moment but even tired and irritable, when you light back on the ground, hair a mess and eyes bright and focused, he can’t stay irritable at you. You stop on a hill, slouching against a tree. So Thor ambles forward to catch up, “Sweetheart,” he pants, “I’m not exactly sure what we’re looking for.” He sits in the grass and watches you. You’re quiet, cutting an apple and removing the core. You hand Thor half before answering, “I need an enchanted Tree,” you say nodding to yourself. Thor takes the apple and chuckles.

“This is Faery,” he said, “Everything is enchanted.” You shake your head, “Not everything. Not the way you mean.” Thor takes a bite and nods, “What will we do with this tree when we find it,” he asks around his mouthful. “We’re going to build a bridge, a bridge between here and New Asgard.” you nod to yourself. Thor has more questions, but before he can ask you uneaten half of an apple is on the ground, and you are gone, up in the trees again. Barely a rustle tells him what direction you went. So he waits, munching on his half of an apple and making a mental note to make sure you ate something today.

Magic burned energy as did physical exertion. You needed to eat to do both. Thor didn’t have long to wait. You bounded back to his hill, grinning at him. He smiled and offered you water which you took before dispatching a small pixie to go and tell your craftsmen where to find the tree. With the pixie gone, it is the first time he’s gotten you alone aside from bedtime in days. You look tired, and Thor realizes the strain is probably wearing on you. More so than it is him. You’re learning how to run two kingdoms while he only had to acquire one. Yes, it’s true, he can run Asgard on his own, but you take your duties seriously. You do not intend to be an idle queen on either throne. You stretch, and Thor holds out his arms, where he sits against a tree, “We’ve got time, sweetheart, “ he coaxed, “They’ve got to get all the way out here anyway.” He smiles, and you can’t resist, you let him settle you on his lap. Thor can feel you relax and he chuckles, “That’s it, sweet girl. You’ve been running all day. You deserve a nap.” Despite the time of year, in your bright court kingdom, it is warm. A perfect late summer day. Under the canopy of trees and with your head on your husband’s shoulder, you drift off easily. It’s been a long week full of late nights with councils and early mornings. The time in his arms is a welcome respite.

Tags:

@lancsnerd @amalthea9 @sweetkenzo @innerpaperexpertcloud @strangerliaa

[rosarenn]

I fucked up and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself

I haven’t done any “storytelling” yet on this blog, because, generally, I don’t think it’s necessary. Generally, I think the story can be a distraction from the work that needs to be done: the deep emotional work of grieving, the cognitive work of belief change, the behavioural work of state management. Generally, I think the story can keep us stuck in the past - the brain can’t distinguish reality from something that is vividly imagined, and we can play that video over and over and over again, obsessively. We can end up going around in circles.

But telling the story is important. It’s a way to externalise our thoughts. It helps give order and structure to our thinking. And it creates an opening, an opportunity for the people who care about us to offer emotional support. If we keep it all to ourselves, if we carry that burden alone, we miss out on the opportunity for true intimacy that can only come from vulnerability.

I have many stories, but there is one in particular. It’s a tragedy. In my mind, it’s such an awful story that for years I didn’t give myself permission to share it with anyone. It’s too sad, too painful, best not to burden anyone else with it.

I believe this, along with focusing on the horror of the circumstances, is why seven years later I still have unresolved grief.

That’s a euphemism if I ever saw one. “Unresolved grief” sounds so tame. My heart was shattered into a million million pieces, the video replays in my head as vividly as the day it happened, and the vortex of rage and misery and regret and sheer agony has not abated in the slightest. But yes, unresolved grief.

Recently, I gave myself permission to tell this story. Equal parts Richard Grannon’s coaching and Pete Walker’s books inspired this shift. But because I’ve denied myself the right to tell this story for so long, it’s a bit garbled. It’s disorganised. I go off on tangents and lose track of the story I’m telling.

So I’m going to tell it here. As an exercise. As a step in my grieving process.

Now that I’ve been evasive and mysterious for 350 words, this is a story about a dog. The dog dies at the end, so if you’re sensitive to that, please don’t feel compelled to read it.

My first act of independence, when I moved out of my parents’ homes and in with my shitty boyfriend, was to foster a dog. Not just any dog, but a pit bull. This was important to me: I live in a place where pit bulls are banned, and I felt (and still feel) that this was unfair and unjust, that these dogs were simply misunderstood. Scapegoated, just like me. And because of the ban, the only way I could legally have a pit bull was by fostering, with the idea that they would eventually be adopted outside the area of the ban.

I did my research, picked a rescue, and poured my heart into the application. Having never had a dog before, what I lacked in experience I would make up for with enthusiasm. I remember binge watching Cesar Millan and poring over 100s of pages of research on dog food.

Then Olive arrived and she was perfection. A petite white pittie, with an adorably pink spotted belly, and a big brindle spot around her eye. Spotted bat ears and a baby underbite. A wrinkly velveteen forehead and comically expressive eyes. The most food motivated dog I’ve ever met and sharply intelligent, if you had a treat for her you were the only one who existed in the world at that moment. She was desperate to please and would start offering up tricks unprompted: maybe you want me to sit? maybe you want a paw? She was full of energy but was just as happy to cuddle on the couch, and if you left the room she was coming with you. Yes, even if you were going to the bathroom. If we were in separate rooms she would split her time between us, moving back and forth to check that her people were OK. 

She didn’t care much for other dogs, though she made a few doggy friends. She was skittish at loud noises and pulled like mad on leash. She hated the muzzle that she was required to wear by the ban - even though it was pink to match her toes. Still, she let me put it on. Just as she let me put on the hated winter boots that protected her delicate skin from the winter salt, and the hated winter jacket that kept her exposed tummy from freezing.

I called her the princess and the pea, because only once did I ever see her lay down on the carpet: if there was laundry on the floor, she was curled up in the laundry; if there was a pillow on the couch, she was curled up on the pillow; if there was a pillow on a blanket on another blanket on a pillow on the bed, well, you know where she was. The one time she laid on the carpet was when everything else had been moved out - and even then she found a sunbeam to curl up in.

She learned that if she hopped into the tub and scritched at the drain, one of us would usually come over and turn on the tap so she could drink fresh running water. She learned not to cross the invisible line separating the living room from the kitchen, and would skitter to a stop even if she was chasing a ball and it rolled past. She learned to put herself to bed in her crate when she was tired, and to wait patiently (read: drooling-ly) to be given permission to devour her food.

She was an endless source of joy and love and energy, and I loved her with all my heart.

But she was the only bright spot in my life at that time.

This isn’t a story about the ways in which my shitty boyfriend was shitty. This isn’t a story about my mother using guilt and shame to control me. This isn’t a story about the immense pressure I was under studying engineering, working, cleaning, cooking, taking care of everyone except myself and the debilitating depression and anxiety I was suffering. All these things played a part in what happened next, but I don’t want to focus on them here.

We decided to move. (Read: I was shamed and guilted by my mother and my boyfriend into moving). The problem was that the condo we moved into didn’t allow dogs. I justified it by telling myself that Olive would get adopted any day now, and that anyways, this was exactly the type of reason why I had decided to foster rather than adopt. So we moved, and Olive went back to the rescue.

Despite giving them plenty of notice, the rescue didn’t have a spot for her, so she was kenneled for a while. She picked up kennel cough along the way. That alone was enough to leave me feeling extraordinarily guilty, but my hands were tied with the condo. And it gets a lot worse from here.

Olive went back to a foster family who had previously fostered her. They loved her but it was not a good fit - they had two dogs of their own, and while Olive got along with one, she didn’t get along with the other. They also had a fenced yard, something we’d never had in our cheap apartment. For a while it seemed to be going well, with Olive playing with her doggy friend and getting to spend so much time running around outside, off leash and without her hated muzzle. 

Rolling in the grass, chasing her friend, digging up the yard. She could even climb trees: she would jump straight up, at least ten feet in the air, into the Y of a big tree in the centre of the yard, and come down later covered in sap. We could even visit her sometimes: I remember the moment when she would notice us, and it was instant recognition. Then it was all sloppy kisses and tail wags and a joy you could feel.

Then one day I got the call: Olive had jumped the fence, and she’d gotten into a fight with the neighbour dog. Everyone was OK, there were only minor injuries. But the rescue had decided to kill her.

I know I’m supposed to say “euthanise”. I know I’m supposed to say they “put her down”. I know I’m supposed to pretend it was a painless death, but it fucking wasn’t. I saw it with my own eyes and no one will ever be able to convince me that she didn’t die in agony. Because I saw it.

I begged. Of course I begged. Suddenly, I could see what a mistake I’d made. Suddenly, there was nothing more important in the world than saving my baby girl. I was going to drop everything, adopt her and move outside the area of the pit bull ban, dedicate myself to getting her the training she needed, do everything in my power to keep her safe and to ensure she never ever had cause to get into another fight - but they didn’t want to hear it. 

A committee of people dedicated to saving the lives of pit bulls had voted and decided that she would die, and I was powerless to stop it. I even began to plan how I would kidnap her and go on the run - knowing full well it was illegal and they could send the cops after me - but the other foster told me to drop it, to accept it, that I was making things worse by fighting it, and that got to me.

To this day I still don’t know if I made the right choice.

I was there when she died. We’d spent the afternoon together, playing, spoiling her rotten, giving her all the food she’d always wanted but wasn’t allowed to have. When we went to the vet, he spoke to us gently, gave her a muffin to eat, and put in a stent so that she wouldn’t have to die in the back alone. When it was time, he gave her the single shot that killed her and I saw the look of confusion and pain in her eyes, I saw her sway and go limp and collapse, and I saw the life drain out of her.

Please if anyone reads this, please take away just this one thing: if you ever euthanise an animal, demand two shots: one to put them to sleep, one to kill them. They will tell you that you don’t need the first because it’s a painless death. I promise you, it is not.

I have her ashes. I have a few hairs I collected at the time with half a mind to get a DNA portrait made one day. I have an imprint of her paw we’d made in playdough once upon a time. I have some photographs and some videos. And of course, I have my memories.

I think one of the worst things about losing a dog is that most people don’t understand. They think it’s a small grief because it wasn’t a person. You don’t get a funeral. You don’t get bereavement leave. You don’t get bombarded with cards and flowers and casseroles. People don’t call or visit or tell you they’re sorry for your loss.

The one bright spot in my life was extinguished and I was supposed to just get over it.

It’s hard to put into words how I’ve suffered over this. I was - am - furiously angry. I’ve spread the blame around - the rescue, the foster, the government, society, the condo board, my mom, my boyfriend, and of course, inescapably, me. If I hadn’t agreed to move. If I’d kept sight of what was important. If I’d stood up for myself. How could I have been so stupid? so short-sighted? so limp-willed? How could I have abandoned her like that?

Of course, now I know how. Over two decades of training had led up to that moment. But before that moment, the only one who had ever been hurt by it was me. And I’ve never managed to let myself off the hook for it.

I read somewhere, in a book about grief I’d flipped through at the book store, that sometimes, when we lose someone in a traumatic way, we put all our focus on the circumstances of the death. The how and where and when and who and why. The sense of injustice, the horror, the deep sense of guilt, of helplessness, of powerlessness. And these powerful emotions, I think, can keep us hooked. In the same way that endlessly replaying the video, replaying the story can keep us hooked. Reliving it again and again, torturing ourselves.

The book asked a simple question: Would your loss be any less if your loved one had died in different circumstances?

And of course the answer is no. Resoundingly no. Earth-shakingly no. A light went out in my world, and even if she had died of old age twenty years in the future, it would have been - and is - a tremendous loss.

So every time this video starts to play in my head, I gently take myself by the hand and say, yes yes yes, I know, it was terrible, and I know you feel so angry and so sad and so upset, and you have every right to feel that way. But also, do you remember the moment you first met her?

Usually, this helps me focus my grieving on what I’ve actually lost, rather than get sucked down the vortex of the story. It has its own weight, its own pull, its own gravity - I can’t always escape it, but I try my best. I think this is how I move my grief forward, so that maybe one day I will resolve my grief, whatever that actually means.

If I was going to summarise this story, I would say: 

I loved a dog. But I gave her up willingly. Then when she was in trouble, I couldn’t protect her and now she’s dead.

I fucked up and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.

I had to write 2400 words to discover that that, really, is the essence of this story.

[ellie-writes-things]

Movement

The Sunbeams, a Lutheran group similar to the Girl Scouts without selling cookies that operated within Apostles Lutheran Church and School--of the Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod branch of Lutheranism--on Santa Teresa Boulevard, went around neighborhoods in December to sing Christmas carols to well-kept homes in the affluent subdivisions of Santa Clara County. One instance, in the December of my second grade year, has always remained with me. My mother, the current Sunbeam leader at the time, decided that this year would we would travel to senior neighborhoods as well. Little girls, bundled in eclectic blends of green and red sweaters and hats, set out for the night sometime around sunset with a couple volunteer parents and Pastor Kronenbusch in tow. As we sang “The First Noel,” our breaths floated and curled around us, they rose with our voices to the inhabitants’ windows and beyond. One woman sent out her nurse to ask us to stay awhile longer. We sang several carols at her doorway, but never saw her. We only saw the light that shone through her curtains. My throat tingled and my eyes stung with the cold, and I remember my mother clutched my hand in hers before she turned to face me, her eyes bright and damp and her mouth still moving to the words of “Away in a Manger.”

        Later that night, our final destination included the street I lived on; a quiet neighborhood that lay within a mobile home park with the lofty name of Chateau La Salle in San Jose off of Monterey Road and Esfahan Drive. The asphalt of Chateau La Salle Drive glittered with the runoff from sprinklers, reflecting the radiance of the strands of fairy lights that lined the houses and street, setting the park aglow. We sang at a few houses before my mother and her assistant, a woman named Becky and the mother of my best friend at that time, Laura, said that we needed to get ready to finish. They revealed that a surprise lay waiting for us before the night ended, and they shuffled us down the road in the direction of the house my mother and I shared with my grandparents and her two brothers. Instead of my home, we stepped up to our next-door neighbors’, a house that belonged to an elderly couple I affectionately called Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn, who--along with my youngeset uncle, Randy--set up television trays that held a combination of store-bought and homemade cookies, and I spied a few that my mother made the day before and scolded me not to nick any of them. Ms. Marilyn gave me a hug and pushed a paper cup of apple cider into my mitten. The room buzzed and I wandered to find either my mother or my uncle after the excited group of little girls swallowed me up. The walls twinkled and thrummed, shadows chased by Santas and reindeer upon their surface. I took a sip and the cider burned my tongue, and instead of whimpering I swallowed the liquid along with my discomfort. My uncle stood at the edge of the crowd as he watched the other adults converse with each other-Mr. Bob asked my mother about my grandmother’s health and how my grandfather fared through the ordeal-and I wrapped myself around my uncle’s leg like ivy. My mother nodded and I watched Ms. Marilyn hold her hand, while Becky kept her eyes on the other girls, ever vigilant. I remember my uncle rested his hand on the top of my head and pulled my hat off, before smacking me with it.

        I laughed, and leaned my head on his hip while I watched as the other girls giggled and drank and stuffed themselves with cookies, their faces luminous in the radiance of the Christmas tree.

        About a week or so later, my mother and I moved out of my grandparents’ home.

        I lived, during my elementary school years, in what has turned into one of the most expensive mobile home parks in the country, back when you could still buy a space and home there for a relatively modest sum and not the inflated $200,000 that you would spend now on a smaller home. With three bedrooms and two bathrooms, it housed my grandparents in the master suite, two of my uncles-Dale, the oldest, and Randy, the youngest--in one room, and my mother and I in the last bedroom. It was, originally, a seniors-only park, but, according to my mother, San Jose passed a law that forbade the discrimination of children, which I benefited from as my mother and I would have had nowhere else to go had we not been allowed to live with my grandparents when my mother left the studio we rented after the finalization of her divorce from my father. The added benefit, of course, was the built-in daycare in the form of my grandmother as my mother worked 50-60 hour weeks at Xicor in Milpitas. A 15-minute drive until you take into account Bay Area rush-hour traffic and the nightmare that is U.S. Highway 101. Our neighbors, Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn--who threw the Christmas party my Sunbeam troop attended--and Mr. Marty and Ms. Dorothy, kept an eye out for my grandmother while she was at home with my Uncle Randy alone during work and school hours.

        My grandfather avoided homeownership for around 30 years, he and his family living in a 8x45 trailer during my mother’s childhood and adolescence, and moved around the west coast often for his job with the government. My mother would say that his reluctance to purchase a permanent home was due to my grandmother’s tendency to threaten divorce whenever they fought.

This, too, was often.

        The house my grandmother chose, when she--at last--was afforded the opportunity, sat at the address 201 Chateau La Salle Drive, San Jose 95111. The mint siding and white awning glared under the midday sunlight in the summer, but appeared far more subdued in the darker half of the year. It came with a crimson porch whose steps we sat on to watch the fireworks from the fairground across the street every Fourth of July and where my Uncle Randy showed me how snails sizzle when introduced to salt. The inside had the dark faux-wood paneling popularized in the 80s and 90s and the earth-toned carpet my grandmother preferred because it was easier to keep clean. Tobacco and nicotine dyed the ceiling in nearly every room but mine and my mother’s and old clothes from second grade that I’ve managed to retain after all these years still hold that stale scent of smoke that settled into the fibers of the upholstery from my grandparents lighting up their Marlboro Lights, often as they watched television and drank coffee well into the evening.

        As one of the first families to live in the park, and being my mother’s only offspring, other children were a rarity. I spent my time with adults on weekends and after school, and one of my mother’s favorite things to do with me when she managed to claim a slice of free time was visit the Oak Hill Cemetery situated next to the park and tour the gardens and funeral home.

        Established in 1847, Oak Hill Cemetery is the oldest secular graveyard in operation within California. My mother would drive us along the roadway-on the occasional Sunday after church-up to the main parking lot where we would abandon her Volvo and walk along the manicured lawns and flower arrangements left by dutiful loved ones on the more recent additions to the landscape. Oleanders, white and pink, blocked the humming of traffic from invading the atmosphere, letting it, instead, waft over the hillside. I remember the thin leaves swaying in the breeze created by passing cars that zipped along the busy roadway while we looked at the engravings on the headstones, taking note of the dates and deducing how old the residents were when they expired. My mother pointed out the more historical graves, such as James F. Reed’s from the infamous Donner party whose body was interned there. The light caught on my mother’s hair, the strands gleaming when I would gaze up at her, and she kept my hand grasped in hers.

        I enjoyed being out of the home. And I think that, when she could spare the time, she did too.

       Sundays often became my mother’s and my special day to spend together; we attempted to cram a week’s worth of quality time in less than twenty-four hours. The day began at 9:00 am, bathed in a wash of the prismatic light that filtered in through the large stained glass windows behind the altar at Apostles during a sermon delivered by either Pastor Kronenbusch or Pastor Mahnke, followed by fellowship in the narthex where fresh-brewed coffee and hot chocolate and store-brand sandwich cookies awaited the parishioners; the fragrance, of which, emanated throughout the hall. Sunday school in what was normally my second grade classroom--for me--and bible study somewhere in the smaller onsite chapel--for my mother--and then choir practice when I became old enough comprised the rest of the morning for my mother and I. On the way home, we stopped by Winchell’s Doughnuts just off of Santa Teresa and would pick out a baker’s dozen to bring home to the rest of the family who, besides my oldest uncle who went to Peace Lutheran, were not the church-going type. I insisted on three types of doughnuts: chocolate glaze, chocolate cake, and chocolate old-fashioned. My mother comments still that this is a predilection I inherited from my father. I believe my grandparents preferred maple bars, and my grandmother favored those with custard filling. The sweet perfume lingered in my mother’s car and our home for the rest of the day.

         After school one day, after one of these Sundays, my Uncle Randy took me out around the neighborhood on my bicycle as my mother was unable, due to her work schedule, with him following along on his. Wet asphalt assaulted my lungs and tongue with its thick fog clinging to the air around us as the sunshine glinted off of the trails the water sprinklers left behind. My training wheels still attached, I wobbled back and forth, nervous of riding over cracks in the pavement, thinking they would crumble and I would fall into a pit, and he eventually dismounted his bike and walked along side with me. He also quipped “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back,” and added to my anxiety. Chateau La Salle maintained a uniform appearance, even to an oblivious seven-year-old with no knowledge of Homeowner's Associations and the grief my grandfather dealt with regarding landscaping and the property manager. Resident’s lawns cut the same length, similar color-schemes, and manicured flower beds. Most homes also had jasmine that climbed up the sides of the houses, much like ours. When it was warm out, like that day in September, the whole park filled with that fragrance and bit my nose. I sneezed, and my uncle handed me his handkerchief, which I hated to use since it could not be thrown away. We encountered a sign that read “Dead End” and I pleaded with my uncle to go back. He insisted we just ride to the sign, and then we could turn around, but I started sniffling and told him I was scared. I felt queasy and hot and I struggled to breath in the air around us. In my mind, I saw myself falling into a chasm that would open if we went on just a bit farther with no end, just a complete absence of light where I could not see the dangers that could be posed to a little girl. He laughed a little, but agreed that we could go back home, even as I looked back towards the sign.

        That night, after my mother arrived back home and after dinner and as I was drawing in front of the television with him, he explained to me that a dead end was only a road that went nowhere. I believe on that same night, as we all settled in to watch a movie, he darted out of the house yelling at someone. I tried to follow, but my mother would not let me, saying that Uncle Randy must have thought he heard something. Uncle Dale did take off after him, however, and my mother took me to bed where I watched the play of shadows behind the Ariel the Little Mermaid curtains my mother made.

         Convinced I saw a witch’s face or claw reaching out from behind the plumeria that grew in front of my window, I clamored into my mother’s bed.  

        The next morning he and my mother were in an altercation over the milk for cereal; he slugged her across the face with the gallon jug, and she almost choked him out. My grandmother cried while my grandfather separated them. Milk still soaked the carpet by the time I got out of the bedroom, too scared to make my appearance known any earlier and too scared to ask what was wrong. Someone drew the curtains in both the living room and dining room closed and patches of sun lay across the table and floor in discordant shapes and the front of my mother’s t-shirt remained drenched.

         She grabbed her carpet steamer and worked on the floor for two hours as my grandmother berated her for the quarrel, but the scent of stale dairy never fully dissipated in that spot, though over time the ever-present odor of nicotine masked its presence.

        Places have a scent, an aroma you will recognize the moment you are confronted with it. If you’ve ever noticed the way 7-11 stores smell the exact same no matter what location you are in, you’ll understand this. Olfactory memories are the easiest, and strongest, to trigger, and, as someone once told me--Randy, I believe--they are frequently said to be the most vivid.

         On campus, I will, on occasion, catch a whiff of smoke and am taken back to my grandmother’s living room with the drapes drawn, sitting in my Mickey Mouse chair next to her favorite armchair and watching an episode of “Days of Our Lives” after school or during summer vacation, the cherry on her cigarette a beacon in the shrouded room, diminished only by the flashes from the television set. I still enjoy the company of smokers, despite not smoking myself; the scent of them causes my stomach to unclench and to take a breath that I realize trembles within my lungs. Coffee houses, too, take me back to early mornings with my grandfather in their honey-colored kitchen brewing coffee at 5:30 am before school or on Saturdays, and his timbre rumbling, “That’s not coffee, that’s syrup, granddaughter,” after I added my customary four-to-five teaspoons of white sugar to the cup he gave me while we sat and read the newspaper.

         I mumble this to myself when I make my coffee at home, and miss the hiss and pop of the old Mr. Coffee coffee maker my family had as I pour hot water over the freshly ground beans that lay in the single-cup pour-over style brewer a partner of mine preferred.

        Likewise, I cannot abide the acridity of burnt plastic or oil as that miasma clung to my Uncle Randy’s clothing and hair, and later took over his presence along with the room my mother and I vacated in ‘95 and seeped into the blankets he used to cover his windows and his bedding before he, too, moved out with Uncle Dale, later the following year. For my grandmother’s health, I think, as it had always been fragile, and began to decline with an alarming rate after my mother remarried in May of ‘96.

        Waves of cinnamon and cloves and cardamom and cocoa filled our home when Christmas of 1995 arrived, and the day itself passed with little incident between our official “baking day” that my grandmother and mother coordinated with each other and the caroling that my mother and I participated in that year with my Sunbeam troop and the holiday shopping everyone says they hate but participate in.

         To this day I love the Christmas music and decorations that overtake malls and shopping centers. Even when I get the chance to go back to Oakridge and Valley Fair they maintain their magic for me in the form of strands of incandescent bulbs wrapped around faux-pine garland that hang from the balconies and windows of the interior.

        The day after Christmas, when the tree still stood upright and our nativity fully displayed atop my mother’s piano and my grandmother and I watched a holiday film on her television that rested on the broken set we used as a T.V. stand, the routine of our post-Christmas tradition disintegrated like those snails my uncle and I poured salt on earlier that summer. My mother said something--I don’t recall what--to my uncle. A response, I believe, to something he may or may not have said to my grandmother and she sent me to our bedroom and told me to play with the artbox that I received the day before. I stared at the closed door of my room, at the blue-and-magenta Lion King cover my mother crafted out of the larger sheet set I received at some point in the year before as shouts and thuds emanated down the short distance of the hall, my grandmother’s voice a tinny echo barely perceptible unless the ear strained to catch it. My stomach twisted around itself and coiled alongside my lungs and my fingers skimmed the tops of the grey keys of the touch-tone phone on my mother’s bedside table. I pulled my hand away when my mother came in and told me to keep the door locked before she left again.

        The flash of blue-and-red from behind my bedroom curtains is my next memory as is the pleading of my grandmother’s voice and the image of my uncle--staring at his knees--in the back of a squad car that proclaimed to be a member of the San Jose Police Department. Officers spoke to my mother, and neighbors--including Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn and Mr. Marty and Ms. Dorothy--gathered on their matching front lawns that lined Chateau La Salle Drive, still studded with leftover fairy lights from the advent season, their breaths visible and curling in front of their moving mouths, rising into the charcoal sky.

[shadow-assassin-blix]

BeeStings & SunBurns

PART 2

Santi X Estranged Wife!Reader 

Alright. This is part 2 to Bees and Sunbeams. It’s shorter. I might make another part to this, but I wanted to get this written.

It’s angsty. They talk briefly about a miscarriage. There is a smidge of smut/alludes to smut. 

Forgive my Spanish line if it is not proper. Its meant to say, “Hello my sweet girl”

Everything tag: @mikeisthricedeceased

Oscar tag: @m-1234 @artsymaddie​

That had been about a month ago. Things since then have been tense. Santi was beating himself up over leaving her. He felt wrong laying next to her. Like… Like he didn’t belong there anymore.

He would often lay next to her while they slept, but about 3am he would wake and be overwhelmed with guilt and move to sleep on the couch instead.

This caused tension that he didn’t intend; Bee was understanding at first, but he could see. He could see as time passed that her heart was breaking each time she woke alone. Santi… he didn’t know how to tell her that… he felt he didn’t deserve her.

That night they argued over… something unimportant; he couldn’t remember what. He didn’t even bother trying to sleep in their bed.

He found out later on that night, that his Bee was not going to accept that.

It was about midnight when he heard her feet trot down the hallway. She looked at him, laying uncomfortably on the couch.

She sighed heavily, switching her weight between her feet, staring down at the floor.

She appeared to be deciding something. Whatever it was, she came to a conclusion as she stood still.

She moved over to him, lifting the blanket up, before lying on top of him.

“If you refuse to lay in our bed, then I will just have to follow you wherever you lay,” She mumbled into his chest.

He didn’t know how to react to that. So, he just quietly held her to him. The two of them slowly fell asleep together.

She did that every night for a week; followed him into the living room and laid on top of him.

Saturday rolled around; Bee had gone out to get sandwiches. When she returned, she dropped the bag on to the coffee table before moving to stand in front of him. She made him look at her, as she slowly straddled his hips to sit in his lap.

He allowed it, his hands hovering over her hips waiting for her next move. She ran her hands through his curls softly.

“I’m not sure why… you have felt the need to sleep on this awful couch for the past month. But tonight, it stops. You are going to sleep in our bed, all night. No exceptions. No excuses. You are my husband and I miss you. And… it feels like you aren’t really here,” She addressed firmly.

He swallowed thickly as he broke eye contact.

“I don’t deserve you. You deserve… you deserve someone who isnt broken,” Santi whispered hoarsely.

“I don’t want someone else. I married you. Shitty knees and all,” She teased lightly.

He chuckled softly at her joke.

“I’m not doing a good job of making things up to you am I?” He asked looking back up at her.

“You can start… by sleeping in our bed. This couch is not good for you, old man,” She furthered teased, but there was a seriousness in tone that he could hear.

“Okay. I can… I can do that,” Santi promised.

“Now. Kiss me like you still love me,” She softly commanded him.

He placed his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. One hand drifted up her side, resting along her jaw. He moved her forward his lips landing firmly upon hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss. He leaned the two of them back, his hand on her hip slipping under her shirt.

She shivered at the contact; his hands were calloused but that just added to the sensation. It slid under her bra and brushed over one of her nipples. She moaned lowly into his mouth, which allowed him to sneak his tongue into her mouth. Their tongues battled for a moment before he pulled away to kiss down her neck.

He moved toward the spot on her neck that used to make her sigh sweetly; wanting to see if he still knew her body like he once did. He paid extreme detail to the spot where her shoulder and neck met, loving the sighs and breathy moans that escaped her.

A loud knocking on the door caused them to pull away from one another, disappointed.

She quietly got up and answered the door.

“Hi guys, what brings you by?” She asked as she took in Will, Benny, and Frankie.

All three of them had brought their significant others, and Isobel slept quietly in Sophia’s arms.

“Figured you were exhausted dealing with the grump. Thought we should come by and make sure you were still sane, and he was alive,” Will teased as he stepped inside.

Bee chuckled quietly, everyone had brought over drinks and food.

The boys took over the living room, turning on a football game. Bee grabbed her sandwich from the bag and smiled at Santi who was shaking his head at his friend’s antics.

She joined the girls in the kitchen, sitting around the island.

“How have things been?” Sophia asked curiously.

“It’s… it’s been going. It was going quite well a moment ago but then we were interrupted,” She said with a smirk.

Sophia snickered, and apologized.

The 4 of them chatted and ate, while the guys watched the game.

Santi eventually made his way over to her, pressing a kiss to her cheek, before grabbing some more beers out of the fridge.

“You ladies doing well?” Santi checked as he popped the caps off the bottles.

The others all told him they were doing well. Isobel apparently recognized his voice and woke up looking around tiredly. Her bottom lip began to wobble as tears built up, looking for him. When her eyes landed on him, she made grabby hands to him, leaning toward him.

“Hola mi dulce niña, did you have a nice nap? Come here sweetie,” He cooed to her, setting the bottles down to take her from Sophia.

He held Isobel to her, bouncing her slightly, moving to the living room. Bee grabbed the beers and followed him over, setting them down on the table for the guys. Santi sat down with Isobel, cooing to her in Spanish. Frankie shook his head at them.

“When ya’ll decide to have kids, you are going to be whipped,” Frankie commented, grabbing a beer and taking a drink.

Her smile fell slightly at that, and she returned to the kitchen quickly. She tried to keep her happy mood up, but she could feel it wane.

When they all finally left, Santi slowly walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Are you okay?” He softly asked her.

“They… they don’t know still do they?” She hesitantly asked.

He shook his head, “I haven’t had the heart to tell them.”

“We… we should tell them, eventually. They should know,” She quietly noted, staring down at his arms. “We should…also talk about it, too.”

He nodded, they made their way to their bedroom, and after quickly changing, they sat on the bed facing each other. Neither of them knew how to start this conversation. Santi knew one thing was certain: they had to be open.

“Bee. We… we… we lost our baby,” Santi whispered looking at his hands.

“We did. I… I know it’s normal. I know it can happen for any number of reasons. None of which was our fault. But… but I wanted our baby so badly,” She whimpered, as tears began to quickly pour down her face.

“I know. I know. I wanted our baby too,” He murmured, pulling her into his arms.

She cried into his chest, staining his shirt with her tears.

They sat there for a long while, the both of them letting out their emotions. When all the tears were dried, they had moved to lay under the covers.

They fell asleep eventually, and true to his word, Santi stayed there the whole night.

The next morning, Santi woke up before Bee, staring at her softly. He brushed away the locks of hair that fell into her face and pressed a kiss here and there to it.

She slowly woke up, rubbing her eyes harshly to clear away the sleep.

She whispered a small ‘hi’ to him as once she was done.

“Hey… Bee?” He called for her attention as she sat up.

When she looked back at him, he continued, “Do… do you think one day… we could try again? Try to have another baby?”

She bit her lip as she thought about it, “Do… do you still want to have kids?”

“Only if you do,” He replied sitting up with her.

She looked down, and shyly said, “Yeah. I’d like to try again at some point.”

His smile was small as he lifted her chin up and kissed her soundly.

They made out briefly, before getting up to go shower. They took it together, and Bee, after washing up, spent a great deal of time admiring him and exploring his skin with her hands. She would find new scars and run a finger over them delicately, giving each one a kiss.

“Baby. You gotta stop that. I’m not as young as I once was, I can’t exactly pin you to the shower walls as well I used to,” Santi softly groaned as he felt himself becoming aroused with each kiss.

She smirked up at him, her hand reaching down to run up and down his length.

“Then hurry up and rinse off, so we can move this to the bed old man,” She said impatiently as she stepped out, grabbing a towel.

“Old man, eh?” He grunted as he rinsed off, grabbing his towel swiftly, once the shower was off.

He chased after her to their room, pinning her to the bed. She moaned as he attacked her neck, grinding against her.

They took a moment to situate themselves on the bed, before spending the next couple hours making love to one another. The first couple rounds, were short, and ended almost too quickly for both of them; it had been too long.

They would rest and talk to one another about anything and everything. It was always during the conversation that one of them would say something suggestive and start up the next round.

When they were both satiated it was close to 1pm, they had lunch together, and cuddled on the couch, watching movies.

It was the first time in a long time, that everything felt normal. This was what Santi missed the most. Just relaxing and watching a movie with his wife. No one needed saving. No war. No criminal to catch. It was just the two of them, in their own little bubble.

This was all he needed.