#But let's pretend she was a good mom to Pesty

[stellyeddlyn]

A few days ago I saw a HC where Folly is Pest's imaginary friend...

Now I have a strong idea that Pest took shelter with his dream mother, until they started experimenting on him (HC lore)

He loves his dream mom.

But it wouldn't always be like this...

[3one3]

The Sequel - 787

Two Ways

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Does my face look gross? It feels gross. I usually do my lavender mask on Monday night, but I didn’t get around to doing it until Friday last week, so I didn’t want to do it again right away this Monday, and now it’s Friday and I didn’t do it again because I have to leave it for 20 minutes and then wipe it off and moisturize and stuff and who has time for that when you’re trying to serve two kinds of lasagna and feed it to a baby? But now my face feels icky.”

“It’s a little red in places but it always is after you wash your face. Can’t you do the mask after you’re finished eating?”

“No. It’s best to do it when the pores are all steamed open from the hot water. And I already put lotion on. Can you grab me another paper towel?”

Juan handed over a sheet of paper towel and Christina tried to get the pinkish blob of tomato sauce and ricotta on Lukas’ chin before it could end up flung on the floor or something else, and he loudly demanded that she stop it. She was getting in the way of his uncoordinated fork usage. She gently reminded him that he didn’t get to say “no” to her on things like that. He had plenty of opportunities to make choices for himself, and she respected his decisions, even when it meant he was going to be dressed like a clown or would ruin his finger paint project by mixing too many colors and turning it brown. Manners and cooperation really mattered to her, and so did letting Lukas learn the concept of consequences. Letting him look silly or disappoint himself was relatively easy. Imposing order without losing her patience took more resolve. André stayed out of that. He was always afraid he’d get in trouble for stepping in, even to side with her, or to encourage their son to behave and listen to her. Juan wasn’t. He picked up the bowl of lasagna and set it on the counter, out of reach.

“You have to get your face clean or you don’t get to eat,” he explained to him. “No clean, no food.” Lukas made a sour face and waved his fork around angrily, but he stilled his hands when Christina told him to stop and went in with the paper towel again. His chin got wiped off. His dinner was returned to him. He was thanked for being good. His mom felt the small satisfaction of a small victory, and tried very hard not to think about how co-parenting with Juan would probably be so different from doing it with André. “Do you want more water?” the former asked, Pellegrino in hand.

“Yes, please. Which lasagna do you like better? Judging solely by the amount of red on the baby versus the amount of green, I’m guessing he likes the regular kind,” she observed while he topped up her glass. Which is fine because that means more pesto and Alfredo for moi.

“I like the white sauce. How does it stay so creamy even in the middle layer? Why doesn’t it just leak out into the green?” Juan used his fork to point out the distinct layers in his food.

“I sandwich it between two noodle layers instead of putting it on top of or below the veggie ribbons. The veggies get a little watery even though I salted them first, so anything touching them is going to get watery. Zucchini and spinach are basically full of water. Also I cheat and put a little flour in it,” the rider smiled. “That helps to thicken.”

“Who taught you all your cooking tricks?”

“I learned some things from my mom and a few things from my dad, but mostly I read. You know that,” she shrugged. “I like to learn. If I want to make something, I take the time to research it. I don’t just Google the name and follow the first recipe. I want to know everything about anything I’m interested in.”

“That’s one of my favorite things about you. You go and find out the reason, not just the answer. I think it gets in your way sometimes though. How do you feel riding the last few days?”

“No special way. I don’t want to talk about riding. I just want to do riding. I want it to just be normal work, like it always used to be. Then maybe horse shows will be like they always used to be too.”

“I’ll leave it be, then,” the player nodded before wolfing down a big stack of squared noodles, sauces, and cheeses.

“Thank you for asking though,” Christina replied. He waited a few seconds while chewing, and then leaned over to the left to bump her shoulder with his, causing her to drop lasagna off her fork into her lap. “Heeeey.” His eyes got big and “eepsy”, like he was pretending it wasn’t his fault. Missed my shorts. Score. She used her fingers to pick up the blob of melted cheese and sauce that landed on her thigh, and ate it. “That was mean. You can make up for it by scoring a million goals at White Hart Lane on Sunday though.”

“Yeah. When are you going to make fried chicken again?”

“I don’t know. If I make it then I want to make a lot because it’s a big job and you don’t want to go through all the steps just to make a couple of pieces, and then I want to eat it for every meal until it’s all gone. And then I get fat, and don’t feel well.” Kind of like when I make lasagna, she realized. At least one of these is sort of healthy-ish.

“You’d still look beautiful with an extra kilo around the middle.”

“Uhhuh.”

“When is this modeling career of yours going to result in some bikini pictures or a lingerie ad for me to enjoy?”

“I don’t have a modeling career, and I don’t know. When adidas starts making bikinis and lingerie?” Omnomnomnom. They’d get someone else even if they did. I’m going to end up eating my feelings in Dortmund. I won’t have any friends to do stuff with so I’ll cook at home all the time and all the most fun food to make is terrible for you. Healthy and nutritious food is easy and boring. Julia Child never made a healthy thing in her life.

“You do too have a modeling career.” Juan glared pointedly over the side of his shoulder and then went back to trying to cut the Alfredo layer out of one lasagna to mix it with the meat sauce layer of the other. Lukas did that too, but with his hands. He was also talking to himself, or to his lasagna, or perhaps to an imaginary friend. The more he liked his food, the less he endeavored to interact with the adults while he ate it once he let the adults know that he was enamored with the taste in the beginning. That was always an exciting time.

“No I don’t. That’s like saying you have a modeling career. Are you a model? Or are you a football player who does ads for sponsors?”

“Maybe both?”

“But you and I are not employed for our modeling skills or our look. We’re hired to do ads for companies because we’re athletes. Our reputation in our sports is the desirable thing. It’s different,” the chatty boy’s mom argued. “You hire Adriana Lima because she’s a professional model and has skills relevant to modeling. Nobody is hiring Diego Costa for ads based on the same criteria,” she joked.

“Are you saying Diego doesn’t have a good look?”

“Yes.”

“And what are the skills relevant to modeling? Being good to look at? Knowing how to pose? Take direction? You and I tick those boxes,” the footballer countered.

“So you think you’re good to look at, eh?” Christina asked back with a lopsided smirk. She put down her fork to squeeze the lemon floating in her water class again and “lemonize” the added Pellegrino, or at least that’s how she thought of it.

“I’m told I’m not bad on the eyes, yes.” Juan remained calm rather than defensive, or self-conscious, or apologetic. She watched his profile and took in all that was good on her eyes. That included pretty much everything from the way his little sideburns stopped level with the bottom of his ear, to the slope of his nose.

“Who tells you that?” she prodded nonetheless. “Your mom?”

“Yesterday morning you said my face was so perfect that it was hurting your organs.”

“I was lying.”

“I want fried chicken.”

“Embarrass Spurs and I’ll think about it. Also, introduce me to Marcos Alonso. He is like you and Schü combined in one person.”

Lukas politely interrupted the grownups to ask for more to drink, so his mom got up to get more milk for his sippy cup. The footballer nonchalantly stole and ate her entire large piece of the pesto lasagna in one big bite, undetected. And then he laughed uncontrollably when she sat back down and tried to figure out if she was losing her mind. She was sure there was still some left on her plate. She was about to eat it when Lukas got her attention. But being tired meant she could have been totally mistaken. That happened sometimes- like when she was sure she told André about the Stephex horse and totally didn’t. There was a lot of eye narrowing at the plate, and then pensive staring. She didn’t even get it when Juan started snickering. When he admitted to his crime Christina told him he had to get up and cut some more lasagna from the pan for her, and he just shook his head and laughed more. At first she was just mildly annoyed and feeling slightly picked on, but after she replaced the food herself she wondered if Juan was going out of his way to be “pesty” and teasing to reinforce the friend part of friends with benefits. It occurred to her that she probably would have been worried if he followed two nights and the whole day in between together and then a dinner the next one with the kind of sweet flirting on show when they were together in Mallorca, or if he tried to be romantic, or extra-gentlemanly. Any kind of boyfriend behavior would have stressed her out. Making her drop food on herself and eating her food when she wasn’t looking was a different thing. That wasn’t endearing. His help with Lukas could have been considered the troublesome kind of behavior- assuming an authoritative role with her son- but she figured he didn’t even consider that, because it just came naturally to him. She didn’t think he’d put that in the subjective category.

“Do you want a cortado? I’m going to make one. I’m so cold,” she grumbled after spending the meal cleanup thinking about that potential demonstration of friend behavior.

“I don’t understand why you walk around the house in small shorts and a t-shirt or with your bare arms out and no heating on and complain that you’re cold. Why don’t you wear pants and a sweater? Or just turn the heat up!” Juan was walking around her house in jeans, a button-up, and socks.

“I don’t like wearing more clothes and I don’t like artificial heat. It makes my nose and throat dry! I want to go to bikini weather. I wish I could spend a few days on the boat.” Christina turned her lip over momentarily and then turned around to her espresso machine. “Do you want any or no?”

“Coffee or days on the boat?”

“Coffee. My espresso is pretty low caffeine, if that makes a difference in your decision.”

“I’ll have some but I don’t want the warmed milk.”

“Hot water?”

“Sí.”

“A little espresso or a lot of espresso?”

“Single. And why can’t you go stay on the boat?”

“It’s booked all the time, and when would I go? I have an everyday job, and a kid, and Schü can’t go anywhere like that.”

“Why not take Lukas and the horses to Florida to compete? Then you can wear a bikini on the beach in Miami, and what could help more to make horse shows feel like they used to than going to the competition you went to for 10 years?”

“It’s not that easy to just pack up a barn full of horses and fly them to Florida. It’s only worth it to go for several weeks at a time,” the experienced Winter Equestrian Festival competitor explained while she pulled espresso for Juan’s cup. “And it takes planning. And not every week is created equal down there. There is even a week of just hunter classes. I couldn’t go until maybe the end of next month, and if the house isn’t done by then I think Schü is going to fire everyone and hire new people to come get it finished. He would be so disappointed if I was like “Hey, babe, I think I’m going to take Lukas to Florida for three weeks instead of moving in. Is that cool with you?” How would you feel in his position?” Christina shot back over her shoulder after switching out his cup for hers.

“I wouldn’t be in it. I wouldn’t be in a position like that with the house and keeping you waiting, and I would just go to the beach with you if you wanted to go to the beach. It’s not impossible to find a way for some days off,” he argued from his stool at the counter. He was toeing a rubber ball back and forth with Lukas, who was happy to be returned to the floor to play once his dinner was scrubbed off his face, and Lucky. “If you really want bikini weather, why don’t you go away with me after next weekend instead of going to Germany? I don’t have to go to Mallorca. We can go somewhere warmer. Dubai, if you like.” The rider walked over to place his watered down espresso on the counter and slide the sugar bowl down his way, and told him that she couldn’t do that, with large, insisting eyes. And then she proceeded to the refrigerator for milk.

“Why?”  

“That would also disappoint him. I can’t cancel a trip to see him to go away with you instead. That’s just mean. I can’t decide against visiting him when he gets back from camp in favor of a Dubai getaway with you. He’d think we’re going there to lay on the beach all day and have sex all night, or that we’re doing coupley things- holding hands in the water, romantic dinners. He said that’s what matters to him. It can’t be like that. And I don’t want it either. Here, do you want this?” Christina offered the plastic container and then had to wait for him to pour a couple of drops in his coffee so she could take it back and steam some for hers.  

“Why isn’t he taking you to the beach then?”

“He offered, sort of,” she shrugged with her back to the footballer. “He asked me last week if I wanted to blow off New Year’s Eve and go away for a couple of nights. I didn’t want to. I had riding to do. I have riding to do next week too. I can’t go away for three days and then go straight to Leipzig to show. See? I have a litany of reasons why I can’t go to bikini weather in the nearest of futures.”

Juan declined to respond to the definitive and flat sounding case presented against a mini beach holiday while his ex-girlfriend very loudly steamed her milk. Lukas liked the noise and abandoned his ball to run around the counter and check it out. He always did. The sound of the frother wand at work was as powerful a draw on him as the sound of food hitting the floor was for the dogs. He was then disappointed when the noise was already over by the time he got to his mom’s feet. She was just warming the milk rather than trying to make it foamy. Not until she completed dressing up her espresso and plopped back onto her stool did Juan reply to her explanation, and he did so with an apology.

“I’m sorry if it feels to you like you’re talking to a wall that doesn’t understand. I do get it. I’m not like he was doing with constantly asking you to put things aside to spend time with him and telling you it was supposed to be for your own good,” he told her while she took grateful sips from her cup. It was hot in her hands and smelled delicious, tasted bold and full but cut just right with the sweetness of the milk. “It’s difficult for me when I know you’re wanting something you can’t figure out how to have. I get like irrationally annoyed,” Juan chucked self-deprecatingly. “Your life is like being in an obstacle course with parts that are impassable- like you have to keep turning around and trying different tests to get through and progress to the next thing. The most pressing thing I want in my life right now that I don’t have or don’t have a plan to get is fried chicken. I don’t know anymore what it’s like to want to do things and not be able to make it work, other than goals and wins.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind. I know you’re just trying to help. It was different when Schü was “skip this”, “skip that”, “why can’t you come here” every day, all day. Believe me- I would tell you if you were doing something that bothers me, just like I’m going to tell you to get the F out of here when you’re done with your coffee,” Christina smiled.

“Why is that, by the way?”

“That you can’t stay tonight?”

“No, that you have no problem telling me when I do something that upsets you. You bend over backwards not to confront André in simple terms when he’s doing something that makes you crazy, or hurts you. First you can’t even decide if you want to say anything at all, and if you do, then you have to strategize for the best way, so that you don’t upset him back.”    

“It’s not different with you. Usually it’s just easier to decide and choose a strategy because...I don’t know. Like earlier when you got here I was thinking about whether to ask you if you’re taking this whole we-can-sleep-together thing too far and getting clingy or something. That was a whole process. Right now as soon as I stop talking I’m going to internally debate whether or not I want to call you out on why I think you’re even asking me about this. Because it’s another one of those things you want me to get to thinking about because you think the logical conclusion I’ll reach about it is that my relationship with you is easier and we communicate better. It’s doing that selfish thing you periodically promise to stop doing because you know it makes chaos in my brain and then I let chaos in my brain become chaos in my life. I’ll probably decide not to make an issue out of this because just acknowledging it and making it more of a conversation than it is in this very moment will invite the chaos and I have no room for chaos.” While Christina gazed into her milky espresso, the Spaniard reached out to gently poke at the thumb and index finger-shaped mark on her neck.

“Did I hurt you last night?” he asked distantly, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said, or the warning way in which she said them.

“No. I mean...probably, but it feels good with the...other stuff. I didn’t notice if it was really painful.” She was just happy he seemed willing to discontinue the conversation about the disparity in ease of communication between them and between her and André. To her it really wasn’t any different.

“Would you tell me if I did, or would you have this internal debate and decide not to say anything?”

“I would tell you to stop if I didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t ask if you liked it. I asked if you’d tell me if I hurt you.”

“I don’t know. I think so. Why?” Why is he all quiet and soft and doing the intensely connected to me thing with his eyes?

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to think I like to hurt you.”

“You wrap your hand around my windpipe because you think it feels...what, soothing?” the expat laughed.

“I like to feel like I have control over you. Then you react to it and you like it so I want to give you more of what you like, and then I like that you want me to control you, and give yourself over to me. I’ve told you this, cariña. You hate it when people try to control you, overtly or behind your back, but you beg me to do it. You get all wiggly like you’re losing it. You squeeze all the muscles in your core. But it’s not like you’re fighting or trying to get away. You react like you want more. If I go slow- come almost all the way out of you and then all the way in just easy, calm, over and over, slow- you react like you’re in a place like heaven in your head, and I want to give you that feeling. I love to give you that. It gives me the same feeling as making fans happy with a goal, but the whole stadium is fitted into just you. If I go faster, and reckless, you react like you’re literally going to explode, and I love that too because it’s like pure sexual want. The tighter I hold onto you, the more your body begs me to give it what it wants, and the more I feel the angel inside the body beg me to look after her and keep her in that heaven she found with me.”

“Are you telling me this because you think it’s going to make me want you to stay?” Christina asked, conjuring the same smile with which she laughed when she asked him the previous sarcastic question. His calm and honest description of why he liked to hold her throat gave her a funny feeling in her tummy, and she didn’t want it, or to show that she was having it. Humor was always a good cover for whatever she wanted to keep to herself, and always a good outlet for the nervousness that afflicted her whenever she felt a need to hide something.

“No. I don’t really know why,” Juan shrugged. “I’ve been looking at that bruise on your neck all evening. I go back and forth- does it remind me of those feelings, and all those reactions that I love, does it turn me on, or does it undo the feelings I had when I made it because it’s evidence that I have to hurt you- damage you- leave a mark on you- to get what I want.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” the girl whose damp hair was making her freezing assured, dropping her act meant to make him think she didn’t take him seriously, or at the very least was unaffected by what he said. She let go of the hot coffee cup with one hand to hold onto the inside of his left bicep. His elbow was on the counter and he kept scratching at the furry part of his cheek, so she couldn’t go for the handhold instead. “It’s like a hickey. Nobody feels bad about leaving a hickey. And I certainly don’t feel taken advantage of or something,” she added even more emphatically. “Like you said, I enjoy it.” But I’m not telling you why, because we don’t both need to be fully engrossed in the memory of what it’s like, Christina continued to herself. She didn’t want to start telling him how she felt special when he did that to her, lest she find herself so taken with the recollection that she consider changing her mind about how she was going to spend the rest of her night. His description of her reactions already threatened to sway her. Everything he said was right. Heaven and explosions were real things.

“Did you have to wear a scarf for your thing with the blog?”

“I just zipped my jacket up.”

“Ah.”

“Mm.”